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Chapter Text

Aelin Tauri stood on the grand balcony of the royal palace in Calldyr City, her gaze sweeping over the twinkling lights of the capital below. The entire kingdom was in celebration, the streets alive with laughter, music, and the scent of roasted meats wafting upward to her solitary perch. Tonight was a night of festivity, of joy. One that marked not only the kingdom’s prosperity, but also the shared birthday of its twin royals—herself and Halden. People cheered for the future of Navarre, their voices echoing through the night as they danced in the streets, unaware of the storm swirling in the heart of their princess.

For Aelin, it was a night of endings.

She should have been reveling in the warmth of her people’s love, the same love that had shaped her identity since birth. But instead, her heart felt suffocated beneath the weight of the choice she had made. A decision that would irrevocably alter the course of her life. The pressure on her chest made it hard to breathe, but there was no turning back. There was nothing left for her in this gilded cage.

She reached for the folds of her cloak, the delicate fabric slipping through her trembling fingers as she folded it over her arm. The distant strains of music from the castle courtyard floated to her, bittersweet in their beauty. The high, lilting notes twisted her gut, each one reminding her of what she was about to leave behind. A life that had never truly been hers.

Her throat tightened as a flash of memory gripped her—an image of the square that had haunted her for years. The air had been thick with smoke and the bitter stench of fear.

Aelin stood on the raised platform beside her father’s caravan, separated from the crowd of onlookers by a line of guards and the invisible wall of power that came with wearing a crown. She was only sixteen, but the weight of her title already sat heavy on her shoulders. Her father’s hand gripped her tightly, a silent command to stand still, to bear witness. 

Below, Fen Riorson knelt in chains, unbowed despite the blood on his face and the iron biting into his wrists. His gaze didn’t falter. He looked not just at the people, but through them—locking eyes with every noble, every general, every member of the royal court standing in judgment, until his stare landed on her. Aelin. His eyes, bright with defiance, didn’t soften. They dared her to look away.

Then, loud enough for all to hear, his final words cracked across the square:

“You are all cowards.”

Then came the roar of Codagh, General Melgren’s dragon. Black as night and massive beyond measure, Codagh was the largest and strongest dragon in all of Navarre. Its fiery breath consumed Fen Riorson, the flames licking his skin as the rebellion leader’s screams were drowned by the dragon’s roar. The flash of terror in Riorson’s eyes was the last thing Aelin saw before his body was lost to the inferno.

The rebellion had cost Riorson everything, and now, the children of the rebellion’s leaders would pay the price for their parents’ treason.

The faces of those children haunted Aelin’s memory. Wide-eyed and hollow, every one of them bore the same expression—grief etched beside terror, disbelief clinging to silence. They were forced to watch. To stand beneath the execution platform and witness the end of their bloodlines. Not one of them was spared the sound of the crowd’s cheers or the crackle of dragonfire as it consumed their parents.

She remembered them clearly, even now. The oldest of them stood no more than a year above her in age—Xaden Riorson. Fen Riorson’s son. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t shouted. Hadn’t shown a flicker of emotion as he watched his father burn. That blank, unreadable face haunted her more than the screams. Even at seventeen, he had looked carved from stone.

And then there had been the youngest—some barely ten years old. Little boys and girls clinging to each other as the flames rose, small shoulders shaking, sobs muffled into sleeves. Some called out for their mothers. Others simply stared, too stunned to react. All of them had been condemned to the same fate: when they turned twenty, they would be forced to join the Riders Quadrant. To serve the very empire that had murdered their families—or die trying.

The children of the rebels, now known across the kingdom as the Marked Ones , were cursed to carry a physical reminder of that day: dark, swirling tattoos of shadowed ink that began at the hands and crept upward—up forearms, shoulders, throats. A permanent scar for a legacy of treason.

Aelin had stood above it all—caged in royal silks, the king’s hand clamped firm on her shoulder—bearing witness and saying nothing.

That same evening, within the heavy stone walls of the royal chambers, a darker conversation unfolded.

Aelin had always known there was more to her father’s war councils than what was spoken aloud. As a child, she’d learned to slip unseen through the palace halls, eavesdropping on hushed conversations in shadowed corners. And it was one such conversation that had changed everything.

She had overheard it by chance, a conversation between General Melgren and her father that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“The Venin are growing bolder, Your Majesty,” General Melgren’s voice was low, urgent. “Their magic festers like a wound that will not heal.”

“Fen Riorson wasn’t just rebelling for freedom,” Melgren said, tension coiled in every word. “He fought because he knew the truth—about the Venin. About their power. He wanted the kingdom to see what we’ve been hiding.”

King Tauri’s voice rumbled, low and dangerous. “If the people find out, it will spark chaos. Fear spreads faster than truth ever could.”

Melgren’s voice whispered. “And what about those who already know? The rebels’ children? You think their parents kept them in the dark? The Marked Ones walk around carrying secrets we’ve spent years burying.”

“They’re useful now,” the King said flatly. “Let them serve the role we’ve given them—or let them die in the Riders Quadrant. Either way, the truth dies with them.”

Aelin’s heart thudded in her chest. The Venin. She remembered the name—buried in old stories Asher Sorrengail once shared with her and Violet during late lessons in the palace library. Back then, they’d sounded like the kind of monsters invented to frighten disobedient children—dark beings conjured from shadows and superstition. But now, hearing Fen Riorson’s name spoken alongside theirs, something in her twisted.

This wasn’t a bedtime tale.

This was a truth her father had buried. A threat powerful enough to start a war—and worth killing to keep hidden.

The realization struck her like a physical blow. They hadn’t died for glory, or ambition—they’d died for the truth. For a future that had been stolen before it could begin. All her life, Aelin had been taught to believe in the honor of the crown, in the righteousness of her lineage. But those beliefs crumbled now, piece by piece. Her father’s kingdom wasn’t noble. It was a machine of silence and fear, fed by blood and lies.

And she had been a part of it.

Not just a bystander—but a symbol of it.

She had worn its colors. Spoken its words.

And now she saw it clearly—she had been on the wrong side of history all along.

She had been raised for duty, trained to rule, taught to serve the kingdom’s future. But that future had never been hers to shape. Her crown had always been a cage—gilded, silent, absolute.

Now, she saw the truth for what it was.

The Venin were real. The rebellion had been right. And the kingdom she once vowed to protect was already rotting from the inside out.

Her father hadn’t just silenced dissent—he had buried the truth beneath a mountain of corpses. He had sacrificed innocents to keep his grip on power. And if she remained his daughter in name and purpose, then she was no better than him.

She would not carry on his legacy.

Not in silence. Not in blood.

With a shaky breath, Aelin shook off the memory, the weight of it pressing on her chest. The courtyard below shimmered with light, but to her, it felt cold and distant. She was a prisoner in her own palace, her fate sealed by a bloodline she never asked for.

Not long after the executions, her father began making arrangements for her betrothal.

That had been the breaking point.

She didn’t want to marry some noble brat with a hollow title and a sharper tongue than wit. She didn’t want a life spent in someone else’s house, bearing children to secure alliances she didn’t believe in. No. She wanted more than that. She wanted freedom. She wanted a choice. She wanted someone else…

The thought drifted like smoke—unspoken, unfinished—before dissolving into the ache of everything she could never have.

But her future—like everything else—was being decided for her.

When the news arrived that her brother had fallen at Basgiath, something inside Aelin shattered. She had wept for days—not just for the brother she’d lost, but for the future that vanished with him.

Alic had always fought for her when no one would. The only one who had dared defy their father.

When she was younger, she’d begged to train alongside her brothers. To wield a sword, to learn the way of the blade and the battlefield. But her father had refused. "Princesses don’t fight," he had said. "Your duty lies elsewhere."

It was Alic who had stepped in. Who had stormed into the war room and confronted their father—calm, poised, but unyielding. She remembered the echo of his voice, sharp with defiance: “If she wants to learn how to fight, let her. She’s got more fire in her than either of us.”

And somehow, Alic had won.

He’d always believed in her. Trained with her when no one else would. Treated her not as a delicate princess to be tucked away, but as an equal. 

Sometimes she wondered if he’d known. About the Venin. About the lies their father had built the kingdom on. Had he been told the truth? Had he been part of it? Or had he died carrying the weight of secrets he never asked for?

In the days after his death, in her grief, a small flame of hope had flickered. That now, finally, she would be named heir. That Alic’s faith in her would not be in vain. But the crown never came.

Instead, her father named Halden as heir.

She was the eldest. Born just minutes before Halden. By tradition, the crown should have been hers.

But her father had other ideas.

In his eyes, Halden had always been easier to mold—more obedient, less likely to question. Aelin, with her fire and her questions, her unwillingness to bow, had been a complication. Even as children, she could sense the difference in how they were treated. Halden’s recklessness was praised as boldness. Aelin’s boldness was punished as defiance.

When Aelin had confronted her father, demanding an explanation, her father had remained cold and unmoved. “Your duty,” he had said, “is to marry well. To forge alliances. You will never sit the throne, Aelin. You will be the reason others kneel to it.”

And just like that, her dreams of leading were extinguished.

She would never be queen. Just a pawn to trade for power.

Halden hadn’t protested. He hadn’t even looked surprised. The crown changed people—made them believe they were invincible. Halden had slipped into the role with ease. He wasn’t cruel by nature, but the power had begun to shape him. Where Aelin had been raised to lead with heart and strength, Halden now ruled with calculated pride.

Aelin was no stranger to responsibility. She had been trained in politics, hand-to-hand combat, and every weapon the palace armory had to offer. She excelled in both the subtle art of diplomacy and the brutal dance of war. But while Halden was paraded through court as the future of the kingdom, Aelin was made to serve behind closed doors. The kingdom’s secret blade. A puppet princess cloaked in silk and silence.

And all the while, her father's betrayal rotted at her core.

Sometimes, she wondered if Halden knew the truth. If he had been told the secret of what their bloodline had helped to bury—the Venin. If he had, then he was ready to uphold the lie, to keep feeding the kingdom the same poisoned stories their father had whispered for decades.

So she played her part.

For four long years, Aelin smiled at court. She laughed at the right moments, wore the dresses her handmaidens chose, stood beside her father at banquets and balls. She danced, bowed, curtsied—held her tongue when nobles spoke of her future. Pretended not to hear the whispers of alliances forming, of names being passed around like commodities.

But through it all, there was Cam.

Her younger brother, the one constant in a world built on shifting lies. Cam, whose heart was as wide as the kingdom itself, and whose spirit had never bowed to the weight of the crown. He hadn’t been chosen to rule, but he had always led with quiet kindness, with eyes that truly saw people—not their titles or bloodlines, but their worth.

Growing up, it had been Cam who stood beside her when the rest of the world turned cold. Her partner in mischief, in adventure. Together, they’d snuck past guards to explore the capital’s streets, plotted harmless chaos for their tutors, and spent long afternoons high in the palace trees, breathing in the freedom they could never claim at ground level.

Cam had never let her forget who she was beneath the silk and expectations. Not a pawn. Not a prize to be traded for alliances. Just Aelin. Just his sister.

And in the moments when the crown’s weight felt unbearable, it was through Cam’s eyes that she saw the kingdom differently. Through him, she remembered why it mattered. Why the truth was worth fighting for.

If anyone could unite Navarre—not with fear, but with hope—it wasn’t Halden.

It was Cam.

But Cam had never been considered a true contender. Their father had dismissed him long ago—the youngest, too soft-hearted, too wild to wear a crown. But Aelin had never needed a crown to see what Cam was made of. She saw it in his compassion, in the way people gravitated to him, in the quiet strength that didn’t need to dominate to be respected.

She didn’t know if he knew the truth.

About the lies. The secrets. The Venin. Part of her prayed he didn’t—because if he did, he would’ve made the same choice she was making now. And the thought of Cam walking into the storm alone was unbearable.

Leaving him behind felt like a knife to the ribs.

He didn’t know what she was planning. No one did. And walking away from the only person who had ever truly seen her, truly believed in her, felt like a betrayal she might never forgive herself for.

But the Venin were real. The danger was real. And staying—pretending everything was fine would only let the rot deepen.

So she made her choice.

She moved through her rooms with swift precision, heart pounding, hands steady. A pouch of gold, a set of weather-worn clothes, two long blades she hadn’t trained with in months—but muscle memory would make up for that. No silk. No crest. No trace of a princess.

By the time they realized she was gone, she’d be far from the palace walls. She had memorized every map of Navarre, every forgotten path and hidden trade route. She knew where the kingdom’s eyes wouldn’t follow.

Her destination was clear: Basgiath War College. She’d studied enough battle reports and war strategies to know that if she wanted to fight—if she wanted to change the future—that was where she had to go.

There, she would become someone else. A mask to wear while she unearthed the truth. Just another commoner in a sea of faces. Unnoticed. Unimportant.

And yet—dangerous all the same.

Aelin paused in the doorway, casting one last look over her shoulder—not at the palace, but at the city beyond. At the kingdom she had once dreamed of leading.

No more dreams. Only purpose now.

She pulled the hood of her cloak low over her brow and stepped into the dark.

The princess of Navarre vanished without a trace.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down mercilessly as Aelin approached the gates of Basgiath. Her golden-blond hair was hidden beneath a dark hood, and her piercing blue eyes—ringed with gold—were shadowed by soot smudged across her face.

The towering fortress loomed ahead, its walls unyielding, its countless watchful eyes tracking the new conscripts. A thrill shot through her veins, one she ruthlessly tamped down. This was it—the place where the strongest warriors were forged. The place where she would become more than just a princess playing at battle.

But she couldn’t afford to let that thrill show. Instead, she schooled her features into something neutral, something cautious. No one here could suspect who she was. If they did, she would be dragged back to Calldyr before she even set foot inside the gates. And she had not spent the past few months enduring hardship—traveling through dense forests and treacherous mountain passes—only to fail now.

She thought of Cam, of how he might be worrying for her, and for a moment, doubt crept in. Could she truly leave this life behind? Would he forgive her for abandoning him, for leaving without a word? She exhaled sharply, the weight of that truth pressing against her ribs. She shoved the thought aside. There was no time for guilt now.

The other conscripts milled about, whispering, sizing one another up. Some were excited, others terrified. Aelin could pick out those who had come from noble families—many of them standing taller, their confidence clear despite the danger ahead. Then there were those who were smaller, unsure, trying not to shake as they waited. She recognized fear in their wide eyes, the uncertainty of standing at the threshold of something far greater than themselves.

She kept her head down, avoiding their gazes, her back straight, her stance relaxed but calculated. She wasn’t here to make friends. She wasn’t here to be noticed. Every detail mattered—who looked like they’d stab her in the back? Who would crumble under pressure? Who might prove useful?

A sharp nudge at her side startled her from her observations. A wiry young man with dark hair and wary hazel eyes gave her a sidelong glance.

“You look too calm for this,” he muttered under his breath. “First time seeing the College?”

Aelin turned slightly, giving a nonchalant shrug. “First time standing in its shadow,” she admitted. Not a lie, not really.

The man studied her for a moment, his expression still guarded, but his lips quirked upward into a hesitant smile. “Good luck, then. We’ll need it.”

Before she could respond, a sudden shout broke the murmurs of the crowd.

“You there! Line up!”

Aelin turned toward the voice. A stern-faced cadet stood at the entrance, eyeing the new recruits with barely concealed disdain. The man radiated authority, his riding leathers pressed and pristine, his boots worn but polished. His presence alone demanded obedience.

The recruits scrambled into formation, their chaotic murmuring dying at once. Aelin followed suit, falling into line without hesitation. Her heart was steady, her mind sharp. The weight of her decision to be here had never felt more real than in that moment.

She would survive this. She had to. For Navarre. For the people who had placed their faith in their princess. For the war that was already here and no one knew.

And for the chance to prove, once and for all, that she was not just a name or a title, but a warrior.

The wind picked up as Aelin made her way to the bottom of the 250 steps that would take her up to the Parapet. The tall stone tower loomed ahead, and the recruits in her group shuffled nervously, casting glances at each other.

“Did you hear?” a nearby recruit whispered to another. “The prince is joining the infantry quadrant.”

Aelin suppressed the urge to glance over at the Royal Caravan that Halden was part of. She could see the infantry conscripts marching alongside it, their faces grim and determined. She pressed her lips together, pushing aside the knot of longing that twisted in her chest. She had made her choice. She’d walked away from a future that had been decided for her, and even though she felt the sting of that choice, there was no going back now.

Her heart, however, ached for the life she had left behind—her kingdom, her people, and, most of all, Cam. He had been the one constant in her life, the brother who understood her, who had never wavered in his belief in her. And she had abandoned him. Would he ever forgive her?

Halden was her brother too, but the boy she had once trusted, once admired, was long gone. The prince who stood among the infantry conscripts was no longer the same as the one she had trained beside in the palace halls. The weight of a crown had not strengthened him—it had spoiled him, twisted him into something unrecognizable. She doubted he even noticed her absence.

But none of that mattered now. She wasn’t here for her family. She was here for Navarre. For the people who had no idea they were being lied to, who had no clue that the Venin weren’t just myths used to frighten children. If she was to save them—if she was to do what no one else dared—she had to become something stronger than a princess. She had to become a Rider. 

As they began the ascent, Aelin couldn’t help but notice one recruit in particular: the same gangly young man with a wide smile and freckled cheeks.

“Trying to get away from someone?” she asked with a raised brow, her tone light as they climbed the steps of the torrent.

He grinned, though nerves danced in his eyes like flickers of candlelight before a storm. “I’m just not sure if I’m ready for this. It feels like a dream, you know? Like any second I’ll wake up and be back mucking out stables.”

Aelin studied him, noting the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “I’ve had my fair share of dreams,” she replied dryly. “Not sure any were ever this terrifying.”

The boy laughed, a warm, full sound that momentarily cut through the tension like sunlight through fog. “Fair enough. Name’s Finn, by the way. You?”

“Celaena,” she said, the alias sliding off her tongue with practiced ease. It still didn’t feel entirely like hers. Aelin, Celaena—both names carried weight. One with duty and blood. The other with secrets and lies.

They climbed higher. The wind grew sharper, slicing against their skin like tiny knives. The stairs narrowed, jagged and uneven. Behind them, boots scraped and shuffled, but the air between her and Finn had settled into something almost companionable.

He glanced her way again. “Why the Riders Quadrant?”

Aelin hesitated. That question was far more dangerous than he realized. But there was something in the way he asked it—no hidden motives, no sharp edges. Just genuine curiosity. And maybe… hope.

She shrugged. “I’ve always loved horses,” she said casually, though her gaze lingered on the looming ridge above. “And a dragon is kinda the same, right?”

Finn blinked at her, incredulous. Then, with a bark of laughter, “You—you just compared a dragon to a horse?”

Aelin smirked, a glint in her eyes. “They both have four legs.”

He stared at her, mouth agape. “Yeah, and I guess a dragon’s just a big chicken.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “See? You get it.”

He let out another laugh, shaking his head. “You might be the craziest person I’ve met today.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. “Give it time. The day’s not over yet.”

At last, they reached the top. The wind howled in earnest now, whipping through the stone like a living thing. Cadets were lined up, one by one, stepping forward to give their names.

Finn’s smile had faded slightly. His freckles stood out stark against his skin, but his hands didn’t tremble as he gave his name. “Finnian Morrows.”

He looked back at her, offering a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See you on the other side.”

Finn turned, taking his first tentative steps toward the Parapet. The wind tore at him, tugging at his tunic as if trying to strip him bare, to pull him off the edge. He staggered once, regaining his balance quickly, but Aelin couldn’t look away. She watched him, her eyes locked on his back, until he had crossed about a quarter of the way.

“Next!” The rider’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.

She blinked, snapping herself back to reality. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, she approached the cadet taking names, the wind howling around her, but her voice was steady, unwavering.

“Celaena Sardothien,” she said, each syllable clear despite the chaos in her chest.

The cadet barely glanced up, scribbling her name down with a disinterested flick of his wrist.

With one last look behind her, the princess of Navarre stepped onto the Parapet.

Chapter Text

The wind struck her like a wall—sharp, cold, and unrelenting. It howled in her ears, tore at her, clawed at her hair like it wanted to drag her into the abyss. The world narrowed to the worn stone beneath her boots and the endless drop yawning on either side.

Aelin had heard the stories. Twenty inches wide. A sheer fall to jagged rocks below. A wind so fierce it could rip a person off the stone if they so much as hesitated. The Parapet was designed to weed out the weak, the unworthy.

She was halfway mark now.

The midpoint was always the worst—that fragile place where it was too far to turn back, yet the end still felt impossibly far. Her legs burned from the effort of staying steady, each step deliberate, muscles trembling not from fear, but from the brutal, relentless focus of balance.

She flexed her fingers at her sides, willing blood back into them. The stone beneath her boots was slick with mist, worn smooth by decades—maybe centuries—of cadets who had dared this crossing. Some who had made it. Many who hadn’t.

She had trained for this. Had walked thinner edges atop castle rooftops, balanced on beams suspended over silent courtyards. But those trials hadn’t come with death howling in her ears. Not like this.

A sudden gust slammed into her side. Her foot skidded a fraction of an inch—just enough for her heart to lurch into her throat.

Aelin dropped into a lower stance, knees bent, weight centered. Muscle memory taking the lead, helping her remember how to steady, how to hold; how to remain fucking calm. She let instinct take over, shutting out the wind, the height, the fear. 

A scream ripped through the air behind her—sharp and high and instantly lost to the wind.

Aelin didn’t turn. She couldn’t afford to. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, the wind biting at her skin, but she pressed forward, each step deliberate, her breath shallow, her jaw clenched.

Her kingdom depended on her.

The truth depended on her.

She would not let fear—or the Parapet—pull her focus from what truly mattered.

She had already faced the kind of pain that settled into her bones: the aching silence left by her mother’s death, the memory of her brother Alic—his laughter now just an echo—cut down not in battle, but here, in the very quadrant she now walked toward.

She had tasted betrayal, bitter and cold—at the hands of the man who'd called himself her father, and the court that bowed low while helping him weave a web of lies centuries deep.

And exile… exile had been her choice. A punishment for the blood in her veins, for the truths buried beneath her family's polished legacy.

She had endured all of it.

And she would not fall now. Not when the truth still waited in shadow. Not when her kingdom still needed saving.

She focused on her breath, on the rhythm of her stride, blocking out the fear that threatened to creep in. The wind howled in her ears, but she pressed on, determined. The cold stung her face, her body numb from the harsh elements. As she reached the farthest stretch of the Parapet, her gaze flickered to the figure ahead of her. 

Finn was only a few paces ahead now, his shoulders hunched against the wind, arms stretched wide for balance.

Aelin’s heart slammed against her ribs as she watched his every step. He moved with care, but the wind surged without warning—his foot slid once. Then again.

Panic clawed at her throat.

She quickened her pace, boots skidding slightly against the smooth stone as she pressed forward.

Then came the next gust—brutal and sudden. It slammed into him sideways.

Finn wobbled, arms flailing—

And then he slipped.

His scream tore through the air as his feet went out from under him—

But at the last possible second, his hands caught the edge of the Parapet.

He dangled there, boots kicking over nothing, fingers clawing for purchase on the narrow ledge.

“Finn!” Aelin shouted, shoving herself into a sprint. Her lungs burned, her legs strained, but she didn’t stop.

He looked up at her, eyes wide with terror, wind shrieking all around them. “Celaena—”

She dropped to her knees at the edge, reaching for him.

His fingers were slipping. The stone was too smooth, the wind too merciless.

“I’ve got you—just hold on,” she gasped, grabbing his wrist, anchoring herself with one hand behind her.

But she couldn’t pull him. The force of the wind, the slick stone, the angle—it was all against her.

Her grip tightened. “Don’t you dare let go!”

“I’m trying—” His voice cracked, raw with fear.

She tried to drag him up, teeth gritted, muscles screaming. But the wind slammed into them again, nearly knocking her off balance.

She wasn’t strong enough.

She hadn’t gotten there fast enough.

“Finn—please!”

But his grip was gone.

One moment he was there—clinging, fighting.

The next, the wind tore him free.

“No!”

Aelin lunged, but her fingers closed on empty air.

His scream echoed once—then silence.

Aelin stared at the space where he had been, her chest tightening until she could barely breathe.

The cold, unfeeling wind rushed past.

She had failed him.

She should’ve been faster. Stronger.

She should have gotten to him in time.

She stared at the space where Finn had been. At the empty air, the endless drop beyond the stone.

The wind had already moved on, as if it hadn’t just torn Finn from her hands like he was nothing at all. Like he hadn’t laughed just a few minutes ago. Like he hadn’t turned back and said “See you on the other side.”

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t look away.

Time blurred. Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds. But it felt like hours. She waited to see him somehow reappear, to hear his voice, to believe this hadn’t happened. But there was only the roar of the wind. Only the hollow space where he should have been.

Her body felt numb as she rose on shaking legs. She began walking, one foot in front of the other. The stone felt narrower than before. The wind colder. The weight on her shoulders heavier.

She kept moving—not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Because this was what she chose. Because she hadn’t come here for herself. Aelin hadn’t come to the Riders Quadrant to chase glory or honor.

She had come for power—the kind that would allow her to tear through the web of lies her family had spun for generations. She had come to expose the truth, no matter how deeply it was buried beneath dragonfire and blood.

To redeem herself—not as a princess of Navarre, but as the girl who had once stood silent while her father ruled.

To prove, if only to herself, that she was nothing like him. That she could be something more.

But the Parapet had shown her what that choice meant.

This path wouldn’t just demand strength or cunning. It would demand sacrifice. It would cost blood, and loyalty, and parts of herself she might never get back. And it had already taken Finn.

As the final step met solid ground, Aelin didn’t collapse. She didn’t cry.

She simply stood still.

And let the weight of it all settle in her bones.

One of the riders standing guard near the entrance cleared his throat, his voice brisk but not unkind. “Name?”

She didn’t falter.

Didn’t let them see the grief.

Didn’t let herself remember his scream.

She lifted her chin. “Celaena Sardothien”.

Chapter Text

Aelin had just stepped off the Parapet when the biting wind finally faded behind her, replaced by the chatter of those who had made it across. Her boots met stone with practiced ease as she entered the Rotunda—a massive, open-air chamber at the heart of the Riders Quadrant. There was no ceiling overhead, just sky and the occasional circling shadow of a passing dragon. Thick walls lined the perimeter, dotted with squat towers and narrow turrets—more fortress than academy. It wasn’t built for beauty. It was built to hold.

A few shallow alcoves broke the harsh stone symmetry, barely wide enough to lean into. Aelin noted their placement out of habit—potential cover, potential escape. Everything in Basgiath was meant to test survival, even the architecture.

Finn hadn’t survived.

The thought landed hard, but she didn’t flinch. She had seen him fall. Had reached for him, too late. And though the guilt still clung to her, she’d already compartmentalized it—folded it away with the rest of the pain she couldn’t afford to carry.

There was nothing she could have done. Not on that bridge. Not in that moment.

She exhaled slowly, steadying her steps. This place—this brutal, wind-swept stronghold—wasn’t meant for mourning. It was meant for what came after. 

Aelin's gaze swept the Rotunda. Cadets were gathering in loose groups, most still riding the high of survival. Laughter cracked against the stone walls. Some collapsed into the alcoves, others sat with their backs to the cold stone, grinning like they’d already won something.

She didn’t join them.

Not because she didn’t belong—but because she didn’t have the luxury of celebration.

She remained at the edges of the Rotunda, where shadows clung and no one paid attention. Long minutes passed, maybe an hour, as the buzz of nervous energy from the newly-arrived cadets dulled to hushed murmurs and shifting feet.

The second- and third-years were already there. She’d noticed them immediately—how could she not?

They stood in tight-knit groups, exuding a quiet dominance that didn’t need shouting. Their leathers set them apart: worn in places, tailored to fit like a second skin, some stitched with crests or small sigils she didn’t yet understand. Riders. Experienced. Deadly.

And among them, the marked ones.

It wasn’t the leathers that gave them away—but the brutal, unmistakable tattoo into their hands and arms. A permanent reminder of their parents’ betrayal. Of treason committed years ago. 

She forced herself to keep looking. To take it all in. She scanned faces, stances, uniforms. Calculating. Weighing. Assessing who might be friend—or threat.

She felt someone watching her.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn quickly. Just shifted her gaze—slow, deliberate—until she found him.

Standing at the edge of a group of first-years, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on hers.

Aelin’s pulse stumbled.

She hadn’t expected to see him here—but she should have. His father is a Rider. Dain was always meant to follow that path.

Why in the name of Amari had she forgotten that?

He moved through the crowd with the same sure stride she remembered—purposeful, deliberate. His hazel-brown eyes scanned the Rotunda like he was already taking stock of everything and everyone, sharp and calculating in a way that had always unnerved her. His hair was slightly darker than before, still cropped short on the sides, the crown just messy enough to hint he hadn’t lost all softness. He was taller now. Broader. 

He looked exactly like she remembered. And not at all.

Did he recognize her?

Aelin didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her pulse quickened, every muscle tensing beneath her skin. Of all the people to face after everything… it had to be him.

The last time they’d seen each other, it hadn’t ended well. That memory alone was enough to bring a bitter taste to her mouth. But Dain kept coming, weaving past cadets without hesitation, eyes locked on hers.

“Aelin,” he said, voice low, disbelieving.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, hurt, maybe even anger. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard. Hadn’t expected it to hit her like a punch to the ribs.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he muttered, not loud enough for others to hear, but the words struck cleanly. His tone was rough, tinged with annoyance—but that flicker remained. Disbelief. Confusion. A dozen questions behind his eyes he wasn’t asking yet.

Aelin’s instincts kicked in before she let her emotions get the better of her. She stepped in close, grabbed his arm, and muttered, “Not here.” Her voice was firm, but low, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “And don’t call me that,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Celaena now.”

Dain didn’t protest as she led him toward a quiet alcove, tucked behind a stone pillar near the edge of the Rotunda.

She released his arm once they were out of earshot, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. It was like staring at a ghost—the ghost of something that had once mattered deeply.

He had grown into his features. The same hazel eyes stared back at her, still so familiar it made her throat tighten. But the boyish charm was gone. Dain Aetos was no longer the boy she used to climb rooftops with, or whisper secrets beneath the palace gardens. He was a man now—and a soldier.

“You don’t belong here,” he said again, quieter this time. “You should be at the palace, where it’s safe. This place—this college—it’s not made for people like you.”

“People like me,” she repeated, the words cold.

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to rein in his temper. “Aelin, this isn’t your world. You think you can just walk into the Riders Quadrant like it’s some court game? You don’t even know what you’ve signed up for.”

“I said not to call me that,” she snapped, her voice sharp and low. Her eyes flicked to the second- and third-years lingering nearby. Too many ears.

Dain scowled. “Fine. Celaena, then. But don’t pretend this isn’t about your father. Or—” His voice dropped. “Or your brother.”

Aelin froze, her spine locking straight. Dain didn’t notice, or maybe he did—maybe he wanted the words to land like a blade.

“You think I’m here because of him?” she asked, voice too even.

He shrugged, but it was bitter. “He died here. You vanish from court, change your name, and months later you’re crossing the Parapet? What am I supposed to think?”

She didn’t answer. Not directly.

“You think I’m chasing revenge?” she said instead, her voice like steel. “That I came to Basgiath to cry at someone’s grave?”

“I think you don’t know what this place really is,” he snapped. “You’re not trained for this. You’ve never fought a day in your life. You're going to get yourself killed trying to prove something.”

Aelin smiled tightly. He didn’t know. He had no idea what she’d spent years becoming—what she’d started becoming since she was barely fifteen. What she’d trained for in silence, in shadows. Her father had forbidden anyone from speaking of it, the kingdom never knew its princess could hold a blade, let alone master one.

“I’m not here to prove anything,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “And I don’t need your permission to be here.”

His eyes searched hers, like he could find a hidden truth tucked between her words. “So what, then?” he asked, voice hoarse. “What’s so important that you’d throw your title away? Your future? Why this, of all places?”

Aelin turned her gaze toward the upper tiers of the Rotunda, where the dragons waited out of sight.

She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not here.

“Because this war isn’t going to wait for anyone,” she said softly. “And neither am I.”

His face tightened, like he didn’t know what to do with that. And still, in his eyes—that disbelief. That doubt. That fear.

“Don’t call me Aelin,” she said again, voice barely above a whisper. “And don’t assume you know me.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of the unspoken thick between them. Dain’s eyes darkened, something old and wounded flickering through them.

“I did,” he said quietly. “I did know you.”

Aelin’s entire body stiffened at the words. She felt her throat tighten, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she met his eyes, her own hard and cold. “Don’t,” she said quietly, her tone warning. "Don’t bring that up now."

His voice caught, rougher than before. “You told me… you didn’t want to be friends anymore. One day you were there—laughing, talking like nothing had changed—and the next, you were just gone. No explanation. No reason. No nothing. Like none of it mattered." His voice cracked, but he pressed on, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Like I didn’t matter."

“I couldn’t,” Aelin whispered. Her voice trembled despite herself, the sharp edge of memory cutting deeper than she'd expected. She glanced away, just for a breath, letting that old vulnerability slip through—before her mask slid back into place. “I couldn’t say goodbye, Dain. Not without breaking both of us. So I… I thought it would be easier this way.”

Dain’s expression shifted—softened, but not enough to hide the pain. “You thought it would be easier for you,” he said, voice quieter now, more raw. “But not for me.”

Aelin didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The truth pressed against her ribs like a blade.

“I waited,” Dain said after a beat. “For a letter. A message. Anything. But I should’ve known better.” His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to find the girl he used to know in the woman standing before him. “You were always going to choose duty over everything else. Over us.”

That last word landed between them like a blow.

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Just one.

“I had no choice.” Her voice was a whisper of steel. “After the executions… everything changed. I saw the world for what it was. What I was. What my future was going to be. My father had just begun arranging a betrothal. I thought… I thought if I ended things then, it would hurt less than waiting until I had no choice.”

She didn’t look at him as she went on, her voice lower now, as if confessing something to the shadows instead of to him.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you standing there on my wedding day. Watching me become a pawn in a game you were never allowed to play. I thought pushing you away would spare you from watching me disappear into someone else’s future. Into someone else’s arms.” Her throat tightened. “And I thought if I held on… I wouldn’t be able to let go.”

A bitter laugh slipped out, breathless and quiet. “Turns out letting go still hurt like hell.”

Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white. “So I made a choice. One I hated. But it was mine. And at the time, it felt like the only power I had left.”

“And you and I…” Aelin’s gaze dropped to the stone floor between them, her voice softening with something raw, something she hadn’t been ready to face before. “We could never be what we wanted. Not really. You know that. I was a princess. You were—”

“A soldier,” Dain said quietly, his voice carrying a weariness she hadn't heard before. “A son of a colonel. And not nearly noble enough.”

The words weren’t bitter. Just… resigned. Like he’d long since made peace with what the world expected from both of them, and how it had carved out the end before they even had a chance to begin.

Aelin’s chest tightened, but she met his eyes again, though the gaze was cautious, like she was preparing for a storm. “You were my friend. My best friend. And maybe more. But it could never last. Not in the palace. Not with all the eyes watching. Not with the crown hanging over my head like a noose.”

The memories between them seemed to swell, thickening the air with things unsaid, years of silences and stolen glances, of laughter beneath garden trees and whispered dreams they’d both pretended didn’t matter.

Dain took a slow step back—not physically, not quite, but the kind of step that felt like he was pulling away in ways she couldn’t reach anymore.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, just above a whisper. The words weren’t angry, not really. They were aching. Raw. “You should’ve.”

Aelin’s eyes softened. Her heart thundered. She’d imagined this confrontation once or twice—in those first few months—but she’d never let herself dwell on it long enough to plan what she’d say. Not really. And now it was all unraveling in real time. She shook her head, voice barely audible. “I didn’t know how,” she admitted, shame curling in her gut like smoke. “And by the time I figured it out… it felt too late.”

Dain let out a dry laugh, but it cracked in the middle, unraveling. “Too late for what, Aelin? For us?” His voice turned hard again, a shield against the hurt. “You broke something. And you didn’t even give me the pieces.”

“I didn’t want you to pick them up,” she whispered, her throat tight, eyes burning. “Because you always would have. You would’ve carried my pain like it was your own.”

He didn’t deny it. Of course he wouldn’t.

“You think that’s a weakness?” he asked quietly, his gaze cutting through the dim light of the Rotunda.

“I think it would’ve destroyed you,” she said, the truth heavy on her tongue, full of everything she still couldn’t say. “And I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them pressed down, stretching like an endless chasm between the two of them.

Then, after a long beat, Dain’s voice dropped, his eyes dark with the weight of years spent waiting for answers that never came. “Do you regret it?”

Aelin didn’t answer right away. Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t want to lie—not to him—but the truth was tangled, buried beneath things he could never understand.

“No,” she said at last, the mask sliding into place again. Her voice was unreadable, calm. “But I regret not saying goodbye.”

Dain’s expression flickered—surprise, pain, the final blow. “I waited for you,” he murmured, like he was speaking to a ghost. “I waited for weeks. I thought maybe you’d change your mind.”

Aelin’s throat burned. She swallowed hard, the lump rising so high it nearly choked her. “I did, too.”

Another silence passed, but this one felt different, heavier than the ones before. Not just the weight of the years between them, but the truth that they were standing on opposite sides of a line neither of them could uncross.

Dain studied her, really studied her, as if trying to memorize this version of her—the one hardened by time and distance, wrapped in armor he couldn’t see through. A stranger. And yet… there were flickers. Ghosts of the girl he’d once known, still buried somewhere deep behind her eyes. The girl he had loved—might still love, though he didn’t dare say it aloud.

“And now you’re here,” he said quietly, like he couldn’t decide if it was wonder or betrayal coloring his voice. “Calling yourself Celaena. Standing in line with the rest of us, pretending like your blood doesn’t run blue.”

Aelin didn’t flinch. She took a step closer, her gaze steady. “I’m not pretending,” she said. “I’m just not the girl you knew anymore. Aelin Tauri changed the day the executions happened. Maybe even before that.”

Dain’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to bury who you were just because it’s easier.”

Her voice was quieter now, but every word was edged with steel. “I’m not burying her. I’m carrying her—every mistake, every scar. But I couldn’t keep living in that palace, pretending everything was fine. Faking smiles. Bowing to decisions made for me. Living a life where I had no say, no choice, just expectations and duty.”

She took a breath, the next words burning their way out. “If my father knew I was here, he’d drag me back to Calldyr City, marry me off to some nobleman he picked, and be done with me.”

Her jaw tightened, but her voice didn’t falter. “You don’t have to like me, Dain. You don’t even have to understand. But me being here? This is my choice. The first one I ever had.”

Their eyes locked—hazel clashing with blue fire—neither willing to look away, both holding onto the past while trying to move beyond it.

Then, mercifully or cruelly, the officer’s voice rang out again, calling names for squad assignments.

“Attention!”

The single word cracked through the Rotunda like a whip.

Aelin recognized the voice immediately—Commandant Panchek. She’d never met him, but she’d heard it before during her father’s war councils in Calldyr City. His tone was gravel-dry, precise, and carried the weight of someone long used to command. At the front of the chamber, standing atop a broad stone rise, he appeared just as she imagined: dressed in black leathers, his posture sharp with military discipline, his expression unreadable.

“Two hundred and forty-two of you made it across the Parapet,” Commandant Panchek said from the stone platform at the front of the Rotunda, his voice carrying easily without needing to shout. “Eighty-nine did not.”

He didn’t soften the numbers. He didn’t pause for grief.

“As the Codex states: this is where the real crucible begins,” he continued, raising a hand in a sweeping gesture toward the mass of cadets. “From this point forward, you’ll be tested by your instructors, challenged by your peers, and ultimately judged by the dragons.”

Aelin didn’t miss the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“If you survive until Threshing—and if you’re chosen—you’ll become riders. But that’s just one step. Fewer still will make it to graduation.”

He turned slightly, motioning to the professors lined along the back wall. “They’ll be teaching you. Whether or not you learn is your problem.” His gaze swept over the cadets again. “Discipline is handled by your wings. Your wingleader has the final word. If I have to step in…” A pause. That same dangerous smile. “Let’s just say you don’t want that.”

Then, with the ease of someone who had done this far too many times before, he stepped back. “You belong to your squads now. Follow orders. Stay alive. And don’t waste my time.”

He nodded once and walked off the dais without another word.

Where Pancheck stood now stands an older cadet. A woman, tall dressed in black rider leathers, short hair,etc. 

A moment later, a new figure stepped forward to take his place—an older cadet, tall and broad-shouldered in worn black leathers. Her close-cropped hair framed a face carved from discipline, and her stance radiated the kind of authority that didn’t need to be announced.

“Cadets, gather in. Form lines along the eastern wall.”

The order cracked through the stillness, sharp and practiced. Around Aelin, boots scraped and shifted as the crowd moved, the hum of whispered nerves sparking like flint in dry grass.

The cadet waited, arms crossed, until the last stragglers fell into place. Then she began to pace slowly in front of them, her eyes cool and appraising—like she’d seen hundreds of wide-eyed cadets stand here before, and knew exactly how many wouldn’t last.

“The names of the surviving cadets will be called. When your name is announced, step forward and report to your assigned wing, section and squad.”

Her gaze sharpened, voice dropping just enough to turn cold.

“Once your name is called, your life as a civilian ends. You’re soldiers now—start acting like it.”

She gave a sharp nod to one of the older cadets standing beside the platform.

He stepped forward, unfurled a long scroll with a practiced snap, and began to read.

And then the names began.

“Torren Albright—Third Squad, Flame Section, Third Wing.”

A tall boy with dark skin and a hawk tattoo across his collarbone moved forward silently.

“Damian Blackthorn —First Squad, Tail Section, First Wing.”

A girl with short red curls and a scar across her cheek lifted her chin and strode to her position.

The cadence continued, steady and unrelenting, echoing through the Rotunda like a drumbeat of fate.

“Cort Javin. First Squad, Claw Section, Fourth Wing.”

“Aura Beinhaven. Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”

“Sawyer Henrick. Fourth Squad, Claw Section, Third Wing.”

The crowd thinned name by name, each cadet stepping forward with a mixture of pride, nerves, or sheer disbelief that they’d made it this far.

“Bodhi Durran. First Squad, Tail Section, Fourth Wing.”

“Kael Dameron. Third Squad, Flame Section, First Wing.”

Aelin stood motionless, her heart thudding with each call, the wait stretching tighter in her chest.

“Celaena Sardothien.”

She stepped forward without hesitation, boots echoing against stone as she moved into formation.

“Second Squad. Flame Section. Second Wing.”

She slotted into place with the ease of someone trained to hold a line—back straight, gaze fixed ahead. But beneath the stillness, her pulse raced. She could feel the stares. Feel his.

More names were called, the cadence steady, relentless. But her mind was no longer on the voice reading them. It was on the words she’d thrown at him—too sharp, too honest. And the ones she hadn’t dared say.

“Dain Aetos. Second Squad. Flame Section. Second Wing.”

Her heart stumbled. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink, but she felt him the moment he stepped into place behind her. The air shifted. He was too close. Too familiar. Like a thread she hadn’t finished cutting.

She forced her breath steady. One step at a time. One moment at a time.

Same squad. Same future.

And the same past, dragging behind them like a blade that hadn’t yet drawn blood.

Time blurred as the names continued, the roll call echoing through the Rotunda like the slow toll of a bell. For every name called, a cadet stepped forward—each one answering without hesitation.

Some names drifted past Aelin without meaning, lost to the numb haze settling in her bones. 

“Imogen Cardulo. Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.”

A tall girl with pale pink hair and a scar beneath one eye made her way forward with an easy swagger, slotting in beside Aelin.

More names. More time.

“Quinn Hollis. Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.”

A girl with short blonde curls strode into formation with quiet confidence. She gave Aelin a brief nod before focusing forward.

Later still came a red-haired boy—“Eris Danlor”—who joined their growing line with an air of nervous energy. Then a lean, watchful girl named “Cianna Virel” who said nothing at all. Others followed: Varek Tull, Jessa Lorne, Alric Bren. Some glanced around as they joined the squad; others kept their heads down.

And still the names went on, called and answered like a litany of survival.

Then, just as the final name was spoken and silence settled once more over the Rotunda—

A tall figure stepped onto the dais—a wingleader by the look of him, his black leathers worn at the seams and dusted with ash. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

“Look around,” he said. “These are the people you’ll bleed beside. The ones who might just save your life, if you’re lucky.”

A few cadets exchanged glances. Someone let out a breath that was half a laugh.

“You’ve made it this far,” he went on, pacing the edge of the platform. “That earns you a place. Nothing more.”

The mood shifted—attention narrowing.

“Don’t mistake survival for skill. Don’t assume this is the hardest thing you’ll face.” His eyes scanned the room, flat and assessing. “It isn’t.”

No one spoke now. No one cheered.

“You want a dragon? Prove you’re worth the risk. Because they don’t choose fools, and they don’t choose cowards. And if they don’t choose you—well. The ground’s already covered in ash.”

That earned a low ripple of sound—half laughter, half unease.

“You’re cadets,” he said, voice like stone on steel. “Act like it.”

And then he stepped down.

The silence held.

Then, just as the tension began to settle—the wind stirred overhead.

Aelin barely had time to lift her chin before massive shadows passed over the open sky above. Gasps rippled through the cadets.

From the clouds, four dragons descended.

Their wings beat the air in mighty, sweeping strokes—vast enough to blot out the sun, each movement rippling with the raw promise of death. They landed not in the Rotunda’s center, but high on the turret walls that ringed it, talons scraping over stone with a sound like swords against bone. The air turned sharp with smoke and heat.

One was copper brown, gleaming like molten fire. Another shimmered deep forest green, scales catching the light in waves. The third burned crimson-red, the fourth a blazing orange—each of them terrifying in their own right, monstrous and magnificent, ancient and alive.

Steam hissed from their nostrils as they stood watchful and still, their chests rising in slow, deliberate rhythm. Glistening horns rose above their heads in elegant, lethal sweeps, the tips of their top joints crowned by a single fierce talon. Their tails—long, brutal, and as deadly as the rest of them—were hidden from view, coiled somewhere behind the turret edge. Aelin couldn’t tell which tail belonged to which breed, not from this angle. But it didn’t matter.

Their golden eyes swept the assembly, glowing like molten metal.

No one moved.

And then someone did.

A boy near the edge bolted, terror overtaking reason. His boots rang out against the stone floor as he sprinted toward the archway. He didn’t make it five steps before the red dragon let out a low, vibrating growl.

Then chaos erupted.

A plume of steam burst from the green dragon’s nostrils as it leaned forward, eyes locked on the fleeing cadet. Its wings flared wide—a motion of warning, or preparation, or both—and the ground trembled beneath it.

The copper brown dragon struck first. It moved with terrifying grace, lunging from its perch with a beat of its wings that shook the very sky. Fire roared from its mouth—a torrent of blazing heat that engulfed the running boy. His scream was brief, cut short by the inferno. When the flames vanished, only ash remained.

Panic spread like wildfire.

Another cadet—a girl with dark braids—screamed and ran in the opposite direction, slipping in her panic. Her breath came in gasps as she scrambled to her feet, but the green dragon had already locked onto her. With a hiss of steam, it leapt from its perch, landing with a thunderous crash before releasing its breath. Flame swept toward her in a wide arc.

She vanished in a blink, her scream swallowed by fire.

A tall boy tried to break for the parapet—another mistake. The orange dragon unfurled its wings with a crack like thunder and dove low, skimming the chamber’s edge. Its jaws opened wide, and flame poured forth with stunning speed. The cadet collapsed mid-run, his body consumed in a violent burst of heat and smoke.

One after another, cadets fell—those who fled, those who hesitated. Some were burned where they stood. Others ran straight into their deaths, drawn like moths to the flame that would kill them.

Aelin didn’t move. She couldn’t.

She watched, unmoving, as the fourth dragon—the red one—scorched a path through the center of the Rotunda, its fire painting the walls in flickering orange. Cadets dove for cover. Most didn’t make it.

Smoke curled in lazy spirals through the air, indifferent to the carnage below. The scent of scorched leather, burnt flesh, and melted stone hung thick and cloying, filling every breath with violence.

And then, silence.

The dragons stood still once more, wings half-furled, steam hissing gently from their nostrils. Their golden eyes glowed with unreadable intelligence.

They didn’t need to move again.

The message was clear: run, and you die. Flinch, and you burn. There would be no second chances. No hesitation tolerated.

The ashes still smoldered. Smoke curled toward the open sky.

No one moved. No one spoke.

The silence stretched—thick and unrelenting—until the wingleader’s voice cut through it.

“Those who remain—dismissed.”

There was no cheer. No relief. Just the scrape of boots against stone as the cadets slowly began to move, stiff and shell-shocked, as if waking from a nightmare they hadn’t yet escaped.

Some stared ahead, faces blank. Others glanced—once—at the scorched stone, where only moments ago, bodies had stood. Now only soot remained, clinging to the air like a warning.

And still, no one dared speak.

Chapter Text

The morning after the Parapet felt like waking from a nightmare into another one.

The bells rang before dawn, echoing through the barracks with cruel finality. Aelin rolled out of bed without complaint. She hadn’t really slept—only drifted in and out of restless dreams, each one haunted by fire, falling, and ash.

She dressed in silence, slipping into her standard-issue uniform with practiced precision. The fabric was stiff and scratchy, clearly not tailored for comfort, but it was warm, at least. She braided her hair back, hands steady, and stepped into the hallway with the rest of the surviving cadets.

The walk to the kitchens was a quiet shuffle of boots on stone. Some looked as hollow-eyed as she felt. Others, like Imogen, moved with a simmering defiance—anger, not fear, keeping them upright.

Breakfast duty was a punishment disguised as tradition. Every first-year cadet was expected to serve two mornings each week—though it certainly felt like her squad had been thrown in early as some kind of test.

The kitchens were enormous—too large, Aelin thought, for anything but military precision. Rows of iron cauldrons steamed with thick, gray porridge. Baskets of rock-hard biscuits lined the long prep tables. The heat in the air was already oppressive, and the day had barely started.

Aelin was assigned to the ladling station. The cauldron hissed with every stir, the smell vaguely sour. She moved with measured, silent efficiency, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Across from her, someone else scooped biscuits onto trays with rigid, methodical movements. She didn’t have to look to know it was Dain.

Of course they’d placed them at the same table.

The silence between them felt heavier than the steam in the air.

Dain didn’t glance at her, didn’t speak. Just scooped and moved, scooped and moved. The muscles in his jaw were locked, his posture stiff with everything he wasn’t saying.

Aelin kept her gaze on the porridge. She could feel his presence like a weight at her side.

“Biscuits,” Quinn muttered, sliding in to help. “Gods help the fool who actually tries to eat one.”

Imogen snorted from down the line. “Better used as throwing weapons.”

That earned a few muffled laughs from nearby cadets—but not from Dain.

When six bells struck, the lines began to form. Cadets trudged in slowly, sleep still clinging to their eyes. Most were quiet, some grumbling, but none dared complain too loudly—not when upper-years were nearby, watching everything.

Aelin ladled out bowl after bowl of porridge, each motion mechanical, her back starting to ache from the repetitive motion. Dain remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the tray before him, jaw still tight.

She didn’t say a word either.

The silence between them had once been filled with laughter, shared secrets, and stolen glances. Now it was just cold.

Once the last cadet in line was served, the first-years were finally dismissed to eat.

Aelin grabbed her own tray and followed the others into the Gathering Hall. Her feet were sore, her shoulders stiff, and she was still very aware of Dain walking just behind her.

She found an open table near the back, just enough space for all of them to sit. Aelin slid into the end of the bench without a word, spooning the sludge into her mouth without tasting it.

To her left, Eris was already halfway through his biscuit, muttering under his breath about how it tasted like sawdust. “At least sawdust doesn’t melt in your mouth like this,” he grumbled, poking at the porridge with theatrical disgust.

Jessa rolled her eyes and traded trays with him. “Then give it here, Danlor. You can have mine. It has extra lumps.”

“Cadets,” Varek warned from further down the bench, voice low but firm. He hadn’t said much all morning, but when he did, people listened. His massive frame practically swallowed his spot at the table, and his eyes kept scanning the room like he expected an ambush.

“I swear, he talks like a wingleader,” Cianna muttered from Aelin’s other side, blowing on her tea. Her fingers twitched constantly, fiddling with the silver ring on her thumb or re-braiding the same loose strand of hair. “Anyone know if he sleeps with his boots on, too?”

“Don’t joke,” said Alric, who sat beside her, adjusting his glasses and eyeing the blackened porridge like it was a math problem he had no interest in solving. “There’s a theory that none of the third-years actually sleep. They just stand in corners at night like haunted suits of armor.”

Aelin barely registered the chatter around her, the words blurring into a dull hum against the pulse of fatigue throbbing behind her eyes. Laughter rose and fell in bursts, punctuated by Quinn’s easy charm and Imogen’s biting sarcasm, but it all felt distant—like she was listening through glass. Her thoughts drifted, circling the Parapet, the ash on the stones, Finn’s hand slipping from hers. She stared down at her tray without seeing it.

“You always glare at your food like that?” Imogen asked dryly, not unkindly.

Across from her, Dain sat motionless, his back straight, tray untouched. He looked like he was strategizing an invasion, not contemplating breakfast.

“She’s probably trying to figure out how to kill it,” Quinn said with a grin.

“It might kill us first,” Jessa added, poking at her porridge.

Dain finally spoke, voice even. “It’s breakfast, not a battlefield.”

Aelin didn’t look at him. “That depends on who’s sitting across from you.”

Quinn choked on her tea.

Eris raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “And here I thought I had a flair for drama. Impressive.”

Jessa snorted. “This early in the morning? You’ve got guts.”

“Careful,” Alric said, glancing around as if someone might overhear. “Emetterio looks for volunteers when things get rowdy.”

“He can keep looking,” Cianna muttered. “I’m too busy mourning my digestive system.”

Varek didn’t speak, but he shook his head slightly, lips twitching as though holding back a smile.

A moment of quiet settled over the group—just long enough for someone to break it.

“So,” Quinn said, brushing her hair out of her face. “Why’d you all join the Riders Quadrant?”

Eris whistled low. “Jumping straight into the heavy stuff, huh?”

Quinn shrugged. “Might as well. We’re stuck with each other for the next three years—if we make it that long.”

Cianna gave a small laugh. “My brothers are infantry. Figured I’d one-up them. Or die trying.”

Alric tapped a spoon on his tray. “Navarre’s border is a nightmare. My village’s been hit three times in five years. I figured it was this or wait around for the next raid.”

Jessa offered a half-shrug. “Same. It’s a mess out there. Might as well fight with something that breathes fire.”

Eris grinned. “I joined for the dragons. Also, the jackets. Mostly the dragons, though.”

That earned a ripple of low laughter.

“What about you?” Quinn asked Dain.

Dain’s jaw flexed. “My father’s a rider,” he said at last, voice tight. “Always has been. So—here I am.”

Quinn gave a slow nod, as if filing that away for later.

“I didn’t exactly join,” Imogen muttered, kicking her boot against the table leg. She lifted her hand, turning it so the black markings along her skin caught the light—dark as shadows, coiling from her fingers up beneath her sleeve. A Marked one. “My mother was a high-ranking officer in the rebellion. This”—she gestured around the hall—“is my reward.” Her voice was flat. “More like a sentence, really.”

Aelin’s stomach twisted. Tracila Cardulo. Executed for treason under royal command. She remembered the crowd that day—the silence before the dragon fire consumed her, searing the air with its heat. Katrina, barely older than Aelin had been, forced to kneel beside her mother. Aelin’s father hadn’t flinched.

She hadn’t thought about the Cardulos in years. But now, one sat beside her, wearing the same defiance that had burned in Katrina’s eyes in her final moments.

That earned a few quiet glances. No one pushed her on it.

“And you?” Imogen’s voice cut through Aelin’s thoughts.

Aelin hesitated, feeling Dain’s gaze heavy on her. The weight of it threatened to swallow her whole, but she met it for a heartbeat before turning her focus back to the table.

“Same as the rest of you. War came to my doorstep. Figured it was time I stepped outside.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

“Well,” Eris said, raising his mug in a mock toast. “To poorly made decisions.”

“To breakfast duty,” Imogen added with a dry smile.

“To not dying before lunch,” Jessa said.

Aelin allowed the faintest of smiles to tug at her lips. This strange, chaotic blend of personalities and barbed humor—it was messy, loud, and barely stitched together, but it was real. They were all survivors of the Parapet. That counted for something.

After breakfast came formation.

They gathered in the rotunda, lining up in neat rows under the watchful eyes of the four wing leaders. This was their first official death roll, and no one spoke as they waited.

At the front stood Captain Fitzgibbons, the man responsible for reading the death roll. He was a tall, stern figure with a voice that could cut through stone, and as he stepped forward, the room fell even quieter.

The roll call began—one name after another was read, each one sharper than the last. Cadets who had fallen during the parapet. Names Aelin didn’t recognize, and some she would never forget.

“Finnian Morrows.”

Aelin froze at the sound of Finn's full name. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot, and her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected it to hit her this hard. It was just a name, spoken like any other, yet it carried so much weight. Finn was gone.

The name echoed in her mind, refusing to let go.

The room was silent, but not in the way that might invite mourning. This wasn’t a time for grief or reflection. Fitzgibbons moved on with his list, his voice steady and cold as he continued with the death roll, reciting name after name without pause.

But Aelin couldn’t stop herself from clenching her fists at her sides, the rush of memories crashing in. Finn’s laugh. Gone. Just like that.

The names kept coming. No time for anything but the hard facts. No space for sorrow.

But as the roll continued, Aelin’s thoughts stayed with Finn.

Professor Emetterio met them at the gym just after dawn, his beefy hands clasped behind his back. Compact and solid, with a neck like a battering ram, he looked like he could snap most of the first-years in half without breaking a sweat. His reputation had arrived long before he had.

“Form up,” he barked, voice carrying over the low murmur of complaints. His dark eyes scanned the rows with practiced disinterest. “You’ll train here twice a week until Gauntlet practice, then it's three times a week.”

“Save the whining for your pillow,” he snapped. “Begin.”

It wasn’t a fight—at least not yet. Just conditioning. Push-ups, planks, burpees, wind sprints across the stone floor. Static holds that made forearms scream. By the second round, most of the cadets were drenched in sweat.

Aelin’s body moved on instinct, her breathing controlled, each motion honed by years of training under tutors who had demanded perfection. She was strong, but not showy about it. She kept to her pace, steady and precise.

Quinn, beside her, groaned dramatically into the floor between push-ups. “I didn’t sign up for this much sweat.”

“You literally signed up for war,” Imogen muttered from her spot to the right.

“Yeah, but I thought there’d be more swords. Less lung burning.”

Cianna wheezed. “You’ve known me for twenty-four hours, and I already regret being assigned to this squad.”

Eris flopped onto his back between reps. “If I die here, tell my dragon I wanted someone faster.”

“You don’t have a dragon,” Alric pointed out.

“Yet,” Eris said with a grin. “I like to plan ahead.”

Varek said nothing as usual, but he gave Eris a look that said he was mentally calculating how many push-ups he’d have to do if he smacked him with a training mat.

Aelin caught herself smiling, just faintly, at the ridiculousness of it. Then her gaze drifted across the mat—and locked with Dain’s.

He was three rows ahead, shirt already clinging to his back, arms taut and steady as he moved through the reps like a machine. He didn’t speak. Didn’t crack a joke. Just moved, relentless and focused.

It should’ve made sense—he was always like this. Disciplined. Unflinching. But something about the way he didn’t look at her made her stomach twist. Not even a glance. Like he’d decided she wasn’t there at all.

And yet when Emetterio barked, “Hold,” and they all dropped into a forearm plank, Aelin felt it—that flicker of awareness.

Dain hadn’t looked at her. But he knew exactly where she was.

“Eyes forward,” the professor snapped. “Think happy thoughts, cadets. Like how nice it’ll be when you’re dead and not doing planks anymore.”

Imogen muttered under her breath, “One day, I’m going to punch that man.”

“Not before I do,” Jessa said, her voice strained from holding.

Aelin’s arms trembled. Her mind flashed to the Parapet, to the burn of stone beneath her palms, to Finn’s hand slipping from hers. She pushed down the memory, breathed through it. This wasn’t the Parapet. This pain was simple. Temporary.

“Drop now,” Emetterio growled, “and I will make an example out of you.”

Aelin didn’t drop.

History came after.

The lecture hall inside the academic wing was a stone box of shadows and stale air. The windows, arrow-slit narrow, offered little light. Professor Veers entered without ceremony, robes hissing around his boots, and scratched six names onto the board in hard, deliberate strokes:

Luceras. Calldyr. Tyrrendor. Deaconshire. Morraine. Elsum.

“Navarre’s six provinces,” he said without turning. “United by a common crown, but never by peace.”

Aelin sat in the third row, slouched just enough to seem uninterested. Her eyes were on the names. Her ears, carefully tuned. Across the aisle, Eris was visibly slumped in his chair, chewing on the end of his pencil with the expression of a man awaiting execution. Imogen had her hood up and might have been asleep. Even Dain’s spine, normally stiff as a sword, had sagged half an inch.

“Each province has its own legacy,” Veers said. “And its own scars. Calldyr, the seat of the capital, thrives under royal favor. The others—” he tapped the chalk once, “—are not always so compliant.”

He underlined Tyrrendor. “Oldest of the six. Militarized. Proud. Loyal—until it isn't. Its nobles have challenged royal authority five times in the last two centuries.”

Aelin’s gaze slid to Imogen, seated a few rows ahead. The black, shadow-like mark of her relic coiled across her hand and up her wrist—silent proof of what rebellion cost.

Dain shifted in his seat beside her, posture just a little straighter at the mention of his home province.

Veers moved on. “Luceras and Elsum—resource-rich but remote. Easier to ignore until they revolt. Deaconshire, known for its Riders”

“And Morraine,” Veers said, tapping the final name. “Once home to the greatest library on the continent. Lost in the war against Poromiel, a hundred years ago. Burned to the ground.”

He didn’t elaborate on whether it was Poromiel’s doing—or Navarre’s.

“Conflict shapes provinces. Conflict defines them. And loyalty—true loyalty—is rarely inherited. It is enforced.”

Aelin didn’t blink.

Enforced. Like what happened to the Cardulos?

Tracila and Katrina hadn’t been from Tyrrendor. But they had supported a Tyrrendor-led revolt. Publicly. Fatally.

Her father hadn’t even looked away when the flames swallowed them whole.

“Each rebellion in Navarre’s history has failed not because of poor strategy,” Veers continued, “but because of poor unity. We maintain order through structure; this is the spine of the realm.”

Aelin stared at the words still on the board. Order through structure. It sounded tidy. Convenient.

And false.

Where in that order do the Venin fit?

No books ever mentioned them. No professor ever dared whisper their name. Not in histories. Not in lessons. As if pretending they didn’t exist could erase the truth.

How much of this is a rewriting? How much is a lie everyone’s agreed to keep telling?

Professor Veers turned from the board, chalk dust clinging to his fingers. “Memorize the alliances and grievances between the provinces. Expect a quiz on the Pact of Two Rivers, the Black Treaty of Tyrrendor, and the Morraine Suppression by next week. Knowing who to trust in a war begins with knowing who hated whom first.”

He dismissed them with a snap of his fingers.

Chairs scraped against stone. Cadets muttered. But Aelin stayed seated a moment longer, eyes still fixed on the six names.

She wondered how many of the marked ones had known the real enemy wasn’t the provinces—or even the crown.

The entire quadrant gathered in the massive, tiered room. Aelin took a seat with her squad, squeezed between Quinn and Dain. Imogen leaned back behind them, long legs sprawled.

Professor Devera stood near the enormous map, her purple hair vivid under the mage lights. Next to her, Professor Markham watched the room with unreadable eyes.

“Today we cover the Siege of Chaki,” Devera said. “Specifically, how poor communication killed more riders than enemy blades.”

Aelin leaned in, listening. The room felt different here—more alive. More dangerous.

Dain raised his hand. “Wasn’t that the campaign where our border defenses collapsed due to delayed intel?”

“Exactly,” Devera said. “And whose job is it to survive long enough to report what went wrong?”

“Ours,” the class murmured.

“Louder.”

“Ours!”

Devera paced slowly. “One courier dead in the wrong place, one scribe who panics and drops the wrong flare, and your entire flank gets flanked. Chaki fell not because the enemy outnumbered us, but because a single rider turned south instead of west. And the commander had no way to correct it in time.”

Markham stepped forward, voice gravelly. “You’re riders. Not just warriors. You’re intelligence. Recon. Command relays. If the King’s Army is the sword, you’re the eyes. You misread terrain, misreport troop numbers, forget wind patterns or leyline activity? People die.”

He pointed to the map, where a wing of riders blinked out under an enemy ambush marker.

“We were outnumbered but capable of holding if they’d been warned of the cliff fog coming in from the east. The fog blocked vision, and they couldn’t see the ground spells coming until their dragons were already bleeding. Nine died. Two dragons lost. Why?”

A pause.

Quinn whispered, “Because no one told them.”

“Exactly,” Markham said, gaze flicking to her. “One enchanted flare could’ve saved them. But the flare bearer had been killed delivering a secondary message—orders that contradicted the first. The command structure fractured. The enemy didn’t win that battle. We lost it ourselves.”

Aelin watched the lines shift across the map. It was strategic chaos, cleanly displayed—but she could imagine the reality. The smoke. The blood. The screaming of the dragons. She’d seen it in dreams more than once.

She glanced at the provinces listed along the side of the map—Luceras, Calldyr, Tyrrendor, Deaconshire, Morraine, Elsum. Most of them had known fighting within the last five years. She doubted any of the reports shown here mentioned what she’d seen beneath those battles—what no one ever admitted to. The real cause behind the rebellion in Tyrrendor. The strange disappearances in Summerton. How much of this was rewritten history? How much was intentional omission?

And who, exactly, decided what version of the past the quadrant was allowed to learn?

Devera continued, “The worst thing a rider can be is unpredictable to their own side. Chaos kills faster than enemy steel.”

Markham nodded. “If you think this war can be won on courage alone, transfer to the infantry. Riders survive because we adapt. We learn. And we deliver what no one else can.”

Aelin didn’t look at Dain. But she felt his quiet stillness beside her, as if he was absorbing every word—like he believed in all of it. Maybe he did. Maybe she had once, too.

She forced herself to focus again.

Because whatever lies the war college taught, whatever truths they buried—she needed to learn it all. If she wanted to tear it down from the inside, she had to understand how it was built.

Aelin felt something settle in her chest. A grim sort of understanding. This wasn’t just history. It was instruction. Warnings written in blood.

Lunch was waiting in the Gathering Hall—long rows of stone tables already filling with cadets from other wings and sections. The air buzzed with noise: clinking plates, the dull thud of boots, laughter that didn’t quite reach the ceiling.

Boring bread. Bland meat. A watery stew that had the color and consistency of grave dirt.

But for the first time, Aelin sat with her squad and didn’t feel like an outsider. No one hesitated to make space for her. Quinn slid over without comment. Imogen kicked her feet up on the bench and handed Aelin a hunk of extra bread without looking. Dain sat across from her, silent but watching.

It was a small thing. But it mattered.

“Anyone want to bet how long before Emetterio makes someone cry?” Quinn asked, stabbing at the stew with theatrical caution. “Because this”—she nudged her bowl—“is already bringing me close.”

“Two days,” Imogen said flatly. “One if he starts with endurance tomorrow. He made an entire section vomit last year.”

“Lovely,” Eris muttered from down the bench. “Can’t wait to share that legacy.”

“I give it until someone pukes on the mat,” Aelin said, biting into the dry bread.

They all laughed—real, unguarded laughter.

Even Dain.

“That’s a horrible image,” Alric said, grimacing. “Thanks for that, Sardothien.”

“You’re welcome,” Aelin said sweetly.

Imogen raised her spoon. “To the mat.”

“May it remain unsullied,” Quinn added solemnly.

Aelin shook her head, but she was smiling. It was strange—this easy rhythm. She hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t thought she’d want it.

Cianna leaned in. “So, do we get nicknames now? Is that a squad thing or does that come after someone nearly dies?”

“Definitely after,” Eris said. “Otherwise it’s bad luck. You never name anyone until you’re sure they’ll survive long enough to earn it.”

“Superstitious much?” Jessa asked.

Eris shrugged. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” Quinn muttered.

Aelin watched them all trade jabs and insults and eye-rolls. It wasn’t just banter. It was belonging. A kind of shield made of sarcasm and shared misery.

And somehow—despite everything, despite how hard she was working to keep her walls up—she felt herself lowering the drawbridge, just a little.

Her eyes flicked to Dain. He wasn’t laughing anymore, but the tension in his jaw had eased. He caught her glance and held it for a beat too long before returning to his food.

Not everything was fixed. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

By the end of the first week, Basgiath War College had already bled out a handful of names.

No speeches. No flags. Just empty spaces in the rows during morning formation and a slight shift in seating during meals. Aelin noticed. Everyone did. But no one said a word.

They were adapting. Or pretending to.

Aelin had learned the rhythms fast—when to move, when to listen, when to blend in. Basgiath didn’t offer second chances. One misstep in formation, one wrong answer in lecture, one glance at the wrong cadet, and you could end up with a broken nose—or worse. The rules weren’t written down, but they were enforced with ruthless consistency. She kept her head down, her ears open, and her instincts sharp.

Hand-to-hand training had become her favorite. Not because it was easy—it wasn’t—but because it was honest. No politics. No lies. Just muscle, breath, and grit.

Professor Emetterio ran the sessions. He barked commands over the clash of fists and boots, forcing the squads to spar until their legs gave out and their arms trembled. No magic. No weapons. Just raw bodies, tested again and again.

Today was no different.

“Pair off!” Emetterio barked, his voice like a whip across the mats. “And remember—whoever loses first runs 5 laps around the quadrant.”

Groans rippled through the training hall, but no one hesitated. They scattered into pairs under Emetterio’s sharp eye.

“Hollis, you’re with Cardulo,” he called. “Lorne, take Bren. Virel and Danlor—try not to kill each other. Durran you take Tull—I want to see what you are capable of. That leaves Aetos and Sardothien”

Dain stepped forward, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows with practiced ease. His expression was unreadable, carefully blank—but his jaw was tight, his eyes colder than usual.

“You and me, then,” he said.

Aelin met his eyes, heat blooming under her skin. “Lucky me,” she muttered.

They stepped onto the mat, the others fading from her mind. It was just them now. Them, and the weight of everything that hadn’t been said in four years.

They began to circle—slow, deliberate. Not posturing. Measuring. Every step was familiar and foreign at once. Dain’s eyes tracked her movements, calculating but cautious. Too cautious.

He thought she didn’t know how to fight. That much was obvious in the way he stayed just out of reach, light on his feet, his arms loose and his strikes hesitant. Aelin could see it in every flick of his gaze, every fraction of a second he waited before reacting. Like he was trying to protect her.

Mistake.

A swift jab toward his ribs that forced him to block, more out of instinct than conviction. She followed it with a sharp knee that barely missed his thigh, then pivoted to strike with her elbow—fast and clean, stopping just shy of his sternum.

Dain caught her wrist.

She didn’t let up. Aelin dropped low, aiming a sweep at his feet. He jumped back again, clearly surprised. His guard went up, but not enough—not yet. He was still pulling his punches.

She pressed forward, testing him, every strike calculated, controlled. Each time he responded, it was a hair too slow. A touch too soft. He was treating her like glass.

They locked again, and he caught her wrist, holding it just long enough for her to see the crease between his brows—concern, confusion.

She twisted free, used the momentum to slide beneath his arm and nearly took his ankle out from under him. He danced back just in time, landing light, lips parted in something like disbelief.

They turned together—face-to-face. Close enough that she could see the line of sweat down his temple. Close enough to see the moment he realized this wasn’t a game.

“You’ve been training,” he said, voice rough with exertion. There was disbelief in it—something like curiosity, or maybe suspicion.

Aelin gave a faint shrug, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Maybe I just pay attention.”

Dain feinted left, then drove an elbow toward her shoulder with a practiced, deadly precision. She twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a jab aimed at his ribs. He blocked it effortlessly.

His movements turned fluid, controlled, but no longer hesitant. Every coil of his muscles now held purpose. The boy who used to spar with her brothers had grown into something far more dangerous—but Aelin had been watching for years.

And now, he was watching her.

She could feel it in the way his gaze tracked her, the way his mouth parted slightly every time she landed a strike. There was a current between them now. Tangled. Tense. Hot.

He struck low, caught her shoulder. Pain flared, but she gritted her teeth and twisted into him.

Round one ended when he stepped sideways, and she overcommitted. Her foot slipped.

She hit the mat with a thud that knocked the breath from her lungs.

Dain stood over her, arm outstretched. His palm was open, steady. Gentle.

She stared at it.

Then rolled to her feet with a flick of her braid and a lift of her chin.

“Again.”

Round two turned brutal fast.

Their rhythm built like a storm—collision after collision, too much power, too much history between them to keep it clean. He was stronger, his strikes precise and devastating. She was faster, meaner, and didn’t give a damn about playing fair.

When she slipped under his guard and slammed a clean blow into his ribs, his breath hitched—but not from pain. From recognition. Like he’d seen that move before. From someone else. Or maybe from the shadows of a memory he couldn’t place.

She barely had time to smirk before he caught her around the waist, spun, and slammed her onto the mat with brutal efficiency.

He landed on top of her.

Aelin froze.

His thigh pressed between hers, his body a wall of heat pinning her in place. One hand braced beside her head. The other gripping her wrist, holding her down with humiliating ease. His chest heaved against hers—every breath dragging friction and fire between them.

Too close. Too much.

She tried not to feel the strength in his grip, the tension coiled in his body, the way his eyes darkened as they dropped—first to her lips, then to where her hips arched, involuntarily, beneath him.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

“Yield?” he asked, voice low. Rough.

She lifted her chin, arching just enough to remind them both he wasn’t the only one feeling this. “Not even close.”

They rolled at the same time.

She got on top for half a heartbeat, knees bracketing his hips, only for him to buck up, grab her waist, and flip her like she weighed nothing.

Her back hit the mat—hard. She let out a breathless laugh.

“Still think this is a game?” he growled, pinning her wrists to the floor. His face was inches from hers. His breath ghosted over her cheek, hot and uneven. She could smell the sweat on his skin, feel the heat of him like a second spine.

“I think you’re a brute,” she rasped. “And a sore loser.”

He shifted his weight, pressing her deeper into the mat, hips locking hers in place. Their legs tangled, friction blooming along every point of contact. Her toes curled.

Her pulse thundered.

She pushed against him—testing—but his grip only tightened around her wrists. Not harsh. Just firm.

She stilled.

And he looked at her like he saw her. Not the cadet. Not the girl who’d watched from the sidelines. But her .

And gods damn him—he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Say it,” he murmured, gaze fixed on her mouth.

“Say what?” Her voice came out hoarse.

“That you yield.”

Her legs shifted again, brushing his thigh. His jaw clenched, hard. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just held her there, like it was natural. Like he belonged there.

She let the silence stretch, taut and trembling.

“Make me,” she whispered.

His eyes burned.

And then—he let go.

Too fast. Like the heat had finally registered. Like he’d just realized how far he’d let himself fall.

Aelin sat up slowly, her breathing ragged. Sweat soaked through her undershirt, her braid clinging to her spine. She didn’t look at him.

She could feel his eyes on her. Like he hadn’t stopped touching her at all.

Thirty minutes later, most of the squad had rotated through matches at least twice. But Dain was still across the mat. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching.

Waiting.

Emetterio’s voice cut through the din. “One last round.”

Aelin wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. Dain rolled his neck once, slow and deliberate.

Aelin met Dain’s stare across the circle. No smirking. No snide remarks. Just breath. Muscle. Memory.

They moved at once.

This time, it wasn’t a dance. It was a storm.

She ducked under his first strike, slid behind him, drove her elbow toward his ribs. He caught it, spun her hard, pinned her back to chest—until she slammed her heel into his shin, hard enough to break free. They clashed again, bodies tangling, limbs striking and slipping in the sweat-slicked chaos between them. His palm grazed her waist, fingers splayed too wide.

It sent a jolt up her spine.

He grappled her down. She twisted free. His grip caught her arm, then her hip. Her hand found his shoulder, his jaw, anything to gain an edge. They moved like fire and oil—too volatile to hold shape for long.

He was holding back.

So was she.

But barely.

Their chests collided. Her thigh hooked his. His hand curled briefly around the back of her neck.

And when he looked at her—really looked at her—it wasn’t frustration anymore.

It was hunger.

Not lust. Something deeper. Sharper. A hunger for understanding. For clarity. Maybe for her.

She threw him.

It wasn’t clean. But it was enough to land him flat on the mat with her knee pressed to his sternum, her hand at his throat—not tight. Just there.

“Yield?” she whispered, braid falling over her shoulder, dripping sweat onto his collar.

Dain didn’t answer.

He just looked up at her like he wasn’t sure if he hated her, or if he was one second away from pulling her down and kissing her.

Emetterio’s voice barked from across the room. “That’s enough!”

Aelin stood, offering no hand this time. She just walked off the mat and grabbed her canteen.

“Holy shit,” Quinn muttered under her breath. “Do we even need to ask what that was?”

Imogen snorted. “That wasn’t sparring. That was foreplay with extra bruises.”

“Looked like he was trying to crawl inside your ribcage,” Quinn added, eyes wide with half-mock horror. “Do you two want us to leave you alone next time?”

Aelin rolled her eyes, taking a long drink of water to hide her flushed face. “It was a match. Just like any other.”

“Sure it was,” Imogen drawled, tossing her towel over her shoulder. “Except for all the panting. And the eye contact. And the part where he caressed your neck in front of all of us.”

Quinn leaned in, whispering loud enough for the rest of the squad to hear, “Does this mean we get to call him your training partner now?”

Aelin nearly choked on her water. “Absolutely not.”

Behind them, Dain moved to the far wall, grabbing his own canteen, deliberately not looking in her direction.

Quinn grinned. “Oh gods. He is your type. Tall, brooding, annoyingly honorable…”

“...and dumb enough to think you can’t fight,” Imogen finished, smirking. “You’re gonna ruin him.”

Aelin gave them both a look.

But she didn’t deny it.

And when she glanced over her shoulder—just once—she found Dain doing the same.

Still watching her like she was the only battle he didn’t know how to win.

Colonel Kaori’s classroom sat in one of the oldest towers, the walls curved like the inside of a dragon’s throat. Mage lights glowed overhead, flickering slightly as they settled into the seats carved into a half-circle around the central platform.

Aelin sat beside Quinn and Imogen, nursing a sore shoulder. Dain took a seat behind them without a word.

Colonel Kaori entered like a man born of command—stiff-backed, high-collared, mustache trimmed with surgical precision. He looked like someone who’d once scared kings for sport.

“Sit up,” he said, without raising his voice.

They did.

“There are six dragon breeds,” Kaori began, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the length of the hall. “Each with a unique tail weapon. Each with a temperament more dangerous than the last. Dragons do not choose cadets who hesitate.”

He lifted one hand, fingers curling into a fist.

An illusion burst into the air above the table—startlingly real and impossibly large. A black dragon unfurled midair, coiling with serpentine grace. Its scales shimmered like oil-slicked stone, absorbing the light instead of reflecting it. Its wings stretched across the rafters. Its morningstar tail swung behind it, the spiked end glowing as if pulled from the forge itself.

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Black dragons,” Kaori said, tone flat but full of quiet reverence. “The rarest. The smartest. The most cunning. There is no such thing as outsmarting a black. And none have been born in over a century.”

The illusion’s wings flared, massive and terrible, before it dissolved into a shimmering tide of scales.

“His last rider died in the rebellion,” Kaori continued. “The loss nearly killed him. He vanished into the mountains and has not chosen since.”

Next came the blue dragon—deep oceanic scales, older than war, heavy-bodied and powerful. Her morningstar tail swung like a wrecking ball with purpose and precision. She hovered in place as though the air bent to her will.

“Blue dragons are the most ruthless. Formidable in size and strength. This one,” Kaori said, pausing beneath his sweeping illusion, “has never bonded before. And may not bond at all.”

Aelin watched the flick of that tail, the way it carved through the air with a slow, deliberate menace. Her stomach turned cold—but she couldn’t look away.

The blue vanished, and in her place came a green dragon—slim, long-winged, with sharp, calculating eyes. Her tail arched upward, sleek and segmented like a dagger’s edge.

“Green dragons,” Kaori said, “are the most rational. The most tactical. Siege-breakers. Siege-holders. Their intellect rivals any scholar in this room. Especially clubtails. Do not let that calm nature fool you. They study you long before they strike.”

Then came a brown—massive, earth-toned and broad, wings dense with muscle, tail a brutal mace-like club that cracked the illusionary ground beneath it as it landed.

“Browns never show fear. If one approaches, do not flinch. Do not speak. If you show trepidation, they will remember.”

Kaori’s voice did not rise, but the warning curled like smoke around the room.

The brown vanished, replaced by an orange—sleek and wiry, scales ranging from soft peach to vibrant carrot. Its eyes blazed with frenetic energy, tail darting like a whip.

“Orange dragons,” Kaori said with a sigh, “are the most unpredictable. Every Wing has stories of orange-bonded riders who met…unexpected ends. Flight patterns erratic. Judgment unstable. And yet—if you survive the first year—they’re unmatched in speed.”

He paused. Then flicked his hand.

A flash of fire, and the red dragon soared into view, wings wide and wild. Its scales shone like molten metal. The swordtail gleamed—long, curved, razor-sharp. A weapon made to gut and sever.

“Red dragons are the most temperamental,” Kaori said. “Quickest to fury. Especially scorpiantails. Never meet a red’s eyes. Never approach from behind. And if you must approach… do it from the left. Slowly.”

The red swordtail slashed through the air, its head twisting with a snarl.

Across the table, Dain’s gaze locked onto it—unblinking. The illusion glowed in his eyes.

Kaori let the silence settle before conjuring one final illusion. The blue returned, just for a heartbeat. Her heavy morningstar tail swung in a slow arc behind her.

Aelin’s eyes tracked its path.

Kaori finally turned back to the cadets.

“Study their markings. Their wingspans. Their tail weights. Learn the difference between aggression and curiosity—assuming you live long enough to observe it. Dragons are not allies. They are not friends. They are forces of nature. If they choose you, it is not because you are special. It is because you are useful.”

Silence.

Even Quinn didn’t crack a joke. But after a moment, she leaned in and whispered, “Okay… no one said they’d be that big.”

Aelin smirked. “Welcome to the Riders Quadrant.”

Quinn exhaled slowly, eyes still on the last flicker of tail as the illusion vanished. “If that thing so much as blinks at me, I’m climbing over you to escape.”

Aelin snorted.

Kaori clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “Memorize what you’ve seen. Soon—if you survive, you meet the real ones.”

And with that, he walked out—leaving the image of fire and wings burned behind their eyes.

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the fortress walls when Aelin ducked into the stone courtyard behind the mess hall. Her muscles still ached from the day’s training, but she wasn’t ready to go back to the barracks—not yet.

She heard the low hum of conversation and slowed her steps.

Imogen sat cross-legged on one of the low benches, boots off and propped on her pack. Across from her was a cadet Aelin hadn’t officially met, tall and golden-skinned with a shock of messy brown hair. Bodhi Durran. Imogen had whispered about him being “Xaden Riorson’s cousin, but actually nice.”

“So you’re saying he actually smiled?” Imogen was saying, her mouth quirked with disbelief.

Bodhi laughed, running a hand through his hair. “It was more like a grimace, but he didn’t stab anyone. So. Progress.”

“High praise,” Imogen snorted. “Should we throw him a party?”

“Only if it involves cake. And Garrick in a dress.”

Aelin leaned casually against the edge of the archway, making her presence known. “Sounds like a party worth attending.”

Imogen glanced over and grinned. “We’re making a list of Xaden’s redeeming qualities. So far, we’ve got: one forced smile, decent taste in boots, and not a murderer. Yet.”

Bodhi gave Aelin a lopsided grin—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stared at her a beat too long, brow furrowing as his head tilted slightly. “Have we met before?”

Aelin met his gaze, expression smooth, easy. “Doubtful. I’d remember.”

But Bodhi didn’t let it go. His eyes narrowed a little, sharp with something like recognition. “No, seriously. I swear I’ve seen you before. Somewhere…”

Aelin offered a lazy, knowing smile, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her palm. “Maybe I just have one of those unforgettable faces.” She winked. “Celaena Sardothien.”

Realization clicked, though the confusion didn’t fully leave his face. “Oh—you’re Sardothien. Finally, a face to the topic of debate.”

Aelin raised a brow. “Topic of debate?”

Bodhi smirked. “Imogen told me about your sparring session with Aetos.”

Imogen grinned around her cup. “Didn’t spare the details, either.”

Aelin let out a soft snort, reaching for a slice of bread. “Figures.”

“Can’t blame her,” Bodhi said, still watching Aelin with open curiosity. “Apparently it was... memorable.”

Aelin shrugged, feigning indifference. “He got a few hits in. I got more.”

Unbothered, Aelin flicked a crumb off the table. “So, what’s Garrick like?”

Imogen’s response came a beat too fast. “Why, you interested?”

Aelin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone  “Please. I was asking in case I ever need to bribe him.” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Smart,” Bodhi said, completely oblivious of what just happened  “He’s all loyalty and sarcasm. Just don’t mention his hair. He thinks it makes him look distinguished.”

They chatted for a few more minutes—nothing important, just the kind of idle gossip and banter that Aelin knew was its own kind of armor in a place like this. But as Bodhi stood and slung his satchel over his shoulder, her attention sharpened.

“I’ve got to run,” he said. “Try not to die before breakfast.”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “You say that like it’s optional.”

Aelin waited a beat after he left, still joking with Imogen, then stood and stretched. “Think I’ll walk a lap. Loosen up before lights-out.”

Imogen didn’t question it.

She kept her distance as Bodhi crossed the lower courtyard, slipping behind a supply tower. Aelin followed, silent as a shadow. Bodhi moved with purpose—not toward the barracks, but toward the old stables, long since cleared out for dragon landing space. He ducked inside.

Aelin crept around the edge and peered through a crack in the stone.

Bodhi wasn’t alone.

Xaden Riorson stood inside, arms crossed over his chest, black uniform cutting a sharp silhouette in the lamplight. Another cadet leaned against a post nearby—taller than both of them, dark-haired, with sharp eyes and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his mouth.

Garrick Tavis.

They didn’t speak loudly, but Aelin could read body language like a second language.

Bodhi handed Xaden something—papers? A map?

Garrick made a low comment, Xaden snorted softly, and the three of them stood in tense silence for a long moment. Then Garrick pushed off the wall and left. Bodhi followed a minute later, expression unreadable.

Xaden didn’t move.

He just stood there, alone in the stillness of the stable, facing the far wall. Like he was thinking. Or waiting.

Aelin watched him through the crack in the stone, her breath shallow.

He didn’t seem like the type to waste time. And yet he stood there, unmoving.

Does he know?

She didn’t dare let the thought fully form. But something twisted in her gut.

Aelin backed away, retraced her steps in silence, and returned to the barracks.

She didn’t say anything when Imogen glanced up from her bunk with a sleepy grunt.

She just lay down, staring at the ceiling.

And wondered what, exactly, Xaden Riorson knew about his father’s rebellion.

Chapter Text

Breakfast in the mess hall was already loud by the time Aelin dropped her tray on the bench beside Imogen, barely dodging a slosh of tea and an elbow to the ribs.

“Soooo,” Imogen drawled, scooting over with a wicked grin. “Are we allowed to talk about your very professional, definitely not emotionally charged sparring match with a certain cadet?”

Quinn perked up instantly from across the table. “Oh, we’re talking about Dain now? Excellent.”

“We sparred,” Aelin said, stabbing her roll like it had personally offended her. “It wasn’t—”

“Sure,” Quinn said, cradling her cup like it was a delicate artifact. “You sparred. There were grunts. Sweaty limbs. Eye contact.”

Aelin opened her mouth. “Quinn—”

“Prolonged grappling,” Quinn continued, entirely unbothered. “Suspicious hand placement. Groaning. At one point, I’m pretty sure you breathed in sync. That’s basically intimacy.”

“I swear to Malek—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Eris said brightly, waving a hand. “I’m taking notes.”

“Neck touching,” Quinn ticked off on her fingers. “Chest tension. Multiple pins. I think someone moaned—”

“I did not moan,” Aelin snapped.

Cianna tilted her head. “It was more of a huff , really. A very charged huff.”

“I will murder all of you,” Aelin growled.

“See? She’s emotional. This is definitely something,” Imogen said, sipping from her cup. “What’s the next stage of denial? Is it homicide?”

“Spite cuddling,” Eris offered.

“Definitely spite cuddling,” Alric said. “But only after one of them gets injured and the other has to bandage them slowly while pretending not to care.”

“Can I please just say—” Aelin tried again.

“No,” Quinn said immediately. “You’ve lost talking privileges until we’re done theorizing. This is important work.”

Eris leaned in, “Did I miss the part where she mounted him?”

“No,” Quinn said, completely unfazed. “That happened. Twice. There was also a full-body pin, mutual wrist grabbing, and one particularly intense moment where I thought someone was going to confess something or combust.”

Alric muttered, “Or both.”

Cianna sipped her tea without looking up. “Classic pre-confession violence.”

Quinn beamed. “Exactly. Nothing says unresolved feelings like trying to kill each other with your thighs.” She smiled. “So. When’s the wedding?”

Aelin gave her a flat look. “One more word and I’m feeding you to a red dragon. Eye contact first.”

“That’s why no one kisses you goodnight,” Quinn said sweetly.

“I’d rather not be kissed goodnight,” Eris cut in, not even looking up from buttering his toast. “Just good.”

Aelin shook him head, trying not to smile. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

Eris arched a brow. “Darling, I take self-preservation very seriously. Everything else is optional.”

“Spoken like a man who’s been dumped a lot,” Quinn said.

Eris pointed his butter knife at her. “I’ll have you know I’m very popular.”

“Popular like respected?” Jessa asked, skeptical.

“Popular like I don’t usually have to sleep alone unless I want to.” He flashed a grin. “And sometimes even when I do want to.”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“Thank you.”

Cianna, seated beside Jessa, laughed into her porridge. “At least someone in this squad is getting some.”

“Oh, here we go,” Varek groaned, tipping his head back with a sigh.

Jessa grinned. “Careful, Varek, someone might think you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” Alric raised a brow. “Please. Varek’s saving himself for the dragons.”

“That’s a weird way to say ‘terrified of commitment,’” Eris muttered.

A shift in the air—barely perceptible, but Aelin felt it—cut through the banter.

Dain approached from the far end, tray in hand, jaw already tight.

Imogen didn’t miss a beat, nudging Aelin under the table. “Should we clear space? Emotionally, I mean.”

Quinn leaned over her cup with mock innocence. “Maybe set up a dueling mat? Just in case.”

Aelin ignored them both and took a long, deliberate sip of her tea.

Dain sat at the end of the table without a word, shoulders stiff, eyes on his food like it might detonate. No one acknowledged him directly, but the teasing tapered, the tempo of conversation recalibrating around the gravity he carried.

Quinn set down her cup with a quieter sigh. “Honestly, I get it. All the bed-hopping, the weird attachments after two days. We’re all just trying not to die without being remembered as that cadet who died alone.”

Cianna leaned back, twirling her spoon with a wicked grin. “Alright, since we’re already halfway to scandal—if you had to pick someone for one night, no strings, who’s your first choice?”

Jessa snorted. “Wow. We’re really doing this?”

“Absolutely,” Quinn said, grinning again. “No judgment. Just one name.”

“Easy,” Eris said. “Myself.”

“That’s not how it works,” Cianna said, with a mock glare.

“Fine.” Eris shrugged. “Tavian from Third Wing. That man could hold me through an earthquake.”

Alric gave a slow nod. “Solid pick.”

“Jessa?” Imogen prompted.

Jessa hesitated, then muttered, “Probably that medic—Neris. The one with the arms.”

Everyone groaned in agreement.

“Okay, but he knows he’s hot,” Quinn said. “He bandaged my wrist last week and winked.”

“That’s not a wink, that’s a service,” Eris said solemnly.

“Imogen?” Aelin asked.

Imogen tilted her head. “You’ll have to torture me to get a name.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Aelin smirked. “Imogen’s just afraid of commitment.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Imogen said, her tone half-serious, half-teasing. “But I don’t give out my secrets so easily.”

Jessa snorted. “Sure. You’re just a mystery, huh?”

“More like a carefully curated enigma,” Imogen replied with a wink.

Aelin rolled her eyes, then took another bite of her toast.

“Alright, Sardothien,” Quinn said, zeroing in. “Who would you pick?”

Aelin hesitated.

One heartbeat. Two.

And then she shrugged, keeping her tone light. “Tavian isn’t a bad choice.”

She didn’t look down the table when she said it, but she felt it—the subtle shift. The quiet pause before Dain picked up his cup with slightly more force than necessary. The way his jaw ticked just once before he took a long drink.

Eris, ever the chaos enthusiast, caught it instantly.

“Tavian, huh?” he said, all too casual. “Didn’t think that was your taste.”

“Maybe you don’t know my taste,” Aelin replied smoothly, sipping from her cup.

Imogen nudged her under the table again, this time not in jest. Just a reminder that she’d seen it—Dain’s reaction.

“Who would you pick, Dain?” Quinn asked innocently, her grin widening at the slight tension she could feel building.

He lowered his cup slowly, his gaze still on the table. “Does it matter?” he said, his voice just a bit too neutral.

“Oh, it matters,” Quinn said, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Come on, someone must’ve caught your eye. Or are you too busy playing the perfect soldier to notice?”

Eris leaned in, his tone deceptively light. “He’s too busy trying not to fall for all that temptation in the sparring ring”

Dain stiffened—just a flicker of tension in his shoulders, subtle enough that a stranger might miss it. But Aelin didn’t. Neither did Quinn. And judging by the slow, satisfied curl of Eris’s mouth, he’d seen it too.

Dain lifted his head, eyes hard now. “What about you, Eris? Still charming the ladies with your dashing attitude?”

Eris didn’t miss a beat. “It’s worked so far. What can I say? Unlike some, I don’t overthink it. Maybe I should give you a few lessons, Dain. Might help with your ‘lack of interest’ issue.”

Quinn chuckled, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’ve got your eye on someone, haven’t you? Maybe a blonde. Bad attitude. Wicked fighting skills.” She leaned in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “Come on, Dain—don’t make me drag it out of you.”

Dain’s gaze flicked to Aelin—brief, almost invisible—but he quickly looked away, his expression guarded. Still, there was a flicker of something sharp beneath the surface.

“Beinhaven,” he said quietly, the name heavy between them.

Silence fell like a shutter snapping shut. Even Imogen’s teasing edge faded as she looked between Dain and Aelin, eyes wide.

Aelin’s chest tightened. Aura’s name hit her like a sudden chill—sharp, fleeting, unmistakable: jealousy. Her fingers clenched around her mug, but she said nothing. She didn’t have the right to feel this, not after everything. Yet the thought of Dain and Aura stirred something deep and raw inside her.

Quinn blinked, her smirk faltering for a heartbeat before she masked it with a slow, deliberate smile. “Aura, huh?” She tilted her head, genuinely surprised. “Well, that’s new... didn’t think you’d go for someone like her.”

Imogen leaned forward, brows knitting as she took in the charged moment, eyes darting between Dain and Aelin. “Wait—hold up. Aura Beinhaven?” She blinked, then back at Dain, then at Aelin. “I... I mean, really?”

She paused, voice dropping low, incredulous. “You’re telling me you’ve got a thing for... her ?” Her gaze slid sideways—sharp and pointed—toward Aelin. “And not for…” She let the rest hang in the air.

Eris’s mouth actually dropped open. For a beat, he stared, eyes flicking between Dain and Aelin like he was trying to solve an impossible equation. Finally, he shook his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, blinking hard, “that was... not the answer I was expecting.”

He let out a low whistle, leaning back slowly, still watching. “Huh. Plot twist.”

The squad caught the shift in the air, tension thick as they waited for someone to break the silence.

Alric smirked, eyebrows arching. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Dain. But I guess it makes sense. Sharp tongue, sharper blade, attitude for days…” His gaze flicked to Aelin. “Yeah. Fits.”

Quinn let out a soft, slow laugh, still processing, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at Dain, then back at Aelin. Her brow furrowed, silently asking, What the fuck just happened

Aelin swallowed hard, forcing her expression into something neutral as her gaze flicked from Dain to the others around the table. She didn’t owe him anything anymore. Didn’t owe anyone anything.

But the question lingered, sharp and insistent: Why not me?

Was it only her who’d felt that spark in the sparring ring? The heat beneath their gritted teeth, the stolen glances, the barely suppressed tension that had left her breathless? Or had he felt it too—and simply buried it?

Before the mood could grow too heavy, Bodhi dropped onto the bench beside her like a thunderclap, snagging an apple off her tray with shameless ease.

“Morning, degenerates, and company” he said brightly, glancing around at the table with an exaggerated look of concern. “Who died?”

Imogen and Quinn exchanged a quick, sharp look, and the momentary tension in the air evaporated as if it had never existed. Imogen cleared her throat and shot a smirk at Bodhi. “My hopes and dreams,” she said, her tone light, as though they hadn’t just been on the verge of an emotional crack.

Bodhi blinked, raising an eyebrow in question, but before he could say anything, Quinn—ever quick to regain control—slipped in with a teasing drawl. “Anyway,” she said, grinning, “I heard Third Wing’s betting pool is over two hundred marks. Some idiots are betting Damian Blackthorn will win his match in under thirty seconds.”

“That tracks,” Jessa muttered. “He cracked someone’s collarbone before warmups last week.”

Cianna blinked, surprised. “That wasn’t a challenge?”

“Nope,” Alric replied casually. “That was just Tuesday.”

Bodhi leaned back on the bench, crunching his apple with a smirk. “Blackthorn’s ruthless—and an absolute ass. If anyone can finish a fight that fast, it’s him.”

Emetterio stepped into the center of the challenge yard, the low hum of cadet chatter dying instantly under his glare. His voice cut through the morning air like a drawn blade.

“Form a line. Today, I’m choosing the match-ups.”

Nervous shuffling rippled through the crowd, but no one disobeyed. You didn’t argue with a rider like Emetterio. Not if you wanted to walk away with your spine intact.

Emetterio paced down the line of cadets like a warhorse surveying the battlefield, eyes narrowed, boots crunching against the grit of the training yard. He didn’t carry a clipboard or call names from a list. He just knew.

He stopped without warning and jabbed a finger.

“Aetos, with Durran.”

Dain stepped forward instantly, saying nothing, his stance already squared and ready. Steady. Focused.

Bodhi followed a heartbeat later, tossing an apple core over his shoulder with casual precision and offering a lazy mock salute.

“Oh, it’s going to be one of those mornings,” he said, grinning. “Try not to sprain your ego when you lose.”

The two squared off on the mat, and Aelin leaned casually against the wooden post beside Imogen. But her gaze was fixed on the fight.

Bodhi moved like a storm—erratic, unpredictable, a flurry of feints and bursts of power that could throw even seasoned fighters off-balance. He used every inch of the mat like it owed him something.

Dain was the opposite. Controlled. Clean. Every motion honed by years of discipline and more than a little pride. No wasted energy, no unnecessary steps. He advanced like a tide—slow, inevitable, suffocating.

Aelin had seen him spar before. Years ago, in the palace courtyard, when they still shared smiles that meant something. But this was different. Sharper. Tighter. He didn’t fight like a golden boy now.

He fought like a man with everything to prove—and too much to lose.

And yet…

He held back.

Aelin saw it—clear as day. The hesitation in the final second of a strike. The softened angle of a blow. The subtle shift of weight that redirected a lock instead of snapping a joint.

He could’ve ended the fight three separate times. He didn’t.

“Still playing nice,” she murmured.

Imogen turned her head. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The match ended in a clean sweep—Bodhi flipped onto his back, Dain’s knee pressing into his sternum as he caught his breath.

Bodhi groaned. “Guess that’s a yes to the ego sprain.”

Dain didn’t gloat. Didn’t smile. He just extended a hand, pulling Bodhi up with the same impassive calm he’d worn the whole time.

He stepped off the mat, gaze scanning the gathered cadets—until it caught.

On her.

Aelin didn’t look away. Not immediately. There was something in Dain’s eyes she couldn’t quite name—something wary, searching. Like he didn’t know what he was hoping to find on her face. Or maybe he did, and it scared him.

Then his gaze shifted.

To her.

Aura Beinhaven stood near the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, hair braided back tight. She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, watching the matches like they barely interested her.

But she saw Dain. And she knew he was looking.

She didn’t react, not outwardly.

Still, Aelin caught it—that flicker of amusement in Aura’s eyes. Like she knew she didn’t have to fight for his attention. Like she already had it.

Aelin bit the inside of her cheek and looked away.

“Next,” Emetterio called. “Blackthorn!”

The yard quieted.

Damian Blackthorn stepped into the ring.

He didn’t need to shout. Didn’t need to grin or posture. His presence alone shifted the air—straight spine, hands wrapped in dark cloth, eyes like smoke curling off a battlefield. Cold. Detached. Patient.

Everyone knew his name. Not just because he was good—he was ruthless. Because sometimes, when things got heated, Damian "misjudged" his strength. A rib crushed here. A jaw shattered there. And sometimes… the mat stayed stained until rain washed it clean.

He always claimed innocence. Said he slipped. That he hadn’t meant to hit that hard.

And the instructors let it go. Because someone like Damian Blackthorn was useful in war.

“Sardothien!”

Aelin’s name cracked across the yard.

She inhaled once. Then stepped forward.

Imogen’s hand closed gently around her forearm. “Hey.” Her voice was low, almost casual—but the grip was solid. “Don’t let him rattle you.”

Aelin didn’t answer. Just squeezed once in return.

Across the bench, Quinn caught her eye and offered a quick nod. No words, no theatrics—just a quiet show of support, like the kind given before a storm hit.

Jessa and Alric didn’t speak, but their gazes followed her as she stepped forward. Measured. Watchful. Like they weren’t sure if they were seeing her for the last time.

And then—

Dain.

He stood just beyond the mat, shoulders square, arms crossed over his chest. But his gaze—

It wasn’t indifferent.

It was sharp. Wary. Something too close to panic flickering in the tightness around his mouth.

Not for the fight. For her.

Aelin looked away first.

She stepped onto the mat, boot scraping against old bloodstains half-scrubbed from the stone. The morning sun pressed down hard, but the challenge yard might as well have been ice.

Across from her, Damian Blackthorn rolled his shoulders like he’d been waiting all day for this moment.

Blackthorn’s mouth curled into a grin. “You’re not going to last ten seconds,” he murmured, voice low enough for her ears alone. “They always send the pretty ones to die slow.”

Aelin tilted her head. “Want to bet?”

He didn’t answer.

He lunged.

The first blow came so fast it barely registered—just instinct and movement and heat. She ducked under it, twisting to avoid the elbow meant for her temple, and jabbed a knee toward his ribs.

He caught it. Twisted.

Pain shot up her leg as he shoved her back, already coming in again.

He fought like someone who didn’t distinguish between training and survival. No hesitation. No warning. Every movement was meant to damage, to break .

Aelin barely avoided the heel aimed at her knee. Rolled, came up swinging.

Her elbow clipped his jaw.

He grinned through it, blood in his teeth. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

They circled.

He came at her again. Faster this time. A flurry of blows—fist, elbow, knee. Aelin blocked two. Took the third to the ribs. Air punched from her lungs.

She didn’t fall.

She struck back.

Palm to his shoulder, shift her weight, spin—he dodged, grabbed her wrist, wrenched.

Something cracked.

Her vision went white at the edges.

The arm hung useless at her side.

Blackthorn only grinned wider.

Aelin kicked him in the thigh, ducked his swing, used her good arm to land a punch square to his jaw. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t clean.

He stumbled back.

The crowd made a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a roar.

Aelin didn’t let up. One arm down, ribs bruised, breath ragged—she moved. Forced herself into the next strike, the next dodge, again and again until—

Until she saw the mistake.

He went for her left side—assuming the break would make her drop her guard.

She twisted under the strike, planted a boot behind his ankle, slammed her weight forward.

He went down.

Hard.

She was on him in a heartbeat, knee jammed into his chest, her fist drawn back, poised and ready to break something if he even thought about moving.

Damian writhed beneath her, teeth gritted, muscles straining—but Aelin didn’t budge.

“Yield,” she said, voice low but firm.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His pride was too thick, too bloated.

“Yield,” she said again—louder this time, for everyone in the yard to hear. Her tone cracked like a whip, sharp and undeniable.

Still, he spat up at her, fury in his eyes. “Get off me, you bitch.”

Aelin didn’t even flinch. Her expression was cool, lethal.

“My name is Celaena,” she said, loud enough for the class to hear every word, her eyes locked on his like iron. “But it makes no difference if my name is Celaena or bitch —because I still beat you, no matter what you call me.”

There was a flicker of stunned silence across the sparring yard.

She didn’t look away from Damian, didn’t move a muscle.

“Call it,” she said flatly, her voice directed toward Emetterio without breaking her stare.

“Match over,” Emetterio said, his voice cutting through the air. “Victory to Sardothien.”

Silence.

Aelin’s chest heaved as she pulled back, barely aware of the blood on her knuckles. Her left arm throbbed like fire. Something was wrong. Very wrong. It wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t even respond.

Damian lay beneath her, blood dripping from his mouth. His grin had vanished.

She rose on shaking legs.

Emetterio was already moving across the yard.

“Aetos,” Emetterio barked, barely sparing her a glance. “Take her to the infirmary. Now.”

Dain was beside her in an instant, one hand firm but careful against her uninjured shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, voice steady—too steady for the way his eyes scanned her, checking for worse damage.

“I’m fine,” Aelin muttered.

“You’re not,” he said tightly. “Stop being stubborn.”

She didn’t answer. Not as he guided her across the yard. Not as they passed Aura Beinhaven, who stood at attention with that same cool, unreadable expression—and eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

Dain didn’t speak again either, not the entire way. But his grip stayed light and sure, like he remembered what it was to touch her gently. Like he knew exactly how not to break her.

The walk to the infirmary wasn’t far.

But every step made it worse.

Her arm throbbed in rhythmic waves, a dull roar beneath the skin, each jolt of movement pulling sharp pain through her shoulder. Still, she kept her spine straight, jaw locked. No limp. No weakness.

Dain stayed at her side, silent, shadowing her like he used to. It made her want to scream.

Not from the pain.

From the familiarity of it. From him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally.

“It was a challenge, it's not like I could've said no,” she shot back.

“You could’ve yielded.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That much was obvious,” he muttered.

She cut him a glare. “Don’t pretend this is about concern.”

His brows dipped. “What else would it be about?”

“You’ve barely looked at me since the Parapet.”

“And yet I’m the one dragging you to the infirmary,” Dain said, voice low. “We might not see eye to eye anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand there and watch you get pummeled by some arrogant bastard who doesn’t know when to stop.”

Aelin didn’t look at him. “I won, didn’t I?”

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You nearly passed out on the mat.”

“That was nothing,” she said, too fast.

A pause. Then—

“You stopped blinking, Aelin. That’s not nothing.”

Aelin snorted softly. “That counts as passing out now?”

“It counts as scaring the shit out of me,” he said.

That silenced her.

For a long moment, the only sound was their footsteps on packed dirt.

Then the infirmary door creaked open, letting out the familiar reek of herbs, sweat, and something older—older and quieter. The scent of pain that had settled into the walls over years of bleeding cadets.

And at the center of it all stood Nolon.

He was hunched over a boy with a split scalp, hands glowing faintly gold as the skin pulled itself back together. He didn’t look up as they entered.

“Sit,” he said, voice clipped. “And don’t bleed on my floor.”

Aelin obeyed, lowering herself onto the bench with what dignity she could manage. Her arm throbbed with every heartbeat.

Dain hovered beside her.

Nolon finally turned—and frowned the moment he saw her. “What did you do?”

“Won,” Aelin said through her teeth.

He dropped to one knee, already reaching for her arm. “Looks more like survived.”

“How bad?” Dain asked quietly.

Nolon didn’t look at him. “Two breaks. Possibly three.”

He pressed a hand gently to her forearm.

Aelin hissed, the pain bright and sudden.

“You’ll live,” Nolon said, dry as old parchment. “If you stop squirming.”

“I’m not squirming.”

“You’re absolutely squirming.”

The magic flared to life beneath his hands—cold, not warm, sliding under her skin like ice-water and glass. She clenched her jaw and looked past him, past Dain, past everything.

But Dain watched.

His silence felt too loud, like it demanded answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

“You’ve done this before,” Nolon murmured.

Aelin blinked. “What?”

“These fractures. They’re old. Didn’t heal right the first time. I can feel it in the bone.”

She went still.

Dain looked at her then, really looked, but she kept her gaze fixed on the far wall.

“It happened years ago,” she said quietly.

Nolon didn’t speak, didn’t push. Just kept working.

Aelin flexed her fingers, just slightly. “Training accident. I was fifteen. Took a blade to the forearm during a sparring match.”

Dain’s brows drew together.

“I wrapped it myself,” she went on. “Figured it was just a bad sprain. It wasn’t.”

Nolon didn’t stop, but his hands gentled.

“A family friend helped me days later,” Her voice was flat now. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… done. “My father said if I was old enough to be playing with swords, I could learn to live with the consequences.”

Silence. Heavy, tense.

Nolon, either unaware or uninterested in the tension simmering between them, said, “You’ll scar. A small one.”

“I’ve had worse,” she said quietly.

He worked in silence after that, hands moving with the kind of efficiency that only came from years of mending broken bodies.

When it was done, he wiped his hands on a cloth and stood. “It’ll ache, but it’s whole again. Don’t hit anything for a few days.”

Aelin flexed her fingers. The pain had dulled into something manageable—an echo, nothing more.

“Thanks,” she said, already rising.

Nolon just grunted and turned to the next cadet.

Dain hadn’t moved.

“You can stop looming now,” she muttered as she passed him.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t.”

The infirmary door creaked shut behind them, leaving the scent of herbs and blood and old ghosts behind. The corridor outside was quieter, shadows stretching long from the setting sun.

They walked in silence for a few steps—Aelin keeping her pace even, Dain still hovering like he didn’t know how to stop.

“That thing Nolon said,” he began slowly. “About the break not healing right.”

She said nothing.

“You didn’t deny it.”

Aelin let out a long breath. “Because it was true.”

Dain stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “You’ve trained before.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Still, she nodded. “Since I was fifteen.”

His eyes narrowed. “But—how? Your father—”

“He hated it,” she said flatly. “Said it wasn’t a place for girls, that my duty lied elsewhere.”

Dain flinched, not at her tone, but at the words. The kind of thing the old king would say and mean.

“But Alic…” Aelin continued. Her voice shifted—just a little. “He convinced him. Eventually. My father agreed, but only if it stayed secret. No records. No court whispers. No one outside the family could know.”

Dain blinked, something dawning in his eyes. Slowly, he said, “That sparring match last week… I thought some of those moves looked—familiar.”

Aelin just leaned against the wall, eyes distant.

Dain took a step closer. “You fight like them. Like your brothers.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“I used to spar with them,” he murmured. “Back when—back when we were all still allowed to be children. I recognize the way you shift your weight. How you use your off-hand to fake left and strike right.”

She gave a small shrug. “Alic taught me everything they wouldn’t.”

Dain let that settle. The image of her at fifteen, bruised and quiet and hiding it all behind sharp smiles and stubborn silence.

He shook his head slowly, stunned. “And all this time, I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” she said, her voice quiet. “That I came here in defiance of my father. Or to get some kind of closure or revenge for my brother. Or some other reason you made up in your head because it was easier than asking.”

Dain opened his mouth, but no words came.

Then, finally—softly—he said, “I’m sorry.”

Aelin didn’t move.

“For what your father did. For what you had to hide. For not seeing it sooner.”

She stared ahead, expression unreadable. But her voice was calm when she said, “You weren’t supposed to see it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then she looked at him—just for a heartbeat. “But you do now.”

Dain took a step forward, a reluctant gesture. “You shouldn’t have had to carry all of that alone.”

Aelin looked at him, her eyes sharp. “Maybe not. But thanks to that, I’m here. Alive.”

The words were simple, but they held a weight. She wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting, but this one was all she could give.

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned and walked toward the gym.

Chapter Text

Imogen’s opponent was at least a head taller than her—and twice as broad. But she stood her ground in the challenge ring, every step calculated. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate.

Aelin sat on the edge of the training yard with the rest of her squad, arms loosely crossed over her chest, a faint breeze tugging strands of hair from her braid. Imogen hadn’t said much before the match. Just tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and stepped onto the mat like it was nothing.

But Aelin had seen the slight tension in her shoulders. The way she cracked her knuckles when no one was looking.

Across the yard, Quinn was stretching out, warming up for her match. She shot Aelin a quick grin, more nerves than confidence, but there was something fiery beneath it. Determined.

“She’s going to surprise him,” Aelin murmured.

Beside her, Dain said, “Imogen or Quinn?”

Aelin arched a brow, but didn’t look at him. “Both.”

On the mat, Imogen struck.

Fast. Hard.

Her elbow slammed into her opponent’s gut, and before he could recover, her boot connected sharply with his knee—sending him sprawling with a grunt. The crowd let out a collective hiss as he hit the floor. Aelin caught herself smiling.

Beside her, Dain let out a low whistle. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“She’s fast,” Aelin said softly.

“Controlled, too. Most people panic. Overcorrect.” He paused, then added, “Not her.”

Aelin tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “You always analyze fights like that?”

“Only when I’m not in them.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth, quick and rueful. “It’s a habit. Watching tells. Seeing where someone leans.”

“Useful,” Aelin said, her tone unreadable. “Assuming you're not too busy lecturing people about the Codex.”

Dain snorted. “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

Before she could answer, Imogen’s opponent staggered upright—only to take a knee to the chin that snapped his head back.

It was over in less than two minutes.

Imogen stepped off the mat without a word, face unreadable. But Aelin saw the flicker of color rising in her cheeks as Garrick murmured something to her from the bench.

“She’s blushing,” Dain said under his breath, sounding vaguely amused.

“Didn’t look back, though,” Aelin said.

“Not even once.”

They fell into a short silence, the kind that felt like neither of them was sure if they were allowed to enjoy it. Aelin traced the worn edge of her sleeve with a finger. She didn’t usually sit beside Dain like this. Not outside of assigned drills, not without a fight or an argument between them. And yet—

Neither move away.

She didn’t know what to make of that. Of how his presence no longer set her on edge the way it had a week ago. Maybe she was just too tired to fight. Or maybe… maybe it was something else.

Across the yard, Quinn stepped into the ring.

Aelin straightened slightly, focus shifting. Quinn’s long limbs were loose, fluid, her warm-up all sharp pivots and quick shoulder rolls. There was always something dancer-like in the way Quinn moved when she wasn’t trying to prove herself. But today—today was all grit.

No flair. No show.

Just fists.

Her opponent was taller, heavier, clearly confident. Aelin braced herself.

“She’s got good footwork,” Dain murmured beside her.

“She has better instincts,” Aelin replied.

The match began.

Quinn took a hit early—an elbow to the ribs that knocked the breath from her lungs—but she didn’t stagger. She just blinked once, then threw herself back in. Her fists were quick, her strikes sharp, and even when her lip split open from a jab to the jaw, she didn’t slow down.

By the end, she was bleeding and grinning like a madwoman. Her opponent yielded with a muttered curse and a hand over his gut.

Aelin couldn’t help but grin too.

“She’s insane,” Dain said, and there was something like admiration in his voice.

“Reckless,” Aelin corrected, pushing to her feet. “But brave.”

The match was barely over when Emetterio strode to the front of the yard. He gave their section one of those looks—the kind that promised pain if disobeyed. “Challenges are done,” he announced. “Pair off and keep sparring. If I see anyone slacking, I’ll personally make you regret it.”

Second Squad scattered with impressive speed.

Dain went for Alric, exchanging a nod that promised a solid fight. Garrick and Imogen moved toward the center ring again, falling into their usual rhythm like they had something to settle between them. Aelin watched for a beat, then turned—

And nearly collided with Quinn, who was already bouncing on her heels.

“You and me?” Quinn asked, breath still uneven but eyes sharp.

“Sure,” Aelin said, stretching her arms as they moved to an empty ring. “Unless you’re worried about your lip.”

Quinn gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t go easy on me.”

Aelin didn’t.

They came at each other fast—no fancy footwork, no dancing around. Just clean, brutal exchanges. Quinn’s speed met Aelin’s precision, and neither of them let up. Aelin could feel the ache blooming in her arms, her ribs, but it only pushed her harder. Her braid whipped across her back, sweat stung her eyes, and still she grinned.

Eventually, after what felt like a dozen rounds and just as many bruises, they called a break—chests heaving, hands on hips, sweat dripping down their spines. They settled on the sidelines, shoulders brushing as they leaned against the same post, quietly watching the others tear into each other on the sparring mats.

Across the yard, Dain’s voice barked something to Alric, and Aelin risked a glance in their direction.

Dain’s shirt clung to him with sweat, his brow furrowed in concentration as he deflected Alric’s broad swings. He moved with clean, efficient control—each step calculated, each strike exact.

Aelin didn’t mean to look.

But her eyes found him anyway.

Just for a moment.

He caught her watching.

And though he didn’t stop moving, something shifted in his expression—something small, almost imperceptible. The flicker of amusement. A brief, knowing glance over Alric’s shoulder. A twitch of his mouth that might’ve been the start of a smile.

Aelin’s pulse kicked, though she told herself it was from exertion.

Dain didn’t look her way again.

But she still felt it. That glance.

Quinn tilted her head. “Okay,” she said slowly, “was that a look?”

Aelin blinked. “What?”

“From Dain,” Quinn clarified. “You were looking at him. He looked at you. Something passed between you, and it wasn’t just air.”

Aelin unscrewed her canteen with steady fingers, took a long drink, then handed it over without meeting Quinn’s gaze.

Quinn accepted it, still eyeing her with far too much interest. “Seriously. Was that a thing?”

“It wasn’t anything,” Aelin replied coolly.

Quinn narrowed her eyes. “You two say a lot of things that mean the exact opposite.”

Aelin just rolled her shoulders, already turning back to the mat. “Are we fighting or not?”

Quinn muttered a curse under her breath but stepped forward to join her.

Still, her gaze flicked—just once—across the yard.

Dain was watching.

Not in challenge, not in judgment—but with a quiet sort of intensity that made something in her chest tighten. He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Just half a breath. One heartbeat suspended between them.

And then the spell broke.

A ripple of unease moved through the yard. The sound of sparring faltered. Movement slowed.

Because the ring stilled the moment Damian Blackthorn arrived.

He strolled into the training yard like it belonged to him—like they were all just players in a game he’d already won.

His boots scraped against the stone as he came to a lazy stop at the outer ring, arms folded, dark eyes scanning the crowd. But they landed on Aelin as if drawn there by instinct.

“Well, well,” he drawled, lips curving in a mockery of a smile. “Still breathing, I see.”

Aelin didn’t flinch. “Disappointed?”

His smile didn’t shift, but his eyes sharpened. “Not particularly. Though if you keep pulling stunts like last time…” His gaze flicked to the faint bruise along her jaw. “You won’t be for long.”

He moved closer, slow and deliberate—like a predator testing the leash—and reached out as if to brush her braid from her shoulder. “You clean up well, though. For gutter trash.”

She didn’t move. But she didn’t need to.

Because Dain was already there.

He stepped in hard, fast—between them in a blink, the motion so smooth it didn’t need a word to make its meaning clear. His voice was low, controlled. “Leave her, Blackthorn.”

Damian’s hand dropped. But he didn’t back up.

Instead, his eyes flicked between them, and something sly slid across his face. “I see. You’ve got yourself a boyfriend .”

Aelin arched a brow, but said nothing.

Dain didn’t blink. “Careful, Blackthorn—if your pride gets any more fragile, it might snap.”

The silence between them pressed in tight, charged like a storm.

Aelin stepped forward then, her tone like cold steel. “Don’t waste your time, Dain. He already knows he wouldn’t win.”

Dain didn’t move.

He stayed rooted where he was, eyes locked on Blackthorn with a stare sharp enough to cut steel. Not angry. Not reckless. Just unflinching—controlled in that precise, infuriating way that made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

Blackthorn sneered, trying to laugh it off. “Didn’t realize you’d gone soft, Aetos.”

Dain’s voice was quiet, deadly calm. “Try me.”

Blackthorn’s smile thinned, the mask slipping just enough to show the venom beneath. He turned to Aelin, eyes dragging over her like a blade. “See you at Threshing. If you survive the Gauntlet.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, shoving a cadet aside without a second glance.

Dain didn’t move for a long moment, still watching the space Blackthorn had occupied—like he wasn’t entirely sure the bastard wouldn’t double back. Only when he was certain did he turn and walk back toward the ring.

Aelin wanted to call after him, to insist she could fight her own battles—that she didn’t need anyone stepping in. But before the words formed, Dain glanced back, eyes steady and knowing. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just watched her like he’d already heard every argument she hadn’t voiced.

“I know,” he said quietly, voice low enough for only her to hear.

Then he stepped close—closer than she expected—and reached out. His fingers brushed her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was a simple thing. Gentle. But there was nothing simple about the way it made her freeze.

Because Dain Aetos wasn’t a man who touched without reason.

The gesture wasn't about comfort—it was a quiet stake in the ground, a silent claim that said he’d seen what Blackthorn had done, that he hadn’t missed the possessive hand that tried brushing her braid. And he hadn't liked it.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.

He didn’t linger. Just turned without another word and walked back toward the ring, his posture still rigid, as if daring anyone else to try the same.

Aelin stood there a beat longer, the ghost of his touch still on her skin. She didn’t know what unsettled her more—his calm, deliberate defense, or how deeply he’d understood without her saying a thing.

She exhaled once through her nose and forced her attention to shift.

She watched across the yard, the final sparring ring crackled with tension. Xaden Riorson and Garrick Tavis stood face-to-face, blades drawn.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They moved like shadows—fast, brutal, in perfect sync and perfect contrast. Garrick favored speed and rhythm, always one step ahead. But Xaden fought with cold precision, his strikes methodical and devastating.

Imogen watched from the sidelines with rapt attention. She didn’t blink. Aelin didn’t think she could’ve, either.

The match ended in a draw. Neither looked pleased. They shook hands anyway.

Emetterio stepped into the center of the yard just as the squad began to gather.

“No more challenges,” he announced, voice carrying. “Gauntlet practice starts next week. You’ll be training in full gear every morning three times a week. Hope you’ve enjoyed the bruises—next week, they get serious.”

Groans rippled through the squad. Aelin just nodded.

She waited until the yard began to empty, cadets filing out in pairs or small groups, still buzzing from the day’s challenges and bruises. Imogen had a fresh cut on her cheek and a gleam of pride in her eyes as she recounted her match to Quinn, who was limping only slightly as she grinned through her busted lip.

“Next time,” Quinn said, nudging Aelin with her elbow, “you’re going down.”

Aelin smirked. “You’ll have to land a hit first.”

Imogen rolled her eyes but smiled, brushing a strand of damp hair off her face. “You two are insufferable.”

It was easy, for a moment, to stand there like any other cadet. Laughing. Joking. Almost forgetting the weight she carried.

Almost.

Because from the corner of her eye, she saw Xaden Riorson.

He hadn’t said a word since his match with Garrick—hadn’t so much as glanced her way—but he lingered at the edge of the ring, speaking quietly to his second, his body angled just enough to shield whatever words passed between them.

And then, like smoke slipping through cracks, he was moving. Not toward the barracks like the others. But south—toward the keep.

Aelin’s spine straightened.

“I should get cleaned up,” she said quickly, already stepping back.

Quinn gave her a skeptical look. “You hate the infirmary.”

“Didn’t say I was going there.”

Imogen arched a brow. “Then where—”

“I’ll see you both later.”

She didn’t wait for their replies.

Aelin peeled off from the group, slipping into the thinning crowd of cadets heading back to their quarters. But she didn’t follow them. Her steps veered right, silent and sure, keeping just enough distance between her and the figure ahead.

Xaden Riorson never looked back.

The shadows near the southern wall swallowed him whole—but Aelin moved like she belonged to them. Silent as smoke, light as breath.

Because secrets had a way of drawing her in.

And Xaden Riorson was full of them.

By the time Aelin reached the dining hall, most of Second Squad had already claimed a spot at their usual table near the back wall. Trays of lukewarm food and chipped cups cluttered the surface, voices overlapping in lazy conversation after a long day in the ring.

She scanned the bench.

Only one seat left.

Right next to Dain.

Aelin’s eyes narrowed slightly, just as Quinn looked up and flashed a far-too-innocent smile. Imogen, across from her, didn't even bother to look ashamed. If anything, she was trying very hard not to look like she was holding in laughter.

Subtle. Real subtle.

Aelin sat without a word, setting her tray down beside Dain’s. He glanced her way, equally unreadable, but shifted just enough to give her a bit more room.

How thoughtful.

“Well,” Quinn said, practically bouncing. “Where’d you run off to after practice?”

Aelin took a bite of her bread. “Nowhere.”

Quinn leaned over her tray. “You always ‘go nowhere’ when you’ve got that look in your eye.”

Jessa smirked, boots kicked up on the bench. “The kind of look that says you had... business.”

Eris made a noise low in his throat. “Ah. Business. ”

Aelin didn’t flinch. “Your imaginations are more interesting than the truth.”

“Which is?” Cianna asked, chin propped in her hand.

“Still none of your business.”

That earned a few laughs, but Quinn grinned slyly. “So, definitely someone’s business, then.”

Eris let out a whistle. “Didn’t take you for the type, Sardothien.”

“I’m not,” Aelin said smoothly. “But if I were, I’d have better taste than any of you could guess.”

That drew a few oohs from around the table—Quinn practically choking on her drink—as the implications settled in.

Dain didn’t say anything.

But Aelin felt him stiffen beside her. His shoulders locked, jaw tight. His cup sat untouched in his hand, knuckles white around it.

Then—wordless—he stood.

Didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t excuse himself. Just turned and walked off, the bench scraping slightly as he moved.

A small silence fell. Not awkward. Not entirely. But pointed .

“Didn’t realize it was such a sensitive topic,” Eris murmured, not quite under his breath, eyes following Dain’s retreating form.

Aelin didn’t rise to the bait. Just reached for her water and took a long, deliberate sip.

“Do you always have that effect on men, or is it just the brooding ones?” Jessa asked, stretching her legs beneath the table.

“I wasn’t aware I had any effect at all,” Aelin said mildly, not bothering to look up.

Imogen snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

“She’s not,” Quinn said, shaking her head, still slightly red from her near-choking. “She’s just naturally aggravating.”

“Thank you,” Aelin said sweetly.

“Anytime.”

Varek, who had been silently watching all of this unfold with amused eyes, leaned forward. “So are we just going to pretend Dain didn’t look like he was about to start a fistfight with someone for mentioning your ‘mysterious business’?”

Aelin stabbed a piece of roasted root with her fork. “Yes. We are.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Eris grinned. “Gods, this squad is fun.” 

The conversation moved on quickly enough—thanks to Alric’s dramatic retelling of his spar with Dain earlier (“He almost broke my wrist, and he didn’t even blink”), which spiraled into Cianna arguing that technically she was undefeated.

“You’ve only had two matches,” Jessa pointed out.

“Two wins,” Cianna shot back with a grin.

“Let’s hope that luck holds,” Varek muttered, his voice low and serious. “Because the Gauntlet won’t care.”

That sobered them.

Imogen leaned forward, fingers laced around her cup. “They say it’s the deadliest part of first year.”

“It is,” Eris confirmed. “More cadets die during the Gauntlet than the Parapet.”

“Seriously?” Quinn asked, eyes wide.

Eris nodded. “Parapet weeds out the ones too weak or afraid to commit. But the Gauntlet? It kills the ones who think strength alone is enough.”

Aelin stayed quiet, gaze flicking over her squad. Cianna's cocky smile had faded. Even Jessa seemed restless. 

“I heard one squad lost eleven their year,” Alric said, voice hushed. “Twelve went in. One came out.”

“Gods,” Quinn breathed.

By the time they finished dinner and made their way across the grounds toward the barracks, the sun had dipped low behind the mountains, staining the sky with gold and violet. Most of the squad had splintered off by then, laughter trailing behind them as they vanished down the paths.

Aelin walked a little slower, dragging out the moment before sleep claimed the day.

That was when she saw them.

Dain stood near the edge of the path, his back to the wall of the mess hall, his face angled down—toward Aura Beinhaven. Her hand rested lightly on his bicep, her golden braid catching the last light of the evening. Whatever she was saying made him smile—tight-lipped, polite, but a smile nonetheless.

Aelin kept walking. Didn't flinch. She just stared straight ahead.

Didn’t pause—until she did.

Just a heartbeat. Just long enough to turn her head slightly. To glance back over her shoulder, as if her body betrayed her before her pride could stop it.

Dain was already looking at her.

Aura Beinhaven was still speaking, her hand still resting on his arm, but Dain’s eyes weren’t on the golden-haired beauty in front of him.

They were on Aelin.

It was only a second. A flash of a moment between them, raw and sharp and aching.

His expression didn’t shift. Not visibly. But something in the set of his jaw, the storm behind his eyes—it struck low, deep. Like he was just as angry. Just as lost.

Like he hated that she’d seen him with someone else.

Like he hated that it was Beinhaven and not her.

Aelin didn’t let herself linger. She turned away, made herself walk, one step and then another. As if it hadn’t gutted her to see Aura so close, to hear her laugh and watch Dain pretend—pretend that it didn’t mean anything.

Because it did. Of course it did.

And Aelin hated herself for caring. For wondering if he smiled at Aura like he used to smile at her. For comparing herself to someone with brighter eyes and a cleaner past. For clinging to a boy who had let her go a long time ago.

The barracks door slammed behind her with a little too much force.

Aelin didn’t even care.

She tossed her coat over the hook by the door, kicked off her boots, and made for her bed like she meant to kill it. Not a single word. Not a glance at the others.

Quinn blinked up from where she was sitting cross-legged on her bunk, polishing the edge of her blade. Imogen looked up from brushing her still-damp hair, her brows lifting in perfect unison with Quinn’s.

“Okay,” Quinn said slowly, “what the hell happened?”

“Nothing,” Aelin bit out, yanking her blanket up just a little too hard.

“Oh, absolutely nothing,” Imogen drawled. “That’s why you walked in here like the building insulted your bloodline.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you could set someone on fire with your mind,” Quinn offered, squinting. “Wait. Did someone try to flirt with you again? Or did someone flirt with someone else —”

“I said I’m fine.”

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “...Was it Beinhaven?”

That was enough for Aelin to go very still. Too still.

Quinn’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gods. It was her.” She leapt off the bed. “Okay, start from the top. Was she talking to Dain? Touching his arm?”

“Ugh,” Imogen groaned. “She always does that thing where she tilts her head and giggles like she’s twelve.”

Aelin didn’t respond. Just sat there, jaw clenched, staring very hard at the floor.

Imogen’s voice gentled. “Celaena… did Dain say anything?”

Aelin gave a small, bitter huff. “No. He didn’t have to.”

Quinn and Imogen exchanged a glance. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air: And that’s what hurt the most, isn’t it?

“So what—you’re just gonna pretend it doesn’t bother you?” Quinn asked, sitting beside her.

“It doesn’t,” Aelin said, too fast. “He can flirt with whoever he wants.”

Imogen raised a brow. “Oh, flirt , huh? So we’re calling it that now?”

“I don’t care,” Aelin snapped.

“You do ,” Quinn said softly. “And that’s okay.”

Silence settled again. Thick and heavy and real.

“I don’t have a right to be angry,” Aelin finally murmured. “We’re not… anything. Not anymore. We never were, really.”

Quinn sat bolt upright. “ Wait a godsdamned second. ”

Imogen blinked. “ What? ”

Aelin froze. Too late.

Quinn let out a slow, victorious exhale and pointed at Imogen. “I knew it. You owe me thirty marks. ”

Imogen groaned and flopped back on her bed. “ No. ”

“You bet on me?” Aelin’s voice pitched up, somewhere between horrified and offended. “You were making wagers about—about me and Dain?”

Quinn grinned like a wolf. “Technically it was about whether there had ever been something between you two. I said yes. Imogen said no. I win.”

Aelin sat up straight, scandalized. “That is— that is an invasion of my privacy! ”

“You just confirmed it,” Imogen muttered, rubbing her face. “Damn it. I really thought I had that one.”

Aelin looked between the two of them, mouth half open. “You two are insufferable. ”

Quinn just flopped back on her bed with a smug sigh. “We’re observant. And now we have context. ”

Aelin groaned and pulled the blanket over her face. “I hate both of you.”

Imogen chuckled. “You’ll get over it.”

From beneath the blanket, Aelin muttered, “Boys are the worst.”

“Seconded,” Imogen said, deadpan.

“Thirded,” Quinn added.

That earned a faint laugh from Aelin—small, reluctant, but real.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp or awkward this time. It was soft. Companionable. The kind that said they didn’t need to push her, not tonight.

And maybe tomorrow, she’d say more.

But for now… this was enough.

Chapter Text

The kitchens always smelled like heat and regret.

Four days had passed since Aelin had seen Dain with Aura Beinhaven—and not a word had passed between them since. Not a glance, not even an accidental brush of shoulders in the halls of Basgiath. She might as well have been invisible. And gods, it was easier that way. Easier to pretend there was nothing to lose when he walked past her like she was just another cadet with blood on her boots and calluses on her hands.

Except he wasn’t just another cadet, and pretending it didn’t hurt was starting to wear thin.

Aelin scrubbed a charred pan with more force than necessary, elbow-deep in scalding water that turned her fingers raw. The morning clatter echoed off the stone walls—knives hitting cutting boards, someone shouting about broken yolks, Quinn muttering curses as she dropped a tray of mugs.

Dawn hadn’t yet broken, but the kitchen was alive with sour tempers and steel tension, every cadet on breakfast duty moving in tight, irritated rhythm. They were hungry, tired, and too many days into training for smiles.

“How are you this cheerful?” Aelin muttered, casting a sideways glance at Imogen, who was humming—actually humming—as she flipped oatcakes.

Imogen shrugged without looking up. “Because no one's tried to kill us. Yet.”

“Give it time,” Quinn called from across the prep table, where she was violently tearing apart a sack of bread rolls.

Aelin didn’t reply. Her mind had barely left the memory of Aura’s hand curling over Dain’s bicep, the way he’d leaned slightly toward her. And now, just to top it off, Beinhaven herself stood at the sink beside Aelin, drying spoons with maddening calm, her gold hair pulled into a sleek braid.

The gods had a cruel sense of humor.

Dain was here too, of course—stationed across the room with a knife and a cutting board, slicing fruit with cold, precise efficiency. He hadn’t looked at her once.

Fine. She hadn’t looked either. Not really.

Imogen was mid-way through sliding a stack of oatcakes onto a tray when Aura’s voice sliced through the din, low and unmistakably sharp.

“I’m not surprised your little friend group ends up always on breakfast duty. That’s what happens when you keep company with marked ones.”

The words weren’t meant for Aelin, not directly. But her hands stilled on the pan. So did Quinn’s. Imogen didn’t even turn around, just let the spatula rest on the stove.

Aelin set the pan aside slowly, water dripping off her forearms. “What did you just say?”

Aura smiled faintly, not even bothering to glance at her. “I said it’s no surprise you lot get stuck with the worst shifts. You choose the company you keep.”

Imogen moved—not fast, not threateningly, just enough to turn and lean a hip against the counter, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t realize you had time to worry about us, Beinhaven. I thought you were too busy sucking up to the commandant.”

Aura’s eyes narrowed, just a flicker. “I worry when our quadrant’s reputation is dragged through the mud by the children of the rebellion. You don’t belong here, and we all know it.”

The room went silent. Even the slicing of fruit stopped.

Aelin’s body reacted before her mind caught up—she stepped forward, hands curling into fists, the flare of something wild and furious lighting beneath her ribs.

“You want to repeat that?” she said softly, dangerously.

Aura finally looked at her then, smug and poised. “Did I stutter?”

Aelin didn’t remember deciding to move, only that her feet were already carrying her forward, chest rising and falling with restrained fury. Aura straightened, lips parting in challenge, and it was about to snap—about to be blood and fists and broken trays—

“Enough.”

Dain’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. He crossed the space in three long strides and stepped between them, hand up.

“Codex Article Three,” he said tightly, eyes on Aelin but voice pitched to carry. “It is unlawful for a rider to cause another harm while in a quadrant formation or in the supervisory presence of a superior-ranking cadet, as it will diminish the efficacy of the wing.”

Aura crossed her arms but didn’t move back. “I wasn’t the one about to throw a punch.”

Dain didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her.

Aelin didn’t answer. Not right away.

Instead, she glanced around—and that’s when she noticed.

The second- and third-years had begun filtering into the mess hall for breakfast, most of them casting idle, disinterested glances toward the first-year commotion. But not all.

From one far corner of the room, leaning against a stone pillar with his arms folded and that unreadable expression on his face, Xaden Riorson watched.

His gaze wasn’t curious or casual. It was sharp. Measuring.

And locked on her.

Aelin straightened, jaw tightening just enough to keep her face neutral. Then she looked back at Aura, her voice calm and ice-edged.

“I wasn’t about to throw a punch,” she said. “I was deciding if you were worth the effort.”

Dain’s gaze stayed on Aelin, as if daring her to challenge the law.

Eventually, she stepped back. “I know the rules.”

Dain’s jaw tightened, and then he turned without another word, returning to his station like the interruption had never happened.

Aura brushed past her a moment later with a muttered, “Touchy.”

Aelin turned, slow and deliberate, eyes like chipped ice.

But before she could fully pivot, Imogen was there, a firm hand on her arm, grounding her with just enough pressure to hold her back.

“Don’t waste your time,” Imogen said coolly, loud enough for Aura to hear. “You’ll kill her soon enough.”

Aura didn’t look back, but her spine stiffened.

Aelin exhaled hard through her nose, the rage still simmering in her bones. Imogen didn’t let go until her breathing had steadied.

Silently, Aelin returned to the sink, lifted the next pan, and began to scrub.

This time, she didn’t feel the heat of the water. Only the sting of silence. Only the ache that still hadn’t left her chest.

The mess hall was loud. Too loud.

Aelin slid her tray onto the bench beside Imogen with a clatter that made more than one cadet look over. She didn’t care. Her jaw ached from how hard she was clenching it, and she stabbed her fork into a slice of dry sausage.

“Don’t say it,” she warned without looking up.

Imogen blinked. “Say what?”

Quinn, already halfway through her porridge across the table, arched a brow. “That you were about two seconds from punching Aura Beinhaven’s perfect little face into the countertop?”

Aelin gave her a sharp smile. “If she wants to open her mouth about the company I keep, she’d better be ready for the consequences.”

“Okay, what the hell happened in the kitchens?”

Cianna dropped her tray onto the table, nearly sloshing tea onto her lap as she squeezed into the bench beside Eris. Alric and Varek followed close behind, settling in with matching expressions of curiosity and wariness.

“You all came in like someone’d set fire to your spines,” Varek added, eyeing the trio across from him. “Quinn looked like she was ready to knife someone with her spoon.”

Quinn didn’t even pretend to deny it. “Would’ve, too. If there hadn’t been so many damn witnesses.”

“Don’t look at me,” Imogen said calmly, reaching for her cup of tea like nothing had happened. “I flipped oatcakes and minded my business.”

“You also got verbally disemboweled by Beinhaven and didn’t blink,” Quinn snapped.

Imogen’s shrug was slow and loose. “I’ve heard worse.”

“She called the marked ones ‘a sorry collection of misfits and second-chancers,’” Quinn said flatly. “Said she was surprised the Rider’s Quadrant had sunk low enough to let ‘that kind’ in.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Eris’ head snapped up from his eggs. “She said what?”

“And she had the nerve to say it right in front of Imogen,” Quinn added.

Alric let out a low whistle. “Oh gods.”

“I didn’t hit her,” Aelin said, her voice even and icy. “Yet.”

“You nearly did,” Imogen said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “And she nearly earned it.”

“Dain had to step in,” Quinn said. “Quoted the damn Codex to stop it before it turned bloody.”

Varek blinked. “ Codex ?”

Cianna looked confused. “Like...Article Three?”

“The very one,” Imogen said, sipping her tea. “No harming another rider while in formation or in presence of a higher-ranking cadet, as it ‘diminishes the efficacy of the wing.’”

Aelin clenched her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Next time, I’ll make sure we’re alone.”

“She keeps flapping her mouth like that and she’s going to find herself very alone,” Quinn muttered.

“She thinks she’s better than the rest of us?” Eris asked, brows rising.

“She thinks she was born better,” Imogen said softly. “That’s the problem.”

“She looked at Imogen like she was something she stepped in,” Quinn said, still angry. “Like the rest of us should be ashamed for even talking to her.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Aelin said, finally lifting her head. Her voice was quiet, but laced with enough steel to shut up half the table. “I’m proud to sit with her. To train with her. I trust her to watch my back when the real killing starts. Can’t say the same about some brat with nothing but air behind her eyes.”

Cianna gave a low, approving nod. “Same.”

Varek’s eyes narrowed. “If she tries that shit again, say the word.”

“You’ll know when it’s time,” Aelin said coolly. “Because I won’t stop.”

Jessa, who had been quietly picking at her food, finally spoke. “We’re going to need each other out there. If she can’t see that, she won’t last long.”

The sun hadn’t yet burned the mist off the cliffside when her squad was called to formation at the base of the Gauntlet.

Aelin stood shoulder to shoulder with her squadmates, jaw tight, arms locked behind her back. The wind swept in from the gorge below—cool, sharp, laced with the scent of stone, steel, and fear.

Aura Beinhaven’s voice still echoed in her skull.

She hadn’t looked at Dain since he’d stepped in. Hadn’t acknowledged the sudden chill that followed him to the table, or the way he’d sat like a ghost among them. But her muscles were still coiled from that moment—from the sharp words she’d snapped, and the silence that had followed. 

She didn’t regret it. Not for a heartbeat.

The Gauntlet loomed above them, carved into the cliffside like some ancient, merciless god had taken a chisel to the mountain. Five ascents. Five chances to break your bones, your spirit, or both.

Aelin didn’t look away. She didn’t blink. If the cliff wanted to kill her, it could damn well try.

Emetterio stepped in front of the cadets, his usual calm in place, dark eyes sweeping over them like he already knew who would fall and who wouldn’t.

“Listen up,” he said, voice flat and even. “This isn’t the Presentation Day run. Today’s a diagnostic. We want to see what you can do—and more importantly, how fast you break. If you can’t make an ascent, climb down. Use the ropes. That’s what they’re there for.”

A ripple of unease passed down the line.

“Three rounds,” he went on. “You don’t have to finish them all. Just finish what you can. If you fall, grab the ropes. If you freeze, climb down. We’ll be watching. Closely.”

“I still don’t see how this prepares us for riding dragons,” Eris muttered under his breath. “Unless someone’s planning to strap one to a mountain and make us climb it.”

“It’s about control. Strength. Endurance,” Imogen said.

“It’s about seeing how far your body can go before it quits,” Varek added grimly, eyeing the cliff like it had insulted his mother. “Sounds fun.”

“Define fun,” Quinn shot back, eyes still fixed on the spinning log of the first ascent.

“Anything where my bones stay intact,” said Eris.

Cianna snorted. “Then why are you here?”

“I was promised dragons,” he said. “Didn’t realize cliffs would try to yeet me into Malek's doorstep first.”

Jessa gave a soft laugh—nervous, but real. “If I fall, just tell people I died doing something badass.”

Even Dain let out a faint exhale. Not quite a laugh. But close.

Aelin glanced sideways—just for a heartbeat.

He stood slightly behind the others, arms folded, lips pressed tight. His shoulders were drawn high, too tense. She knew that stance. He wasn’t breathing right.

Dain was nervous.

Not scared. Worried.

She wondered if it was the Gauntlet that had him coiled tight—or something else entirely.

“No risks,” Professor Emetterio said flatly. “No stunts. No excuses.”

Quinn raised a hand. “No dignity either?”

Emetterio smiled faintly. “You’ll lose that around the third ascent.”

“Too late,” Eris muttered. “Mine got tossed over the Parapet.”

Emetterio gestured behind him, toward the looming cliff.

“Spinning log. Then granite pillars. Then the wheel. If you’re smart, you’ll fall early and get it over with. If you’re not—well, hope Nolon can still put you back together.”

Someone gagged near the back.

“Don’t hesitate,” Emetterio said. “Don’t freeze. Don’t die.”

“Very inspirational,” Imogen muttered.

“Put it on a banner,” Eris added.

Emetterio didn’t react. He just stepped aside and barked, “Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing. You’re up.”

“First ascent looks like a bitch,” Imogen said. “After that? It’s all spite.”

“I run on spite,” Aelin replied.

Jessa, pale and quiet, gave a tiny nod. “I just don’t want to be first.”

“You’re not,” Imogen said, rolling her shoulders. “I am.”

Of course she was.

Imogen stepped forward at Emetterio’s nod. She didn’t hesitate. She sprinted straight at the spinning log and leapt, landing with the sure-footed grace of someone who’d done it before. Her arms windmilled once, but she caught herself. She jumped to the first granite pillar and didn’t look back.

Someone exhaled hard.

“Show-off,” Quinn muttered, mostly fond.

Cianna followed. Then Varek. Eris. Jessa. Quinn.

When Emetterio nodded in her direction, Aelin stepped forward before her body could think better of it.

But just as she reached the edge, a low voice murmured behind her—quiet, meant only for her.

“Don’t die on me, Princess.”

She froze. Just for a second. Her breath caught hard in her throat.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t let herself look back.

Because she didn’t know if she wanted to scream, cry, or whirl around and shove Dain off the cliff.

But there was no time to choose.

She ran before her body could think better of it, rage and confusion sparking like live wires beneath her skin.

The log turned.

Her boots struck spinning wood. She slipped—adjusted—dropped low and launched herself to the first pillar. Stone scraped her palms. She jumped. Again. Again. Her body moved without thought, muscle memory guiding her like it had on those long, wild runs through Calldyr City with Cam at her side—racing across the palace rooftops with nothing but laughter and recklessness beneath them.

The wheel loomed—rotating, slow and cruel.

She waited.

Then dove through.

Second ascent: the hanging balls. The first struck her like a punch. Her grip nearly failed. Her ribs screamed. She caught the next one, and the next, until she dragged herself onto the gravel path, panting, arms trembling.

Third ascent: the metal rods.

Hand over hand, she swung, feet touching down on iron pillars that shook like saplings in the wind. She dropped low, knees bent, hands skimming for balance.

Then she leapt.

Fourth ascent.

Opposing logs. Fast, slick, merciless.

Aelin hesitated—just half a heartbeat. It was enough to make her stumble.

She ran.

One log. Two. Three.

She slipped on the fourth, barely catching the edge before hauling herself into the chimney. Her arms were shaking. Blood ran freely down one forearm from the earlier collision.

But she gritted her teeth. X’d her limbs across the narrow shaft. Climbed.

Fifth ascent.

The ramp curved upward like a sneer, nearly vertical at the end.

She ran.

Clawed. Reached.

Slipped.

Her fingers missed the ledge by inches.

She fell back—

—and caught the rope.

But she didn’t fall.

By the time Aelin reached the bottom—panting, bloodied, scraped raw—Dain was already nearing the top of the ramp.

She dropped to her knees, chest heaving. Sweat stung her eyes. Her arms trembled so badly she could barely keep herself upright.

She watched Dain surged up the ramp with grim determination. His form wasn’t clean but it worked. His footing slipped once near the top, boots scrambling over the smooth stone as he caught himself with a grunt and kept going. But he didn’t fall. Didn’t need the ropes. Just pure, stubborn will.

He made it over the lip with a hiss of breath, not quite a stumble, but close. 

By the time he came down his hair was damp, his knuckles scraped. A tear along his sleeve bled freely.

And then—his eyes found her.

He didn’t speak. Just looked.

Scanned her body, top to bottom, as if checking for broken bones. His gaze lingered on the blood on her arm, the bruise blooming along her jaw, the tremor in her shoulders she couldn’t quite hide.

Still, he said nothing.

Neither did she.

“Two more rounds,” Emetterio barked from below, his voice slicing through the tension like a knife. “Make them count.”

The second round hit harder. Aelin had to use the rope again to haul herself down the ramp, her limbs already trembling, her scraped palms slick with sweat and blood.

The third went slower. Cadets used the ropes more often, bodies flagging. Aelin clung to one just to lower herself down from the metal balls—her balance shot, her breath hitching in ragged gasps.

Only three cadets remained for the final round: Dain, Imogen, and—somehow—Jessa. Quinn cursed softly beside Aelin. Varek limped a few steps behind them, face pale and drawn, one hand clutching his side.

“Why is she still going?” Quinn murmured, not really expecting an answer.

Aelin didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on Dain as he stepped onto the spinning logs.

He moved slower this time—more careful, his balance precise but fatigued. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his movements had lost their earlier sharpness. He was hurting. But he kept going.

So did Imogen. She was already at the giant chimney, her climb smooth despite the bruises darkening her jaw and shoulder.

But Jessa—Jessa was still at the bottom of the rotating logs, panting, bloodied, fingers shaking as she reached for the first log.

Aelin looked away from her. She couldn't watch. She couldn't bear it.

So she watched Dain instead.

He was almost at the ramp. His foot slipped once—her heart lunged into her throat—but he recovered quickly, climbing, climbing—

Then the scream split the air.

High and sharp. Then abruptly cut off.

Aelin’s head snapped around—too late.

Jessa’s body slammed into the third log with a sickening thud. She bounced once. Her spine bent wrong. There was a sound—a crack—that made Quinn gag beside her.

And then Jessa was gone. Swallowed by the spinning logs.

Aelin couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The world narrowed to that sound. That scream. That crack.

Someone shouted for a mender. Someone else vomited into the bushes.

But Aelin just stood there, frozen.

She hadn’t even seen it happen. She hadn’t seen Jessa fall.

Because she’d been watching Dain.

The realization twisted something deep in her gut.

She hadn’t thought it would happen. Not really. She’d known the Gauntlet was deadly, but now—now it had a name. A face. A laugh she’d heard that very morning.

It took three cadets and an instructor to retrieve the body.

Training ended immediately.

And just like that, the Gauntlet claimed one person from their squad. A friend.

One round. One misstep.

Jessa was gone.

No one spoke as they filed back to the barracks, blood and dust trailing behind them like smoke.

Not even Aelin. Especially not Aelin.

Because she could still hear Jessa’s laugh from that morning.

The morning air was colder than usual.

Aelin stood at formation with the rest of the quadrant, the courtyard packed shoulder to shoulder with cadets. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a pale gold wash over the training grounds. But nothing about the light felt warm.

She barely remembered the walk from the barracks. Barely remembered dressing. Her limbs moved on instinct now, as if her body had given up waiting for her mind to catch up.

Captain Fitzgibbons stepped onto the stone dais, his uniform crisp, his face unreadable as ever. The hum of whispered conversation evaporated instantly.

His voice rang out, even and merciless.

“Ferran Tolsen.”

Aelin stared at a crack in the stone beneath her boots.

“Garric Vell.”

She thought of Jessa’s laugh that morning—bright, reckless, loud enough to echo off the walls.

“Brenn Elane.”

Thought of the scream. The sound of bone hitting wood.

“Jessa Lorne.”

Her chest tightened.

“We commend their souls to Malek,” Captain Fitzgibbons said.

The silence that followed felt louder than the words. Aelin didn’t look at anyone. Couldn’t. Not when her throat was too tight to breathe.

Jessa’s name still hung in the air, echoing somewhere deep inside her.

Who would be next?

Imogen? Varek? Quinn?

Dain?

Aelin’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

They dismissed formation moments later, the quadrant turning as one to begin another day.

Aelin walked in silence, her body moving forward.

But part of her—some small, hollow part—stayed behind.

Still listening.

Still hearing that final scream.

Still hearing Jessa’s name.

Chapter Text

“Anyone want to place bets on who eats it first today?” Eris’s voice cut through the chilled morning air as the squad gathered at the base of the cliff. He sprawled on a boulder like a lounging cat, arms crossed behind his head, boots muddy and scuffed. “I’m putting a silver on Alric. Those logs don’t love him.”

Alric shot him a rude gesture while checking the bindings on his boots. “Bold, coming from someone who almost lost a tooth two days ago.”

“Flirted with death, and she flirted back,” Eris grinned, then flashed a look at Aelin. “What about you, Celaena? Feeling lucky today?”

Aelin adjusted her gloves, the cool air biting through her uniform as they hiked up the cliff path to the Gauntlet. The sky above was overcast, the chill of autumn sharp and unforgiving.

“Luck’s for people who need it,” she replied.

“Mm, so still not making it past the ramp, then?” Quinn chimed in, biting into a dried apple slice. She nudged Imogen, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Tell her what you said yesterday.”

Imogen leaned forward, playing it up. “I said—if she doesn’t clear that ramp today, I’m starting to call her Miss Almost.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “Creative. Remind me to shove both of you into the trench tomorrow.”

“Promises, promises,” Imogen said with a smirk. “But really—you’ve got this. Ramp’s just a slope with an attitude problem.”

“More like a vertical insult,” Cianna muttered as she tied her braid. “I haven’t cleared it either.”

“That makes both of you the last ones stuck,” Quinn raised her brows. “Better hurry before Varek beats you, and that man’s got a leg like soggy bread.”

“Hey!” Varek called from the back, half-smiling as he stretched his knee. “I’m right here.”

“I’m just saying,” Quinn said sweetly, “you fall with a certain—elegance.”

Eris gasped. “Was that a compliment?”

Aelin wasn’t smiling. The banter, the teasing, the light-hearted insults—they couldn’t touch the gnawing knot in her chest.

Jessa’s laugh still echoed in her mind, followed by the grim memory of her fall. The twisted body, the awful sound of bones on timber. Every time Aelin looked at the Gauntlet, it wasn’t just obstacles she saw—it was what it could take.

But not today. Not her.

“Celaena.” Dain’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She stiffened but didn’t turn around.

“I’m going to try the pillar jump again,” he said, stepping close. “Watch how I hit the ramp.”

She glanced at him, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve watched you all week.”

“And ignored everything I’ve said,” he replied, dryly.

His expression was serious—so serious that for a moment, Aelin was back in the barracks, a few nights ago, seeing Aura too close to Dain, all sweetness and laughter, her hand brushing his chest like it was something she owned. Aelin had seen the way Dain had smiled back—hesitant but not unwilling.

And then later that night, Dain had come looking for Aelin, offering advice on how to conserve energy, how to time the ramp. She hadn’t let him finish a sentence. Not when the knot in her stomach was so tight.

She shook off the memory, crossed her arms and said, “Let me guess—you’re going to say it’s all about foot placement and momentum.”

“And core strength,” he added, unfazed. “You hesitate on the incline. You lose all your power right at the pivot.”

She rolled her eyes. “Groundbreaking.”

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, walking off without another word.

“Spicy,” Quinn whispered. “I like it.”

“Why is he always so grim?” Imogen asked.

“Because he’s Dain,” Aelin muttered. “He doesn’t do banter. He does the Codex.”

“Maybe you should kiss him,” Eris offered seriously. “Just to loosen him up. For morale.”

Aelin’s face went red, her voice low. “I will kill you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Imogen said cheerfully, slapping her on the back.

The first cadets were called up, their names echoing over the cliff. One by one, the squad moved into focus, their joking replaced by ritual. The Gauntlet didn’t forgive distractions.

Varek was first. His limp eased slightly, though the strain still showed. The spinning logs nearly had him, his timing off by a hair. But somehow, he regained his footing, wobbled his way through, and dragged himself up the ramp, the final hurdle, panting with the effort.

“Sleep for a week after that,” Quinn muttered under her breath.

Eris followed, his usual swagger intact. The spinning logs barely phased him. He moved through the pillars as if they were stepping stones, the metal wheel was a fun challenge, and when he reached the hanging chains, he swung across with ease, landing on the platform with a flourish.

“He’s enjoying this way too much,” Imogen observed, arms crossed.

“Probably already has a fan club,” Quinn muttered.

“Please,” Aelin said. “He is probably already handing out autographs after formation.”

Alric was next, his movements precise and practiced. The Gauntlet was no match for him—he moved with the ease of someone who had studied it for years. The ramp? It was just another obstacle. He cleared it with minimal effort, raising his fist to Eris, who was still shouting from above.

Then came Dain.

Aelin’s breath caught before he even stepped forward. There was no hesitation in him. The spinning log? Perfect timing. The granite pillars? Two smooth strides, a vault. The metal wheel? No problem. The hanging balls? He swung through like it was second nature. The chimney? Like a stroll in the park.

And when he reached the ramp?

Aelin held her breath.

He charged upward, foot after foot, his movements smooth and decisive. He didn’t falter once. His hands found the top lip carved into the rock, his legs digging in for the final stretch. He reached the top without a second thought and turned to look back at the course, like it was nothing.

She lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on him. There was a smug gleam in his eyes, a silent assurance that he had finished—just like always. Of course he had.

“Damn,” Quinn whispered.

“He makes it look easy,” Cianna muttered, an edge of frustration in her voice.

Aelin said nothing. Her jaw tightened, her stomach twisting with something too complicated to name. She didn’t trust her voice. 

The others kept moving—Cianna took her turn and, like Aelin, fell short at the ramp, cursing all the way down. Quinn sailed through the initial log with ease, her confidence evident as she swung between the granite pillars, but the metal wheel nearly threw her off, forcing her to pause before powering through. Imogen, on the other hand, breezed through the hanging chains, her agility impressing even the veteran cadets. She hit the ramp—and cleared it with a determined grunt.

By the time it was Aelin’s turn, most of her squad had finished. Quinn and Imogen stood at the top, peering over the edge, their faces a mix of excitement and anticipation. Dain lingered just behind them, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

Aelin stepped forward, the spinning log waiting at the start. She took a steadying breath and ran.

The Gauntlet flowed beneath her like fire—smooth, quick, her body moving with practiced precision. The granite pillars scraped her knees, the metal wheel tested her balance, the hanging chains were easier than before, but the chimney was the hardest.

And then the ramp loomed before her.

The incline felt impossibly steep. Her muscles screamed for rest, her arms burning as she fought for grip against the harsh climb.

“Come on, Celaena!” Imogen called.

“Punch that ramp in the face!” Quinn shouted.

Aelin didn’t need encouragement. One more step. One more lunge.

She slammed her hand down on the top ledge and heaved .

And then—she was up.

The world blurred around her as she collapsed onto solid ground, gasping for breath.

Imogen whooped, and Quinn squeezed her wrist, grinning like she’d just won a bet.

“Hell. Yes,” Imogen said. “No more Miss Almost.”

Aelin coughed a laugh. “Never say that name again.”

Quinn grinned. “I’m gonna sew it into your socks.”

Aelin shook her head grinning, ignoring them as she walked toward Dain. He was watching, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Thank you,” she said, breathless. “For the advice.”

He leaned in. Close enough that only she could hear.

“You’re welcome, Princess,” he murmured. “You would’ve managed to finish the Gauntlet a week ago if you’d just listened to me from the beginning.”

She nearly shoved him off the cliff.

Dinner that night was louder than usual.

Second Squad crowded around their table in the dining hall, voices overlapping, laughter echoing louder than the clatter of plates. Whatever half-stew had been dumped into their bowls didn’t matter—Imogen had stolen a hunk of cheese from the kitchen, Eris had bartered for real bread, and Alric had somehow convinced a grumpy third-year to part with a sliver of smoked meat.

It was a feast by Basgiath standards.

Cianna sat slumped between Quinn and Eris, stabbing her bread like it had offended her.

“You know,” Quinn said brightly, nudging Cianna with an elbow, “if you ever want tips on defying gravity, I offer private lessons. First session's free, second session costs your soul.”

Cianna gave her a look that could’ve melted stone. “The ramp is a joke. Whoever designed it should be set on fire.”

“I second that,” Aelin said dryly. “But you were solid on the rest. You’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Not if my knees explode first,” Cianna muttered.

“Nope,” Imogen said, tossing her bread crust aside like a gauntlet of her own. “You're not going in cold. Crash course starts now.”

Cianna blinked. “Now? We’re literally eating.”

“Exactly. Which means we’re fueled, we’re fed, and we’re sitting down—which is the perfect time to talk strategy.” Imogen leaned forward, clearing a space in front of her bowl like it was a war map. “You’re using too much leg and not enough upper momentum. You’ve got the power, but you’re wasting it on the second step. It’s all about the first launch .”

“She says, like it’s easy,” Cianna muttered, but her eyes didn’t leave Imogen’s hands as she mimed the movement.

“Picture it like a spring,” Imogen continued, using two forks and a napkin to demonstrate the incline. “You don’t need to make it look pretty. You need to commit. No second-guessing.”

“You’ve seen her face,” Eris chimed in, mouth full. “Second-guessing is her favorite sport.”

Cianna gave him a shove. “I hope you choke.”

“I won’t,” Eris said sweetly. “My lungs are too powerful.”

“Can we not coach her with cutlery?” Quinn asked, dodging a flung fork. “She’s already traumatized.”

“Better traumatized now than dead tomorrow,” Alric added mildly, tearing off a piece of bread and handing it to Cianna like an offering.

Cianna stared at them. At the messy table, the chaos of arms and plates and laughter. “You’re all completely insane.”

“Yet you’re still here,” Imogen said with a grin.

Cianna snorted. “Unfortunately.”

But she didn’t look away when Imogen went back to miming the ramp technique—slow, patient, over and over. She just watched, listened, and nodded once.

Aelin sat back, letting it happen. This was how Second Squad worked. Loud, ridiculous, and full of bad advice. But when it mattered—they showed up.

Aelin felt him approach before she saw him.

Dain slid onto the bench beside her, not looking her way. “You did good today.”

She tore a piece of bread and didn’t answer at first.

“I mean it,” he added.

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” she said, voice low, careful.

He gave a small sigh, then, quieter: “Still stubborn.”

She glanced at him, just once. “Still bossy.” His mouth tugged into the ghost of a smile

That stung a little more than she expected.

They sat in a stretch of silence, broken only by the clatter of plates and Quinn’s obnoxious laughter two seats down.

Then Dain said, almost gently, “You haven't called me out for calling you ‘Princess.’”

She looked at him fully now, blue eyes cool. “You haven’t called me that in ages.”

He studied her face. “Didn’t think I had the right anymore.”

She blinked, something in her throat tightening.

“Well,” she said after a moment, dry as ever, “next time, try not to use it when you’re near a cliff.”

That earned a laugh out of him—short, surprised.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She looked down at her bread, then back at him. “Why now, Dain?”

He hesitated. “Because… I missed talking to you. And I guess I hoped maybe you missed it too.”

She didn’t respond right away. But after a long moment, she murmured, “Only sometimes.”

His shoulder brushed hers again—light, fleeting. “I’ll take that.”

Then Quinn shouted something about gravity again, and Aelin turned away before Dain could see the corner of her mouth twitch upward.

Chapter Text

The dining hall felt like a battlefield.

First year cadets clustered at tables in tense silence, the usual clang of spoons and scrape of benches muted beneath the weight of what waited atop the cliffs. No one spoke of the Gauntlet. No one mentioned the spinning logs or the bone-crushing wheel or the vertical ramp that had broken necks. It hovered in the air all the same, an unspoken presence pressing down on every shoulder.

Aelin sat with her squad at the far end of the hall, her tray barely touched. Quinn picked at a biscuit with feigned interest while Eris murmured something about how they’d all look gorgeous mid-death-plunge. No one laughed. Alric offered a lopsided grin that died on his lips the second he looked toward the doors. Even Imogen, normally so steady, had gone quiet, her focus honed in on the scarred tabletop as if willing it to offer courage.

Cianna didn’t speak at all. She stared at her oatmeal like it might suddenly try to escape. Her hands were locked around her spoon, knuckles pale.

“We’re going to be fine,” Quinn said to no one in particular, too casually. “We’ve trained for this.”

“It’s not the training I’m worried about,” Eris muttered. “It’s the fall.”

Aelin kept her eyes down. The steam rising from her cup didn’t mask the phantom sting of the last time she’d run the Gauntlet—the ghosts of bruises and the scream of Jessa’s body hitting stone. Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t come this far to falter now.

Across the table, Dain was a portrait of calm. Silent. Focused. His hands rested flat against the table’s edge, his posture unshakable. But Aelin knew him well enough to catch the flicker in his jaw, the twitch of muscle just beneath the surface. He was worried. They all were. And none of them would say it out loud.

Because today, words wouldn’t matter.

The wind howled along the cliffs, carrying the salty bite of the sea as the cadets gathered in rank. Emetterio stood before the towering ascent of the Gauntlet, his arms crossed and face carved from stone.

“No ropes,” he barked. “No second chances. You fall, you die. You can’t finish, you don’t go to Presentation. You reach the top, your time is recorded. Squad order is final. Presentation follows immediately after.”

There was no ceremony. Just a name called. A pause. Then a cadet sprinting forward to face the course that had claimed hundreds.

Their squad watched in rigid silence as the first of their own stepped up—Alric.

He moved with quiet focus, navigating the spinning log with swift, balanced steps before vaulting from pillar to pillar. The wheel nearly threw him, but he caught the timing just enough to roll through. By the time he hauled himself up the final chimney and clawed his way onto the ramp, sweat glistened down his neck—but he made it. Not fast. Not slow. But solid.

Next was Eris. He flashed a grin at them, but his eyes were deadly serious. His speed across the chain balls was almost reckless, but he made up for it in the battering ram section, moving like he’d been born swinging from metal rods. His landing was rough at the top, a stumble more than a step, but he grinned through the blood on his lip.

Then Varek. His leg, still not fully recovered from his injury, slowed him down. Every step was a battle. But he didn't stop. Grit and sheer will dragged him over the final log and up the chimney. His time was poor. But he made it.

Quinn moved like lightning. Clean, fluid. Nearly slipped on the shaking pillars but caught herself with a guttural snarl. Her small braid streamed behind her as she flew up the ramp—and vanished over the top with a sharp whoop.

Imogen was next. Her control was precise. Each movement a studied motion of strength and grace. She didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate. A storm in motion. She cleared the final obstacle with a hard exhale and a raised fist.

Then Dain.

He moved like he was built for this course—every motion clean, balanced, efficient. His time would be strong, probably one of the best, and when he reached the top, he didn’t even look winded. But his eyes were already looking down at her.

Her name was called.

Aelin stepped forward without a word. The cliff waited.

She ran.

The spinning log met her first—a blur beneath her boots. One step. Two. Three. She leapt. Hit granite. Her body moved on instinct, momentum a song in her blood. The wheel nearly caught her, but she ducked and rolled into the opening, muscles screaming. Onward—onto the chain-suspended balls. One. Two. She swung hard, teeth gritted as she soared through the air, her hands raw from the bite of metal.

The rods came next, battering at her shoulders as she hauled herself across. She landed on the shaking iron pillars, breath coming fast, and forced her legs to stay steady.

Then the logs.

She hated these logs.

One spin. Then another. Her timing was off—she had to leap sideways, nearly slipped—but made it.

She didn’t let herself hesitate as the chimney loomed—just jumped into the narrow gap. The stone was slick with moss and sweat, and her first push upward nearly cost her. One boot slipped. She grunted and shoved hard, boots scrabbling for purchase as her shoulder slammed against the opposite wall. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare. She reset her foot. Pressed again.

Up, up.

Fingers clawed into a crack. Her other foot caught. She hopped higher. Her elbow screamed from an old bruise but she ignored it. Just one more push—

And she made it.

The ramp loomed.

Ten feet. Nearly vertical. Smooth as bone.

She didn’t stop to think. Thinking was death on the Gauntlet. She just ran.

Her boot skidded on the polished wood and her knee slammed into the surface as she lunged—hard. Her fingers clawed for the edge, caught it. For a heartbeat, she dangled—legs kicking over nothing, her shoulder burning from the strain—and then she hauled herself up with a snarl of effort.

Her stomach scraped against the ledge. Her blood smeared across the final platform as she dragged herself the rest of the way over.

And then she was up.

Chest heaving. Blood trailing down her arm. Her lungs screamed. Her muscles were shaking so violently she thought they might give out right there—but she didn’t care.

Because she’d made it.

Relief crashed over her like a wave, dragging her to her knees before she could stop it. Her vision swam with salt and sweat and adrenaline, and for a moment, all she could do was gasp, one hand pressed flat to the ground to feel something solid. Something real. The platform didn’t tilt. The air didn’t blur. She was alive.

And then she saw him.

Dain.

Standing just beyond the finish line, sunlight catching in his dark hair, his expression cracked wide open. No careful mask. No commander’s calm.

Just pride. Just… him.

She didn’t think. Her legs were moving before her mind caught up. She stumbled toward him, still shaking, blood dripping down her elbow—and threw herself into his arms.

He caught her instantly, without hesitation, folding her in like he’d been waiting to. His arms went tight around her shoulders, steady and warm and solid, and Aelin buried her face in his chest and let herself breathe. Really breathe. His scent—leather and wind and whatever balm he used on his callused hands—wrapped around her like a second skin.

“I knew you could make it a second time, Aelin,” he murmured into her hair, voice rough with something dangerously close to emotion.

Her eyes stung. 

She didn’t answer. Just tightened her grip around his waist and leaned into him, the press of his body anchoring her more than the stone beneath her boots. For a moment—just one—she let herself feel it. The way his hand slid up her back. The way his breath hitched ever so slightly when she didn’t let go.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even shift his weight. As if letting her go might undo the whole damn world.

His chin dipped to the top of her head.

“I watched the whole way,” he said quietly. “Every step. You didn’t stop.”

“I couldn’t,” she whispered, her voice frayed. “Not again.”

“I never doubted you.”

She let out a trembling laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “I did.”

He pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes. The wind tugged at the strands of her hair matted with sweat and blood, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“You never have to prove anything to me,” he said.

Her throat closed. Too full. Too raw.

So she did the only thing she could. She reached up, cupped his jaw in her scraped hand, and held his face for a heartbeat longer than she should have.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t reply. He just leaned into her palm, eyes closing as if memorizing the shape of her skin against his.

And then the final name was called.

Cianna.

They pulled apart like the sun had cracked between them.

But Dain didn’t step back.

And neither did she.

The silence from their squad was deafening as she stepped forward. Her hands shook. But she went.

She slipped on the spinning log and nearly fell—but caught herself at the last second, her entire body swaying as she clung to the edge. A moment of stillness. Then motion. Her climb was slow, uncertain. Her landings rough. But she didn’t stop.

Not once.

When she made it to the iron rods, Eris cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Let’s go, Cianna! You’ve got this!”

“Come on, C!” Quinn hollered next. “Kick that course’s ass!”

One by one, their squad shouted for her. Imogen leaned forward, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles blanched.

“She’s got it,” Aelin murmured, breathless. “She’s going to make it.”

Cianna reached the chimney, arms trembling, and looked like she might break—then she growled and climbed, slipping once but catching herself on a ledge by her fingertips.

By the time she hit the ramp, they were all screaming.

“Come on, Cianna!” Imogen cried, voice cracking.

“Almost there!” Varek called, voice hoarse.

Cianna ran.

Her first jump missed—but she didn’t fall. She scrambled again, threw her weight forward, her scream echoing across the cliffs as she lunged one last time—

Silence.

Then her small figure appeared, crawling onto the platform, sobbing with relief.

She stood.

And they erupted.

The squad whooped and cheered so loudly the instructors had to bark at them to shut it.

They didn’t.

Cianna stumbled into Imogen’s arms the second she reached them.

“Thank you,” she gasped between breaths, tears streaking her face. “For last night. That crash course saved my life.”

Imogen wrapped both arms around her and held tight. “You saved your own life, C.”

“I thought I was gonna fall like...six times,” Cianna sobbed. “I—I did it.”

“You did,” Quinn said, eyes bright. “And I swear to Malek, if anyone ever doubts you again, I’ll punch them off the cliff.”

Aelin just smiled. Her heart pounded in her chest. Not from her run—but from this. From all of them, still standing.

Her gaze drifted across her squad, to the breathless laughter and tear-streaked cheeks, to the way Quinn gripped Alric’s arm like she might never let go, to how Varek leaned heavily on Eris but still smiled like he’d just conquered the godsdamned world.

They’d made it. Every single one of them.

But not all of them.

Aelin’s breath caught, sharp and unexpected.

Jessa.

Jessa should have been here. Her spot in the line—just after Imogen—had never been filled, and yet Aelin still saw her standing there in her mind. Saw her lopsided smile, the freckle near her collarbone, the way her dark hair had never quite stayed in its braid. She could almost hear Jessa’s voice now, low and amused. “Told you you'd beat your time.”

She would’ve been proud. Gods, she would’ve cheered the loudest when Cianna pulled herself over the top, would’ve thrown her arms around her and made some smart remark about not dying before the Presentation.

Instead… there was only the wind. And the cliff. And the faint echo of what should have been.

Aelin swallowed hard, the victory in her chest turning brittle.

Jessa should have been here. She should’ve been smiling and sweaty and triumphant right alongside them. Instead, her name had been read aloud in morning formation weeks ago, committed to Malek like so many others.

Aelin's jaw tightened. Her smile didn’t falter—but it deepened into something sharper. A promise.

We’re still here.

And we won’t forget.

Presentation followed almost immediately.

No time to recover, no time to celebrate. Just a sharp bark from Emetterio to “Form ranks,” and then they were lining up again—this time on the flattened ridge overlooking the eastern cliffs, where the dragons were already waiting.

The wind hadn’t stopped. It pulled at their hair, at the thin sweat-drenched fabric clinging to their bodies, carrying the scent of blood and dust and effort out to sea. But none of them noticed it anymore.

They stood in lines, seven feet apart in accordance with survival. Dragons didn’t have to bond. Some came only to observe. Some came to judge. And some, though rare, came to burn.

There was no room for nerves now. Only stillness. Only breath.

Aelin hadn’t realized she was holding hers until the first rumble of wings rolled across the cliffs like thunder. But it wasn’t a new arrival.

The dragons had already landed—already formed in perfect rows along the ridge, like battalions of gods assembled for judgment.

And gods they were.

Some were small enough to be dwarfed by the mess hall. Others stood taller than the barracks roof even crouched on four legs, their semi-translucent wings folding tight to sides plated in glimmering, hand-sized scales. Talons curled into the scorched stone. Horns jutted from heads held unnervingly still. Their golden eyes—inhuman and unblinking—watched the cadets like flame watches dry brush.

The heat coming off them was like walking into a forge. That sulfur scent curled low in Aelin’s throat, acrid and sharp.

Each dragon was different.

A green with a clubtail sat nearest the center, its head tilted with quiet, calculating grace. A rust-orange with a scorpiontail clicked its barbed end against the stone like a metronome. Further down, a copper-scaled beast flexed shoulders thick as siege columns, its swordtail twitching restlessly. A red dragon yawned wide, the teeth within flashing like ivory pikes.

But there was only one blue dragon.

And she was enormous.

Even seated, she was half again the height of the others, with a neck like a siege tower and wings like cathedral windows stretched wide. Her morningstartail lay coiled around her massive hindquarters, the spiked end bristling like a trap waiting to spring. Her scales shimmered midnight in the sun. Not indigo. Not navy. Blue.

She did not move.

But she watched.

Aelin didn’t need to lift her gaze to feel it. That dragon was watching her.

They weren’t supposed to make eye contact. Every rule in Kaori's class was clear: Don’t stare. Don’t run. Don’t challenge. To meet a dragon’s gaze without invitation was to declare yourself either a threat—or a fool.

Aelin kept her chin level, eyes forward. Still, the weight of that stare pressed on her like a hand against her spine.

“Shit,” Eris muttered from behind, just loud enough for the squad to hear. “Are we supposed to bow or something? I feel like bowing would be respectful. Or suicidal. Maybe both.”

“We walk,” Imogen answered, voice steady but quiet. “Let them see who we are.”

“Do they like sarcasm?” Eris asked. “Because that’s basically my whole personality.”

Varek snorted softly. “Then you’re dead.”

“I’m already dead,” Cianna said with a grim smile. “If that green one sneezes, I’ll explode.”

“Don’t make sudden movements,” Dain muttered. “Keep pace. Seven feet apart. Don’t stop. Don’t run. If one growls—don’t look at it.”

“Right,” Alric said under his breath. “Because nothing screams calm like casually ignoring a thirty-foot lizard deciding whether I’m flammable.”

Quinn elbowed Aelin gently. “If I die, tell my mother I died bravely.”

“You screamed when a bee landed on your shoulder last week,” Alric said.

“Shut up,” Quinn replied. “That bee was aggressive.”

Then Emetterio raised his hand.

The signal.

Their squad began to walk.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a slow, steady pace down the scorched path that cut between the dragons. A path worn by decades of cadets who had lived—or died—on this cliff.

The dragons didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But they watched.

Massive heads turned fractionally. Long necks tilted. Nostrils flared. A low rumble—more felt than heard—vibrated the ground beneath Aelin’s boots. Not threatening. Not yet.

The copper dragon released a soft huff, and a curtain of steam hissed across the path. Aelin kept her gaze fixed ahead, her jaw clenched so tight her molars ached.

She could feel the blue dragon’s stare on her. Heavy as chains. Ancient as stone. She didn’t lift her eyes. She didn’t dare.

But there it was again—that hum in her bones. Like a name half-remembered. Like thunder beneath her skin.

Aelin’s fingers curled at her sides.

“Do you think they can smell fear?” Eris muttered from behind her, tone too casual for the weight in the air. “Because I’m pretty sure Alric’s leaking it through his pores.”

Alric scoffed. “I’m praying, not panicking.”

“Sure you are,” Eris said under his breath. “For the record, if I die, someone tell Ryn from Fourth I had plans tonight. Candlelit disaster and everything.”

“Ryn?” Quinn snorted softly. “She likes someone with charm, Eris. Not someone who thinks footwork counts as flirting.”

“I have charm,” Eris hissed. “I just—optimize it situationally.”

Aelin didn’t smile, but the banter helped ground her. As did Quinn’s voice, softer but amused: “Speaking of charm, I’m meeting up with Jax after this. We’re… seeing where things go.”

“That’s one way to deal with nerves,” Cianna said under her breath.

Aelin arched a brow without turning. “You're finally giving Jax a chance?”

Quinn gave a tiny shrug. “If I survive this, I figure I’ve earned a bad decision or two.”

And then—

A scream.

Too far to see the face, but the sound carried.

Then a roar split the air like shattering stone, and a wall of flame erupted near the rear lines—white-hot and crackling, sweeping across the ground with terrifying speed. Cadets scattered.

One didn’t make it.

The fire reached him in a breath and was gone the next, but his body was already collapsing to the stone in a smoking heap.

The green dragon who had unleashed it didn’t even shift position. Just returned to its watchful silence.

The rest of the line stilled.

No instructors moved.

No one helped.

Another squad began walking forward, stepping past the scorched smear like it hadn’t happened.

Because it was tradition. It was survival.

Presentation wasn’t just for bonds.

It was for culling.

Alric muttered something that might’ve been a prayer. Eris cursed under his breath. Aelin just kept walking, even as the scent of burnt flesh joined the sulfur.

Another dragon rumbled low—a sound that reverberated in her ribs. Quinn stumbled a step, but recovered.

The squad didn’t break pace.

And still, the blue dragon watched.

Still, Aelin didn’t look up.

But the hum inside her pulled again—this time deeper. Like a tide tugging at the shore of her soul. Something old and impossible brushing up against her thoughts.

You.

The word wasn’t spoken. But it was felt .

Then it vanished.

And the path stretched on.

Aelin exhaled slowly, adjusting her grip on nothing at all. “You seen your father recently?” she asked Dain quietly, as if the roar and death hadn’t just happened behind them.

Dain’s jaw ticked. “Briefly. Last week. He told me I look tired and then asked when I planned to stop wasting my time with troublemakers.”

Aelin hummed. “Charming as ever.”

“He’s just trying to keep me grounded,” Dain muttered, eyes flicking toward the looming dragons. “And alive. Not that it helps much here.”

“It’s a bit late for grounded,” Aelin murmured. “Does he still want you to apply for the position of squad leader for next year?”

Dain’s mouth twisted into something that might’ve been a smile—if it weren’t so bitter. “Oh, he insists on it,” he said under his breath. “Says it’s the only respectable outcome for his son.”

Aelin arched a brow. “So… that’s a yes?”

“That’s a he already started writing the recommendation letter .” Dain’s eyes didn’t leave the path.

Aelin snorted softly. “Gods, your father really has your future all planned out.”

Dain’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really.

“He always has,” he said quietly, eyes still locked forward. “Every step. Every rank. Every breath.”

Aelin’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Hmm. Sounds familiar.”

They walked on—boots steady over scorched stone, between dragons who didn’t blink.

And then, from somewhere farther down the line—

Another scream.

The dining hall was quieter than usual.

Not silent—there was still the scrape of cutlery and the clatter of cups, the low thrum of conversation from other tables—but their squad sat in a kind of shellshock. As if some part of them hadn’t come back from the cliff yet.

Until Eris stabbed a hunk of bread with a dramatic sigh and declared, “I don’t care what anyone says, I definitely made eye contact with the brown clubtail.”

Alric choked on his water.

“No, I’m serious!” Eris grinned, half-wild, half-proud. “He had this whole smoldering, grumpy thing going on. Like, ‘I could kill you, but I’m bored.’ That’s soulmate material.”

“You’re going to bond with a dragon who treats you the way you treat us,” Quinn said, dry as dust.

“Exactly. Mutual disrespect. Perfect balance.”

Imogen leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, lips twitching. “The orange daggertail kept pacing behind me. Either she wanted to eat me, or… I don’t know. It felt like we sized each other up. ”

Aelin glanced at her. “And?”

“She didn’t walk away,” Imogen said simply.

Quinn nudged her bowl aside. “The green with the scorpiontail—she didn’t even look at anyone else. Just… stared. I was convinced she was going to launch a barb through my throat, but she didn’t. Just kept watching. I think she liked my posture.”

Aelin snorted. “You were shaking.”

“I was maintaining a soft tremble of reverence,” Quinn corrected. “Dragons respect a little vulnerability. Keeps them interested.”

Cianna, quiet until now, offered a small shrug. “I don’t know. The copper one—daggertail, I think?—stood real still when I walked past. Like… respectful. Or maybe sizing me up.”

“That’s a theme,” Eris said. “We're all being sized up. Like livestock.”

“Except me,” Varek muttered, slouched over his tray. “Pretty sure every dragon I passed yawned. One scratched its belly.”

“They’re just playing hard to get,” Alric offered, clapping him on the back.

“I liked the green near the edge,” Alric added after a moment. “Big shoulders, slow blinks. He felt like the kind of dragon who’d grumble about rookies, then carry you home anyway.”

Quinn grinned. “So basically you in dragon form.”

“What about you?” Eris asked, chin propped on her hand, eyes cutting to Dain.

He hesitated, then said, “Red. Swordtail. He didn’t move. Not once. I don’t think he blinked the entire time I stood there.”

“Terrifying,” Quinn said approvingly.

Aelin said nothing. She hadn’t said much since they left the cliff.

But she felt that weight still—coiled like a promise beneath her skin. She hadn’t looked, not truly. But she’d felt the blue’s gaze. That heavy, assessing presence. Like she’d already been chosen, even if the dragon hadn’t moved.

But she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“She was watching you,” Imogen murmured again, when the others returned to their food. “The blue.”

Aelin didn’t look up from her tray. Her fork scraped once more through the half-eaten stew before she set it down.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”

Imogen blinked. Maybe surprised she answered at all.

But Aelin pushed her tray away with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean anything. Not yet.”

And she stood, as if that settled it. As if the ache in her chest wasn’t still echoing.

As if she hadn’t felt something ancient and electric pass between her and the largest dragon on the cliffs.

As if she hadn’t been seen.

The barracks were quieter than the dining hall, the walls humming with exhaustion.

By the time they got back, most of the cadets were half-asleep, sprawled across their cots like fallen soldiers. Boots still on. Hair unbrushed. Armor only halfway stripped. Victory looked a lot like collapse.

But not all of them were out.

Quinn and Imogen were still awake—barely. Which meant they were just alert enough to be trouble .

Aelin had barely kicked off her boots before Quinn rolled over with a smirk. “So. That was a very friendly hug.”

Aelin, from her corner of the room, groaned. “We’re still doing this?”

“Oh, we never stopped,” Imogen murmured, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “The hug. On the cliff. After the Gauntlet.”

“It was congratulatory.”

“It was back-touchy,” Quinn said. “There was palm contact. Gentle palm contact.”

Aelin narrowed her eyes. “You sound insane.”

“You looked insane,” Imogen countered. “Like you were both trying very hard not to make it a whole scene in front of everyone.”

“Honestly, I think Emetterio was judging you,” Quinn added. “The man blinked. That’s practically a gasp from him.”

Aelin threw her jacket at her.

Quinn caught it midair, triumphant.

“I don’t care what you say,” Imogen said through a yawn, “but if you two are going to pine that loudly, you should at least do something about it.”

“Like shut up?” Aelin offered.

“Like kiss him, ” Quinn said. 

“Or stab him. Either way, closure.” Imogen added.

Aelin rolled her eyes and flopped back on her cot.

Outside, the sun was gone now, leaving only the deep violet of twilight pressing against the barrack windows. But the air was warm. Steady. Charged, like something waiting just out of reach.

The Presentation was done.

They were still here.

And somewhere in the darkness, dragons were still watching.

Chapter Text

“You’ll want to remember this part.”

Professor Kaori stood atop the rise overlooking the bowl-shaped valley, his black uniform crisp despite the morning mist curling low over the fields below. His voice, usually calm and clipped, now rang with unmistakable weight as the first-year cadets gathered along the ridge. The wind tugged at the banners above them—each one bearing the insignia of a different quadrant. None flew for the dead.

“Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not run. Do not group together unless you’re trying to be incinerated together. And above all—” He let the silence stretch. “—listen. To your instincts. If you feel the urge to turn right, turn right. If you feel the need to stop, you stop. That is the dragon calling to you. It is not a mistake. Do not ignore it.”

Aelin stood among the gathered cadets, arms crossed as Kaori continued his instructions. She listened, but only half-heartedly. Her heart was pounding too hard to catch most of it anyway. She’d barely slept the night before. None of them had. Not when they knew what today meant.

“Threshing ends at nightfall,” Kaori said. “You either bond or you don’t. If you survive unbonded, you may try again next year.”

A pause.

“If you die, we commend your soul to Malek.”

The ridge fell silent.

Then, from somewhere down in the valley, a dragon roared. Deep and thunderous—so loud Aelin felt it in her chest.

The wind carried the dragon’s roar down the ridge, rattling through their bones like the war drums of fate. No one spoke for a long moment, all of them caught in the gravity of what was to come. Then, slowly, the cadets began to shift, forming loose knots of farewells and final words.

Aelin turned to find her squad already clustering together. Imogen clapped Eris on the shoulder, both grinning like they were about to head into a pub brawl instead of a life-or-death field full of dragons and bloodthirsty cadets.

“Well,” Eris said, dramatically. “If I die, tell the archives I went out hot.”

“You’ll go out loud, more like,” Cianna muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

Quinn, arms folded and brows high, gave Aelin a look. “If you don’t come back, I swear I’ll resurrect your corpse just to slap you.”

“I love you too, Quinn,” Aelin said dryly, but the warmth in her chest surprised her.

Even Alric, usually too reserved for sentiment, gave a solemn nod. “See you on the other side.”

Aelin didn’t reply. She just looked at each of them—Quinn, Imogen, Eris, Cianna, Alric, Varek—and then finally Dain.

They stood apart for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Aelin searched his face, trying to burn the details into memory just in case. The worry etched in his brow.

“Don’t let your morals get you killed,” she said. “Or your stubborn sense of right and wrong.”

Dain smiled faintly. “Don’t let your temper get you incinerated.”

Aelin opened her mouth—maybe to say something more, maybe to thank him for all the times he tried to protect her, even when she didn’t want him to. Maybe even to say something honest, just once.

Instead, he stepped forward.

And pulled her into a hug.

Not a rushed one, not the stiff kind they’d given after narrow escapes or training victories. This one was solid. Real. His arms wrapped around her like a shield, one hand splaying between her shoulder blades, the other curling at her waist. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped into him fully, her cheek pressing against his chest, her hands fisting into the back of his jacket. She didn’t have to say anything.

She didn’t have to explain how much she hated this, how much she wanted all of them to make it out alive.

He held her tighter, like he understood all of it. Like he’d already guessed what she couldn’t admit.

And for a breath, it was enough.

Until the voice cut through the morning air, smug and sharp as a blade.

“Dain. A moment?”

Aura Beinhaven’s saccharine tone was enough to make Aelin’s eyes narrow. The blonde sauntered over, her uniform pristine, her mouth curled in a smirk like she’d just won something.

They broke apart too quickly.

Dain’s arm lingered a fraction of a second longer, his fingers brushing down her spine before he stepped back. Aelin’s eyes were flint as Aura sauntered up, smile too wide.

“I need to talk to you before we go,” Aura said pointedly, her gaze never leaving Aelin’s face. A calculated move—one designed to cut. He’s mine. You’re nothing.

Dain hesitated, his glance flicking toward Aelin.

Aelin smiled slowly, viciously. “Oh, please do. We wouldn’t want your last words to be forgotten, would we?”

Dain gave her a tight look— don’t start —but she didn’t miss the twitch of his mouth, like he was holding back a laugh.

“Good luck,” he said to Aelin, and meant it.

“Go have your private moment,” she replied sweetly. “Try not to let her talk you to death.”

Aura’s eyes narrowed, but Dain turned, following her a few steps away as she launched into some contrived excuse to keep him close.

Aelin didn’t watch them go. Instead, she took one last breath of mountain air, shook out her hands, and started down the ridge toward the valley.

The dragons were waiting.

The valley stretched wide and forested, a bowl rimmed by cliffs and shattered stone. Wisps of mist clung to the trees, curling like claws around the cadets as they descended one by one into the Threshing Fields.

Aelin walked alone.

Each step down the sloping trail felt like crossing into a different world—one ruled by fire and instinct, by ancient eyes and sharper teeth.

She heard others moving in the woods: snapping twigs, low breathing, the metallic hiss of weapons unsheathed. A scream cut through the mist, quick and distant. Then silence.

But she didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look back.

Her hand hovered near her dagger, though she knew it would be next to useless if a dragon decided she wasn’t worthy. 

The forest bent around her in silence, trees tall and watching. Then, up ahead, the path opened into a small glade, half-shadowed by the cliffs above.

And there—already waiting, fists clenched around twin short swords—stood Daiman Blackthorn.

“Well,” he sneered, voice rough like gravel dragged across steel. “Look who decided to descend from her little golden throne.”

Aelin halted. No surprise touched her face. “You’re bleeding arrogance again, Daiman. Might want to check for leaks.”

His jaw ticked. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you standing here like a snarling dog waiting to be put down is funny,” she said, drawing her blade with a quiet rasp. “But go ahead. Keep proving my point.”

“You humiliated me.” He stalked closer, blade tips trembling with the force of his grip. “You mocked me in front of the first-years. Made me look weak.”

“You were weak,” she said mildly, stepping into the glade, blade ready but lowered. “I just held up the mirror.”

His face twisted. “You think you’re untouchable because you’ve got a pretty face and a lap dog to defend you. You think you’re clever, always hiding behind those smug little quips.”

“No hiding here,” she said, gaze locked to his. “I just don’t need to shout to win.”

Daiman lunged. No more words.

Steel clanged as she deflected the first blow, then the second—he was strong, but angry. Angry made him sloppy. She danced back, his blade slicing through empty air where her ribs had been.

“I should’ve slit your throat that day,” he growled, driving forward in a blur of movement. “When your mouth ran faster than your feet.”

“Ah,” Aelin said, sidestepping, letting his momentum carry him past her. “So we’ve downgraded from hurt pride to unfulfilled murder fantasies. Progress.”

He roared and whirled, striking fast, hard, wild. She blocked two blows, the third skimming her shoulder. It stung—but she smiled anyway.

That smile enraged him more than any insult.

“You’re nothing but a spoiled, arrogant bitch who thinks she’s better than the rest of us,” Daiman snarled, breath heaving. “But you’re not. You’re just good at pretending you are.”

“Ohh, but I am,” she said, eyes glittering. 

He charged her—no finesse, no calculation. She ducked the blade meant to cleave her skull and drove her fist into his stomach, then sliced across his forearm as he reeled. Blood sprayed, warm and bright.

He screamed and came at her again.

This time she didn’t dodge.

Their blades clashed, Aelin meeting him with force, unrelenting, precise. She twisted under his guard and opened a gash across his side. He staggered—but kept swinging. She cut his leg. Then his shoulder. Like carving through a collapsing structure, piece by piece.

“You’re dead,” he spat, bleeding from four places now. “You’re already dead .”

She met his charge again—and this time, when he overcommitted, when he lifted both blades for a two-handed swing—

She rammed her dagger up beneath his ribs.

Deep and final.

Daiman choked. The steel slid in with brutal efficiency, cutting the breath from his lungs. His swords dropped. His mouth worked, but no sound came.

Aelin held his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“You should’ve stayed down the first time,” she said, voice soft as falling ash.

He crumpled to his knees, blood pooling beneath him.

“I warned you,” she murmured, crouching beside his twitching form. “But pride makes fools of men. And corpses.”

His eyes went glassy.

She wiped her blade on his cloak, stood, and didn’t look back.

Not when his body stilled in the dirt.

Not when the glade fell silent.

Not even when that thrumming call stirred again—low and deep, as if the forest had felt death pass through and hungered for more.

Something was waiting.

And Aelin was already walking toward it.

The call didn’t come as sound.

It wasn’t even a thought.

It came as a pull—a low, thrumming tug beneath her ribs, like a second heartbeat echoing inside her chest. Gentle but insistent. It swept through her bones with a heatless warmth, a silent demand that made her falter mid-step.

Aelin froze. The valley sounds dulled around her, as if the world had taken one breath and held it. The wind shifted.

Something was waiting.

She turned.

And everything in her stopped.

There—across the clearing, haloed by the waning light—stood a dragon.

No, not stood. Commanded. Every inch of her gleamed like a weapon forged in moonlight and tempered in war. Blue, but not simply blue—midnight ignited, the scales catching the sun in shards of cobalt and indigo flame. Muscles rippled beneath her hide, effortless and coiled. Her wings were half-furled like stormclouds waiting to break open, talons sunk deep into the earth. Her tail, thick and sinuous, coiled like a living serpent behind her, tipped with brutal morningstar spikes that glinted with violent promise.

And her eyes—gods, those eyes.

Molten gold. Unblinking. Alive with intelligence far older than anything Aelin had ever encountered. They pierced through her, peeled her open in one breathless glance.

The bond didn't form—it awakened.

Like a blade long buried suddenly drawn free. Like something sleeping inside her had snapped to attention with a single, resounding thought:

Mine.

The world narrowed. No grass. No sky. No sound. Just that gaze, that weight, that pull between them.

And then—

“Finally.”

The voice didn’t come from the clearing. It didn’t pass through her ears. It bloomed directly inside her mind, velvet-smooth and bone-deep. Feminine, amused, and utterly in control. “I was beginning to think you’d wander in circles all day.”

Aelin’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Her mouth parted. “You—”

“No need to speak aloud, little liar.” The voice curled through her thoughts like smoke . “Just think the words. I’ll hear them.”

She went still. Not from fear—but understanding. Recognition .

This was what the Riders whispered about in hushed tones. Not the power. Not even the flight.

The connection.

Mind to mind. Soul to soul.

She tried it—hesitant, like stepping onto a frozen lake . “Can you hear me now?”

The dragon's laughter wasn’t sound. It was sensation. A rolling wave of satisfaction that brushed the inside of her skull like a cat dragging its tail across her thoughts.

“There she is. Quicker than most. I like that.”

Aelin swallowed, pulse thudding like war drums. “Who are you?”

“Syraxthia.” The name rang like thunder down a mountain. “You may call me Syrax, if you must.”

The name echoed in her chest like a memory not hers.

The dragon took one slow step forward, the ground trembling beneath her bulk. Aelin didn’t move. Couldn’t. She didn’t dare breathe too loudly, lest she break whatever fragile, infinite thread now tied them together.

“I’m Celaena,” she said —thought. She tried to steady herself. To regain some ground.

A long pause. Cool and measured.

“Liar.”

Aelin blinked. “What?”

Syrax’s eyes glinted, golden fire and storm. “Your name is Aelin Tauri. Princess of Navarre. Walking contradiction. Hoarder of secrets. Collector of scars.” Her wings shifted, shedding motes of dust and sunlight. 

“You’ve been watching me?” Aelin said.

“I watched. ” A simple answer. Not an apology. Not a threat. A truth. “From the moment you stepped into the courtyard at Presentation. All defiance and steel, pretending not to look. But you did. Just a flicker. Just enough.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” The words rang like judgment, like amusement. “Reckless. Bold. Just enough to be mine.”

Aelin’s breath shook as she took one step forward. Then another.

The air around the dragon thrummed. It welcomed her. Not gently—but with expectation. Challenge.

“So that’s it?” she asked, more mind than mouth now. “You’ve chosen me?”

A quiet rumble answered—laughter or approval, she didn’t know. “Did you think I stared at you because I was bored?” A pause. “You’ve been circling this moment your whole life, little liar.”

The nickname struck her in a place too tender to name. She should’ve flinched at the invasion. Should’ve argued.

She didn’t.

“Get on,” Syrax said, lowering her body a fraction. Not an offering. A command. “Let’s see if you can stay on.”

Aelin hesitated, pulse racing. “Shouldn’t I…swear something? Prove something?”

“I already know what matters.” A pause. “You’ve given everything. Even the parts of you no one sees.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. Her feet moved anyway.

The scales beneath her hand were warmer than she expected—like stone left too long in the sun. As smooth as glass, as wide as shields. No handholds. No saddle. Nothing but instinct and will.

She paused at the thick ridge just before the wings. The divot—the seat. Her seat.

“I’m not going to fall,” she told the dragon—not with voice, but with truth.

Syrax’s voice slipped through her again, velvet-dark and pleased. “We’ll see.”

And Aelin climbed.

There was no warning. No countdown. No instruction.

One moment Aelin was straddling the smooth, high ridge at the base of Syrax’s wings, her knees tight against scale and muscle and raw power.

The next—

Syrax launched .

The ground vanished beneath them, yanked away like a rug. The wind screamed past, tearing at Aelin’s hair, her clothes, her lungs. The first few seconds were a blur of blue sky and cracking sunlight and the primal rush of up . Nothing could have prepared her for the power that surged beneath her thighs, for the way the dragon’s wings slammed through the air, carving great, roaring gusts as they spiraled higher.

And then Syrax dove.

Not a gentle test.

A dive like a god falling from the heavens.

Aelin’s breath fled. Her stomach lurched so violently she nearly blacked out. Her fingers scrabbled against the dragon’s neck ridge, but there was no true grip, no harness, no saddle—nothing but raw will and whatever muscle she could command. She clamped her legs tighter, digging her heels in just behind Syrax’s wings. Her thighs screamed. Her eyes streamed with wind.

“Hold on, little liar,” Syrax said into her mind, laughter curling through the words like smoke. “Or don’t.”

Another twist. A sharp barrel-roll that sent Aelin’s shoulder slamming into the dragon’s back. Pain shot down her arm, but she didn’t cry out. Didn’t lose her grip.

Instead, she gritted her teeth and pressed her body lower, more flush to the dragon’s scales. She moved with Syrax now—no longer fighting the flight, but flowing with its rhythm, learning with every beat of those massive, translucent wings.

They climbed again, higher this time, until the world curved below them. Mountains like teeth. Rivers like threads of silver. The college was a scattering of stone blocks in the distance.

And Aelin laughed.

A wild, breathless, freeing laugh.

The kind she hadn’t loosed since before Alic died.

The kind that ripped through her like sunlight through stormclouds.

Syrax gave one final, savage spin before descending—wings tucked tight, morningstartail slicing the air like a blade. They dropped faster than seemed possible , faster than any creature that size should be able to fall.

But Aelin didn’t fall.

She held .

With legs, with hands, with raw, unyielding stubbornness.

When Syrax finally flared her wings and landed— landed —it was like a storm breaking. Her talons tore into the packed dirt of the Flight Field, throwing up divots and wind. Her wings cracked open one final time like a victory cry, and her roar shattered the air, the sky, the very bones of the mountain.

And Aelin was grinning like a madwoman.

Soaked with sweat. Hands trembling. Hair wind-tangled and plastered to her face. But alive. So alive .

Syrax turned her golden gaze back, pupil slitted, nostrils flaring.

“Hmm.” The dragon’s voice was quieter now. Curious. Pleased. “I suppose you’ll do.”

Aelin laughed again—hoarse, breathless. “You’re insane.”

“Takes one to know one.”

A few of the onlookers had backed away from the edge of the field. Whether it was from fear of Syrax’s tail or awe at the bond, Aelin didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Aelin slid off Syrax’s back with legs that were more ache than bone. She landed with a grunt and kept her head low—still flushed, still panting. She didn’t lift her gaze to the dais at the far end of the field. Didn’t look at the crowd watching from the flight wall.

A roll-keeper waited at the center of the field, a thin, grim man with ink-stained fingers and a scroll so long it curled on itself in the dust.

“Your dragon’s full name?” the roll-keeper asked, already poised to write.

Her voice came out low. Steady. Deceptively calm.

“Syraxthia.”

The roll-keeper nodded once and marked the bond with a short flick of his quill.

She had done it.

But she didn’t bow. Didn’t lift her chin.

Because she could feel the dais watching.

Even with her eyes down, her senses picked them out, each a beacon of risk.

Colonel Aetos, standing stiff-backed at the edge of the officers’ row, his cold gaze as sharp as ever.

General Sorrengail—Aelin caught only a glimpse of her, the glint of magelight off the sharp planes of her face, her short brown hair neat as ever. Still as a statue. Chin high. A woman carved from iron and unflinching command.

And farther back, seated on the center throne of carved blackstone, her father.

The King of Navarre.

She did not look. Did not dare look.

Because seated beside him, tall and straight-backed in formal attire, was a young man with sandy-brown and distinctive green eyes.

Cam.

Eighteen now, and wearing the years more like armor than age. He sat with his hands folded, jaw tight, expression schooled into neutrality—but she knew that face. Knew every flicker of tension in it.

Her chest went tight, breath vanishing for a heartbeat. She could barely think—could barely feel over the roaring silence in her veins.

But she didn’t run.

Didn’t bolt for the shadows.

She lowered her chin. Slipped into the slow-moving river of cadets returning from the trial. Just another figure in a sea of leather and wind-worn faces. Not special. Not seen .

A few whispered. A few turned to glance at her—how could they not? Syrax had been colossal in the sky. Terrifying. Glorious.

But no one called her name.

She was Celaena Sardothien. Just Celaena.

And then—

She felt it. A stare. Hot and sharp. Not from the dais, but from the line of riders along the perimeter. From someone watching her. Not casually. Waiting .

She dared a glance.

He stood alone, arms crossed, back leaned against the southern post. Xaden Riorson.

There was no mocking curl to his mouth this time. No sardonic lift to his brow. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes. His eyes were focused. Intent.

He had been watching her. Hadn’t looked away.

Not since Syrax landed.

As if he had been waiting for her to break character. To give herself away.

Aelin turned her face before their eyes could lock, slipping deeper into the crowd.

Not today, Riorson.

She didn’t look back.

“Holy shit ,” someone whispered.

Aelin blinked, then turned—

Imogen stood at her elbow, hair in wind-wrecked tangles, lips still slightly parted. “You bonded the blue .”

Aelin just arched a brow, kept her voice even. “We get along.”

Imogen let out a stunned laugh. “ Clearly. You looked like you were seconds from death the whole flight. It was magnificent.”

And then Dain appeared, boots crunching over gravel, face tight.

“You’re insane,” Dain said as he halted in front of her, his hazel eyes wide with something between awe and absolute disbelief. “You’re actually insane.”

“She landed with all her limbs,” Imogen offered from beside Aelin, grinning as if that were the mark of sanity.

Dain barely spared Imogen a glance. He was already scanning Aelin, eyes roving down her arms, checking her legs, her posture. His gaze lingered on a scrape just above her collarbone, and then—

He frowned.

There was blood. Soaking into the front of her shirt, dark and drying. Not a splatter— a stain. Deep and spreading.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Aelin shook her head. “Bruised, maybe. But nothing I didn’t expect.”

His smile was small. Tense. “That’s not comforting.”

She followed his eyes, then glanced down at the blood.

“Not mine,” she said flatly. “Daiman Blackthorn won’t be leaving the Fields.”

Dain stiffened. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Good.”

Before she could reply, Dain reached out and took her hand.

It wasn’t rough or commanding. It was…gentle. Familiar. And something about the way his fingers curled around hers made her go still.

He didn’t say a word—just tugged her away from the growing swell of cadets, pulling her through the outer edge of the crowd and into a quieter spot by the sideline wall, where the torches burned low and the noise thinned.

Only when they’d stopped did he release her hand.

“You’re insane,” he said again, softer this time. “Flying like that… with that dragon? I thought she was trying to kill you.”

“She was,” Aelin said with a faint grin. “A little bit.”

Dain ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “You know who’s here, don’t you?”

“I saw them,” she said quietly. “Or enough of them.”

He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“They didn’t see you,” he said, a question wrapped in certainty.

“No.” She looked past his shoulder, toward the distant dais. “I didn’t let them.”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “Aelin… if your father had seen you—”

“He’d have dragged me off the field and straight back to Calldyr,” she finished for him. Her tone was too steady. Too calm. “And Cam would’ve had to watch.”

Dain’s jaw worked as if he wanted to argue, but couldn’t.

“He wouldn’t be proud, Dain,” she said at last. “Not of me. Not of this.” She gestured vaguely toward the field, the sky, the massive form of Syrax now settled far down the line, claws idly scoring the grass. “He only sees the throne. The name. The damage I do to both.”

Dain didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was quiet. Careful. “You’re not damage. You’re just… dangerous.”

Aelin raised a brow.

“I meant that as a compliment,” he added quickly.

A soft laugh escaped her lips, a rare and real thing. “I know you did.”

He hesitated. Then, before the moment could fracture entirely, he said, “I just—wanted you to know. I was watching. I saw you fly.”

“And?”

He looked at her, eyes warm with something unspoken. “You didn’t fall.”

Her throat tightened. For just a heartbeat, she let herself feel it—that someone had seen her. That someone had witnessed her.

Then, as always, she pushed it down.

“Come on,” she said, turning. “Imogen’s probably roasting me behind my back by now.”

Dain chuckled and fell into step beside her. “She’s saying it to your face.”

As they walked back to rejoin Imogen, Aelin didn’t look toward the dais again. Didn’t try to see her father or brother, didn’t search for their expressions. She kept her head low and her stride even.

Imogen arched a brow the moment they returned, her gaze cutting to Aelin with the kind of pointed scrutiny that didn’t need words. Arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth as her eyes flicked meaningfully between Aelin and Dain—then back again, loaded with implication. What exactly were you doing? it seemed to say, all too loudly. 

Aelin shot her a flat look in return, but Imogen only lifted both brows, as if to say Oh, really? , before pointedly glancing at the distance they’d just come from. Aelin didn’t bother answering—not aloud, anyway. She just rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. Because of course Imogen had noticed. Of course she had.

Cianna was the next to appear, followed by Alric and Eris—both dirty and alive and grinning like fools.

But not Varek.

Not Varek.

Imogen scanned the crowd once. Twice.

No one said it. Not right away.

But slowly, their circle went still.

Quinn joined them last, her eyes already red. She said nothing, just walked up and slipped her arm around Imogen’s shoulder.

“He almost made it,” she whispered.

Aelin closed her eyes.

Another gone. Another name for Fitzgibbons to call at morning formation. Another soul commended to Malek.

No one spoke. Not for a while. They just stood in the field, no longer cadets, not yet Riders. A half-born thing between life and death.

It was long after midnight when the call came.

All newly bonded Riders were summoned once more to the center of the field. A ring of torches had been lit, casting golden light over the stones, flickering like ancient watchfires. The dragons stood behind them in perfect formation—silent, still, eyes aglow.

One by one, the cadets stepped forward.

A moment of breathless waiting hung in the air like held thunder.

And then—the dragons moved.

Not with sound, not with flight. But with power.

Aelin felt it before she saw it—a ripple, a shift in the fabric of the night. As if the world tilted ever so slightly, centering around this one rite, this one breath of time. Magic stirred—not the wild, volatile sort found in battle, but something deeper. Ancient. A thread of the world itself, pulled taut with intention.

This wasn’t something a rider earned.

This was something a dragon bestowed.

Syrax didn’t speak aloud. She didn’t need to.

Her golden eyes locked onto Aelin’s. A pulse of heat followed, pressing just beneath her skin. Then—

“Come,” Syrax said in her mind. “ Show them what you are.”

Aelin stepped forward.

She walked like her bones were forged of steel, though her heart pounded like war drums in her chest. Stopping before her dragon, she took a breath—and slowly unfastened her jacket. She shrugged it down her arms and let it hang at her elbows.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

Syrax stepped closer. Her breath stirred the fine hairs at the base of Aelin’s neck. And then the dragon’s power surged forward—silent, invisible, undeniable.

Magic, ancient and searing, poured from Syrax.

It struck Aelin’s back with a force that nearly brought her to her knees.

She gritted her teeth as the fire lanced through her skin. Not fire—worse than fire. It burned with meaning, with bond, with a permanence that went deeper than flesh. It felt like being rewritten. Like Syrax was carving her mark into Aelin’s very soul.

Pain turned to pressure.

Pressure turned to beauty.

And when it was done, Syrax stepped back, smoke rising gently from Aelin’s skin, curling like incense in the stillness.

Aelin’s breath came ragged—but she didn’t move.

Not until Syrax reached out again, gently, through the bond between them. Not with words, but with sensation.

Look.

And Aelin did.

She pulled her shirt up and over, just enough to see—

Through Syrax’s eyes.

She saw herself—small compared to the towering dragon, but standing proud, bare-backed beneath the magelight. And there, etched in luminous, swirling ink across the top half of Aelin’s back and curling down the side of her ribcage, the image was unmistakable: wings flared wide, tail coiled like a question, head held in that unmistakable tilt of pride and calculation. The lines shimmered as if painted in starlight—moon-pale, radiant. Not like Syrax’s scales, but a color beyond names—one that shifted with every breath, every flicker of light, like frost kissed by fire.

“Mine” , Syrax whispered in her mind.

Aelin’s throat tightened. Her hand drifted to her ribs, to the warm, raw edge of the ink.

And she whispered back:

“Always.”

Chapter Text

The squad grew after Threshing.

It happened slowly, then all at once—like watching ice crack across the surface of a pond, invisible until it wasn’t.

It started one evening in the mess hall.

The first-years were crammed around a too-small table, trays of overcooked stew balanced between elbows, boots knocking beneath the benches. The air stank of onions and damp wool, and Eris was halfway into a passionate monologue about how Quinn had clearly missed the cue to pivot left during yesterday’s sparring match.

“Not my fault you fight like a drunk squirrel,” Quinn said flatly, stabbing a hunk of gray meat with her fork.

Aelin tuned them out, hunched over her own tray. She’d just managed to choke down a bite of something vaguely potato-adjacent when a shadow fell across the table. Not looming, exactly—but deliberate. Intentional.

“Move over,” said a voice. Sharp. Amused.

Heaton Ryn dropped onto the bench beside Eris like they’d always belonged there, their tray clattering against the wood. Their hair was dyed in broad, sweeping stripes of sea-glass green and deep blue, the colors tangled like currents caught in a storm. They smelled faintly of salt.

Aelin blinked, spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

“I thought second-years ignored us,” Quinn said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Heaton shrugged. “We do.” They flashed a grin. “Until you prove you might actually survive. Congrats.”

Two more trays thunked down across from Aelin.

Emery Barnes sat without asking. Built like he could carry a boulder up the mountain and still win a footrace, he had shoulders like siege towers and the social energy of a particularly polite tree. He offered a nod to no one in particular, then lifted one hand and flicked his fingers.

A small gust of wind stirred Eris’s hair into a tangle.

“Rude,” he muttered, batting it down. “I spent time on this.”

“No, you didn’t,” Cianna said mildly.

“Shut up, yes I did.”

Amber Mavis came last—gliding more than walking. She didn’t sit immediately. Just stood for a long moment, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a twist so tight it probably required blood magic. Her eyes, a cool citrine, drifted over each of them with a tactician’s focus.

Then she took the empty seat at the end of the bench like it had always been hers.

The conversation didn’t pick back up. Not for a few long seconds. Then Eris let out a loud, fake cough and said, “Well. This isn’t terrifying at all.”

Quinn grunted. “It’s probably a trap.”

“No offense,” Alric added, “but why now?”

“Threshing,” Amber said simply, picking up her spoon. “Most of you didn’t die. That earns you… partial acknowledgment.”

“High praise,” Aelin muttered.

Emery winked.

It should’ve felt tense. Should’ve felt like a line had been crossed or a hierarchy broken. But somehow, the table simply shifted —made room. As if their group had always been waiting for this to happen.

The third-years came three days later, just as abruptly.

It was dusk. The mess hall had thinned, and Aelin had claimed the edge seat so she could prop her sore leg on a bench rung and half-listen to Quinn rant about the absurd maneuvers Kaori wants them to learn.

Then a voice drawled, “Room for one more?”

Callen Voss leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, blade visible at his hip. His hair was dark and swept back like he couldn’t be bothered to tame it, and his expression was carved from stone.

He didn’t wait for an answer—just sat.

Dresden Kade appeared next, dragging a chair backward with the legs screeching against the floor. He sprawled into it like the furniture owed him something, long limbs thrown carelessly over the backrest, a smirk already in place.

Wren Hale said nothing. Just pulled out the chair across from Aelin and took it slowly, his presence as quiet as a breath before a blade lands. There was something... steady about him. Calming in a way that made her shoulders lower an inch without her permission.

Tasha Dorney didn’t sit at all.

She stood behind Quinn, arms folded, gaze sharp.

Silence spread like ink in water.

But something shifted that night. The invisible line between them—first-year and upperclassman, unworthy and proven—blurred. Maybe not entirely. But enough.

After that… they were a squad. A real one.

Flight Maneuvers with Professor Kaori were every bit as brutal as the man himself. The first-years lined up at the cliff’s edge, the wind howling like a living beast, boots slipping against slick stone. The sea of gray sky churned overhead, and mist crept along the crags below like fingers reaching up to drag the careless down.

Behind Kaori, Smachd loomed—an emerald beast with wings like storm sails and a tail lined with jagged scythe-blades. Her golden eyes scanned the line of cadets with unsettling intelligence, her chest scales pulsing with each slow breath.

“Formations are not suggestions,” Kaori barked, his cloak snapping in the wind. “They are life or death. Stay in your seats. Keep your center of gravity low. If I see one of you bouncing like a toddler on a sugar rush, I’ll knock you from the saddle myself.”

No one laughed. Eris almost did—his lips twitching in that way that meant trouble—but one glance from Kaori silenced him like a blade to the throat.

Aelin swung up onto Syrax’s back with practiced ease, hands slipping along the smooth divot of scale before the pommel ridge. Around her, dragons launched—some with the grace of dancers, others like drunk birds.

The sky hit like a slap, wind tearing past as they surged upward. Syrax’s wings carved through the air with powerful, deliberate strokes, and Aelin adjusted her weight instinctively, legs gripping tight, chest pressed low to the dragon’s back.

They joined the squadron mid-air, each pair slotting into their assigned positions. Aelin and Syrax took the rear-left of the wedge, just behind Cath and Dain. The red dragon’s wings stretched wide like sheets of flame, and his swordtail glinted in the watery light.

“Cross-climb formation!” Kaori’s voice thundered through the channel. “Execute!”

Cath soared upward and crossed sharply with Quinn’s dragon, their formation clean, crisp, synchronized. Aelin urged Syrax forward—upward—left!—but the motion staggered slightly, the climb just a hair too wide.

“Lift your heels,” Syrax interjected smugly. “ You’re sitting like a sack of spoiled flour.”

Aelin gritted her teeth, adjusting her posture. “ I’m trying, you flame-tailed menace. ”

“Try harder. Cath and his rider just completed a flawless cross-climb. You, meanwhile, look like you’re practicing how to fall creatively. And your lover boy is watching.”

“ Don’t call him that .”

“He keeps glancing at you mid-flight. I’d say it’s endearing if it weren’t so pathetic. Oh, and your right hand slipped. Again”.

Aelin growled low in her throat. “ Maybe if your spine wasn’t shaped like a gods-damned lightning bolt— ”

“Excuses from the sack of flour,” Syrax sing-songed.

They clipped the edge of the next maneuver too sharply. Aelin’s core muscles screamed as she corrected, vision tunneling with the effort.

“ That one was on you, ” she hissed.

“Wrong. I do not make mistakes. I have wings and wisdom. You have two underdeveloped thighs and a stubborn streak.”

The formation ended with a corkscrew descent that had her pulse in her ears and her legs ready to mutiny. By the time they landed back on the cliff, her breath came in ragged pants and her thighs felt like they’d been set alight.

“You are slow,” Syrax noted coolly as she folded her wings. “ Your grip weakened on the last turn. If that were battle, you’d be dead and I would be riderless.”

Aelin slid from the saddle and nearly stumbled. “ Noted.”

“You need to train,” Syrax said with a mental flick of her tail. “ You rely too much on instinct and not enough on strength. I will not carry a weakling into war.”

“ I’m not a weakling .”

“You are when your legs shake that much after one hour.”

“ What if I say no? ”

“Then I’ll tell Cath you dream about his rider shirtless.”

Aelin stopped walking.

“ You wouldn’t. ”

“Try me,” Syrax purred, absolutely unbothered.

She went to the gym.

The air inside the training hall was thick with sweat and the bite of iron.

Aelin adjusted the weight on her barbell for the fifth round of lunges, her shoulders trembling, every breath scraping her ribs. Chalk dust clung to her palms, her shirt stuck to her spine, and her thighs burned like hellfire.

Footsteps behind her—steady, confident.

She didn’t need to look.

“You really going to let that bar pin you like a bug?” Dain’s voice—low, amused—drifted over her shoulder.

She rolled her eyes. “Careful. One more word and I’ll drop it on your foot.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst injury I’ve had this week.”

He stepped into her peripheral vision, shirt already sweat-drenched from his own training, and started stacking plates on the bar beside her like it was nothing. She didn’t respond, just resumed her lunges—if only to pretend she wasn’t hyperaware of the way he moved, the way he watched her.

That first session, they barely spoke beyond clipped sarcasm and the occasional correction—his hand on her elbow to fix her angle, or a murmured “watch your knee” as he passed behind her. She shoved him once when he smirked too much, and he retaliated by adding five pounds to her bar when she wasn’t looking.

But the next day, he showed up again.

And the next.

What began as convenience twisted into something else—something that tangled between reps and sparring matches and the way his eyes always found hers across the weight room.

He spotted her during bench presses, fingers grazing her ribs. She wrapped a towel around his neck when he nearly passed out after deadlifts. They traded insults and breath and stories in the quiet space between effort and exhaustion.

“You’re lifting too much with your back,” he told her on the third day.

“I'm lifting too much because you added extra weight when I was distracted,” she snapped.

Dain grinned, that stupid crooked grin that always made her stomach twist. “You were staring. I took advantage.”

“You wish.”

He was infuriating.

He was also the only person who could make her laugh when her body felt like it was falling apart.

By the fourth session, they weren’t training side by side—they were training together. He held her waist to steady her during squats. She pressed her knuckles into his shoulder to coax him through his final reps. He told her about a training injury that cracked his rib last year, and she told him about falling off a stable roof when she was thirteen, trying to catch Cam’s kite.

They didn’t talk about the real things. Not yet.

Not about the battlefield scars they couldn’t name. Not about the fear stitched into every breath at Basgiath.

But the little things chipped away at the silence.

Aelin found herself standing too close more often than necessary. Found herself glancing at his mouth when he laughed. Found herself wanting —not just the way his hand lingered at her hip, or the way his breath hitched when she pressed her palm to his stomach to test his core strength—but wanting this . The easy rhythm. The shared weight. Him.

After their fifth session, a sparring match left them collapsed on the mat, limbs tangled and sweat-slick. She lay on her back, chest heaving, his arm slung carelessly over his eyes.

“You cheated,” she said.

He cracked one eye open. “I tripped.”

“You tripped me.”

“That’s strategy.”

She laughed, half breathless, and he turned his head toward her, his face flushed and open in a way she hadn’t seen in years.

“I missed this,” he said quietly. 

She stared at the ceiling for a long moment. The rafters were high and shadowed, the late sun slanting in long, golden stripes. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

“Me too,” she whispered.

Weeks passed.

The bruises faded slower now. Her muscles ached constantly. But her balance sharpened, her footwork turned lethal, and her body began obeying her without hesitation. That was thanks to Syrax’s brutal training regimen—and to Dain, who kept showing up like he couldn’t help himself.

He always trained beside her, never acknowledged it. Just lifted what she lifted, ran what she ran, sparred until they were both dripping and breathless. And afterward, when her legs were too shaky to walk back to her room, he’d lean against her in quiet, familiar steadiness.

But he never asked why she looked so tired in the mornings.

Because Aelin wasn’t sleeping much.

Not when she had other things to do after lights-out.

That night, her bare feet made no sound on the flagstones. Her breathing was steady. Her awareness stretched wide.

Xaden Riorson moved ahead of her, black hair barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the high windows. She’d tracked him four times before—once to the armory, twice to the cliffside, and once to a dead end that had made her teeth itch.

But tonight, he was slower. Less cautious. Distracted.

He passed the ancient stone classroom halls. Turned left.

And vanished.

She froze, eyes sweeping the corridor. No doors. No alcoves. No way out.

Except—

Aelin crept forward. Placed her palm against the seemingly solid wall.

Click.

The stone shifted inward with a whisper of air, revealing a narrow tunnel behind it. Cool, dust-choked, and descending deep into darkness.

She didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Two nights later, she returned—alone, hood up, dagger strapped to her thigh. She moved through the secret tunnel like smoke, her fingers brushing the damp walls, every step light as breath.

The passage twisted through the heart of Basgiath like a buried artery. And after what felt like an hour of weaving through darkness, it opened—suddenly, jarringly—onto the edge of the Flight Field.

Aelin stepped out beneath the open sky, stars smeared above her like oil on glass. The air reeked faintly of dragonfire.

“Useful,” she murmured, her hand brushing the stone.

You’re going to get your pretty face scorched, Syrax said, her voice sliding into Aelin’s mind like hot smoke. “ Snooping again, little liar?”

“ I prefer ‘investigating. ’”

“Semantics won’t save you if he catches you.”

Aelin stared across the dark field, every instinct on edge. “He won’t. Not yet.”

A pause. Then, softer: “ What are you hoping to find?”

She blew out a breath. “You know what I want to know. ”

“You could just ask him,” Syrax said, smug and sharp.

Aelin snorted. “ Right. I’ll pencil that in between ‘try not to die’ and ‘don’t let Dain figure out I’m lying to his face.’”

Syrax paused, then added, “ You like him.”

Aelin blinked. “ Xaden? Are you insane? ”

“Not him,” Syrax said with a flick of contempt. “Cath’s rider.”

Aelin’s foot caught on a stone, and she barely caught herself. “I do not. ”

“Your heartbeat disagrees.”

“I hate you.”

Syrax made a sound—what might have been a snort, if dragons were capable of snorting. “ You wish you hated me. Just like you wish you didn’t like him.”  

Aelin rolled her eyes as she kept walking back to the entrance tunnel, boots scuffing quietly over the gravel at the edge of the Flight Field.

Syrax’s voice turned sly. “ He likes you too, you know. Thinks about you during training. Watches you when you’re not looking.”

Aelin clenched her jaw. “ Stop.”

But the words had barely left her mind when she froze.

The Flight Field had been empty a moment ago. Open. Silent.

And then, without warning, Xaden Riorson and Garrick Tavis were there —walking across the gravel like they’d always been there, deep in low conversation. Xaden’s black hair was tousled by the wind, his hands shoved into his pockets like he had nothing to hide.

Except Aelin knew he did.

Her breath caught.

Had they come from another tunnel?

Had they seen her?

Neither of them looked her way. They didn’t even glance in her direction.

Still, she didn’t move until they passed out of sight beyond the far row of dragon perches.

Only then did she turn—quick, quiet, controlled—and make her way back through the tunnel. Through the stone halls. Back toward her room.

She was halfway there, boots silent on the stones, when Syrax spoke again—so soft it might’ve been a breath of wind.

“He killed your brother.”

Aelin stopped walking.

Her heart thudded, loud enough she could feel it. “What?”

“Sygael’s rider,” Syrax said, flat and unflinching. “ Killed him. Your brother. Last year.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. Her throat closed like a fist.

“You’re lying.”

“I saw it.”

A beat.

“Or rather—Sygael did. And then bonded him”

The hallway tilted slightly beneath her feet.

The oil lamps along the corridor flickered, shadows dancing across the stone like ghosts.

Aelin kept walking. Slowly, mechanically. But her mind stayed behind—frozen on that field, on those words.

By November, the forest beyond the walls had gone gold and crimson, and weapons replaced fists in the mat ring.

Instructor Emetterio didn’t give a warning—just tossed her a training blade during morning drills with the barest tilt of his head. “You’re graceful, Sardothien. Let’s see if that translates to steel.”

It wasn’t about killing. Not yet. This part of training was about movement. Feeling the weapon as an extension of bone and breath—not something to wield, but something to be .

Her squadmates paired off—Eris and Cianna already bickering over who got to go on offense first, Quinn lazily twirling her blade as Alric adjusted his gloves, Imogen stretching one shoulder before nodding at Amber to begin.

Aelin turned—and found Dain already waiting for her, blade in hand. No words, no nod. Just that quiet intensity between them as they stepped into the ring and began to circle.

Steel met steel with a clean, satisfying ring. He didn’t hold back. She hadn’t expected him to. Their blades danced, breath quick and sharp, feet pivoting in perfect rhythm.

“You’re better,” Dain said, stepping back from a deft parry she hadn’t managed a month ago.

Aelin grinned. “Told you Syrax threatened to eat me if I didn’t improve.”

“Smart dragon,” he said, smiling as they lunged again.

They kept dancing. Kept smiling.

But later that week—after a grueling afternoon of Flight Formations, after her shoulders had begun to ache from the cold and the turns—Aelin spotted Xaden Riorson heading toward the older Riders' wing, Garrick at his side.

She ducked into a shadowed alcove before they could see her.

It hadn’t been the first time. For weeks now, she’d been watching him. Quietly, carefully. Trying to piece together if he knew about the Venin—if he understood what they were up against. If he could be trusted.

Because if he could... he might be the only other person on this gods-cursed base who saw what she did. Who knew something bigger was unraveling beneath their feet.

But now—

He killed your brother.

Syrax’s words still curled like frostbite through her bones. Aelin had demanded answers after that night on the roof—pressed until Syrax huffed a plume of sulfur-scented smoke and snapped, “Eat your protein bar, little liar, and stop trying to make me talk about things that’ll rot your insides.”

She hadn’t pushed again.

And now, as she watched Xaden pass—tall, calm, cold—Aelin didn’t know what to think.

Was he the ally she’d been quietly circling toward?

Or a death sentence waiting to happen the moment he found out who she truly was?

Late November brought something Aelin hadn’t expected.

It happened mid-flight.

The wind was cold and razor-sharp, slicing across the open sky as Syrax banked hard over the southern ridge. The rest of the formation was pulling out of a coordinated dive, their dragons flattening into a glide above the treetops. Aelin tightened her grip, breath already stolen by the altitude and wind shear from the last pass.

Except Syrax didn’t level out with the others.

She climbed .

“Syrax?” Aelin asked, bracing as the massive blue dragon angled into the clouds. “ That wasn’t the last formation—”

“It is for them,” Syrax said, voice low and curling with smoke and challenge. “ Let’s see if you’re worthy of more.”

And then she dove.

Not a glide. Not a descent. A plunge —a sheer drop that snapped the air apart.

Not a simple descent, but a twist-and-drop maneuver Aelin had only ever seen second-years practice, one designed to simulate dodging between the jagged mountain spires of the northern border.

No warning. No room for fear.

Aelin moved .

Body low, weight shifting instinctively with the dragon’s angles, she leaned into the dive, feeling the drag and pull of wind, reading the shifts in Syrax’s wings. Her thighs burned. Her spine screamed. But she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t flinch.

Eyes narrowed, heart pounding like war drums, Aelin leaned into the dive as Syrax banked hard around an invisible outcrop. Her boots locked beneath the pommel. Her hands gripped like iron.

And when Syrax twisted through the invisible pass, folding her wings tight, Aelin rolled with her. Controlled. Balanced. 

They shot out of the maneuver like a blade unsheathing from shadow, the sky opening before them. For a heartbeat, the world was only wind and flight and fire in her blood.

Then—

A surge .

It slammed into her like a second heartbeat. One that didn’t belong to her.

It wasn’t her strength. Wasn’t her breath or blood or bones. It was something older . Vaster. Like a mountain rising beneath her skin.

Aelin gasped, nearly lost her seat as a wave of something coursed through her—electric, ancient, aware . Not violent, not wild.

But watching. Waiting.

“Good,” Syrax murmured, her voice a quiet thunder in Aelin’s bones. “You’re ready.”

And just like that, the world had changed.

It wasn’t just flying anymore. Wasn’t just rider and dragon.

There was a thrum —a thread pulled tight between them. A new beat, like breath echoing through stone. She could feel Syrax even after they landed, even after she dismounted.

Not through words.

Through presence .

It didn’t have a name yet. No signet had flared to life. No burst of flame or frost or storm erupted from her hands.

But it was channeling .

But two days later, a parchment slip arrived with her breakfast tray: Report to Wielding Hall. Second bell.

The building was older than most on Basgiath’s campus, stone worn smooth by centuries of magic and miscalculation. It squatted like a forgotten relic on the north edge of the Riders’ Quadrant, surrounded by nothing but wind and silence. No guards. No posted schedule. Just a heavy iron door that pulsed faintly with wards and opened when she approached—as if it knew .

Inside, the circular chamber was dim and echoing, the air thick with the scent of ozone and something sharper—metallic, alive. Mage lights hovered near the ceiling, casting slow-turning shadows across the stone.

There were only three other cadets.

First-years. Like her.

One was a nervous boy who wouldn't meet anyone’s eyes. Another, a girl with cropped silver hair and shaking hands. The third—broad-shouldered, freckled, breathing too fast.

All of them had begun to channel.

All of them had crossed the invisible threshold that now made them dangerous.

Aelin took her place near the edge of the ring, the wards humming just faintly beneath her boots. No desks. No chairs. Just a room meant to contain power .

Professor Carr stood at the center, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. The long scar down his jaw glinted faintly in the mage lights, a reminder—like everything about him—that magic wasn’t a gift.

It was a weapon.

His gaze passed over each of them, lingering for half a breath longer on her.

“The gift has begun to wake,” he said. No preamble. No congratulations.

Only truth.

“Channeling is not power,” he went on, voice low and even. “It is permission. Your dragon has opened the door. You may now walk through it. But do not forget—doors swing both ways.”

No one spoke.

“You may already feel the changes,” Carr said, beginning a slow pace across the chamber. “Quicker reflexes. Greater stamina. The ability to move things without touch. Small tricks—mage lights, floating ink pens, unlocking doors. These are lesser magics. They will feel easy. They will tempt you.”

He stopped at the ring’s edge, fingers laced behind his back.

“But lesser magic is not a toy. It is the test.”

Aelin’s skin prickled.

“You will be watched. Not just by me. But by the wards, by your dragons, and by your own instincts. Control is everything. If you reach too far, too fast, you will burn out. You will die. Or worse, you will take someone else with you.”

The silver-haired girl shifted on her feet. The nervous boy swallowed.

Carr's eyes flicked to Aelin again.

“And one day, your signet will manifest,” he said. “When it does, it will not ask your permission.”

Silence.

“Signets are not chosen. They are revealed. They are the reflection of your innermost self—your fears, your wants, your truths. That is why they’re dangerous. That is why we begin now.”

He gestured once, and the mage lights flickered—then reformed into a solid ring around them.

“For the next few months, this will be your crucible. And you will learn the cost of every breath of power you take from your dragon. This is not scribes' theory. This is not battle brief. This is survival. And the odds,” he smiled faintly, grimly, “are not in your favor.”

He let the silence stretch before he finally nodded.

“Begin.”

Aelin didn’t move for a breath. She could feel Syrax, high above in the skies, a distant flame against her skin. Not watching with judgment.

But with pride.

And that made her straighten. That made her ready.

Because something had shifted when she’d first felt the channeling stir. Not a signet. Not a storm of magic.

But the door had opened.

And she was walking through.

Chapter Text

It began with a whisper of heat.

Aelin didn’t notice it at first—how her breath fogged slower than the others in the frigid morning air, how the frost never quite clung to her skin, how the icy wind off the mountains felt cool but never sharp. She told herself it was nothing. Just the extra layers she wore under her uniform. The constant adrenaline from formation drills. The lingering hum Syrax left in her bones every time she landed.

But by the third week of December, the truth could no longer be ignored.

It happened during sparring.

The gym reeked of sweat, old leather, and steel. Grunts and curses echoed off the stone walls as Emetterio barked drills, forcing them through the tight circles of footwork and blade-work again and again. The kind of training that left bruises blooming beneath leather and fingers aching from the cold.

Aelin moved with Quinn, their blades flashing in sharp arcs as they danced and struck, parried and circled. Quinn feinted high—predictable. Aelin had seen her do it before, usually followed by a sweep to the legs.

She didn’t think.

Didn’t choose.

Reacted .

Heat exploded through her hands.

Her sword ignited.

Real fire—coiling in a serpent of flame down the blade, wrapping around the steel like it belonged there. Like it had always been there, waiting for her to stop pretending.

The gym fell silent.

Quinn stumbled back, eyes wide and startled. “Uh. Celaena?”

Aelin stared at her own blade, at the fire dancing over the edge without burning her gloves, without scorching the leather grip. Her heart pounded like a war drum—but the flame felt right . Not like a spark struck by accident. No, this was deeper.

The fire flared once—and vanished.

Snuffed out as if it had never been there at all.

But her palms still tingled with warmth. Her veins still thrummed with it.

Across the room, Emeterio whistled low. “A fire wielder,” he said, not quite surprised, and turned to his aide. “Go tell Carr.”

By nightfall, she stood once more in the circular stone chamber beneath Basgiath.

The same room where she'd first channeled—when Syrax had opened that invisible door inside her, when the world had shifted and magic had started to hum under her skin.

But this was different.

This time, the air felt heavier. Warmer, somehow. Like the stone walls themselves had registered what she’d done in the gym, and were waiting to see if she'd do it again.

Carr said nothing when she entered. He stood near the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as ever. But his eyes went straight to her fingers—like he could still see the embers glowing beneath her skin.

He didn’t greet her. Didn’t offer pleasantries or comfort.

“So,” he said at last, voice flat and sharp as flint. “Fire.”

Aelin nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Carr watched her for another breath, then jerked his chin. “Show me.”

Her hands didn’t shake—but her breath caught as she lifted her palm, willing the warmth to return. It came fast. Eager. Like it had just been waiting for permission. Flame coiled along her fingers, neat and contained, flickering like candlelight against her skin.

The fire didn’t so much as singe her glove.

Carr’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, boots scraping against the stone floor, stopping only a few feet from her hand. The heat between them crackled, subtle and ancient.

“You didn’t burn,” he said quietly.

Aelin blinked. “Sir?”

“You didn’t burn yourself.” He circled her slowly, and she didn’t dare lower her hand. “Most first-time fire wielders singe themselves. Not badly, but enough to blister. Enough to scream. They lack instinct. You didn’t even flinch.”

Aelin said nothing.

“You controlled what you burned,” Carr murmured, as if to himself. “You didn’t lash out. You didn’t ignite the air. You didn’t catch your sleeves or hair. You didn’t even scorch your boots.”

“I wasn’t trying,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Carr gave her a look—too sharp, too knowing. “Exactly.”

He circled back in front of her. The fire was still dancing along her hand, obedient as a trained dog. His gaze flicked to it, and Aelin noticed, for the first time, the faint shimmer of heat rippling around his own knuckles. Not visible flame—but she knew fire when she felt it. The room warmed, subtly, as if the air recognized kinship.

But something about his magic—his fire—felt… different.

Not wrong. Just— heavier . Rooted. Like stone and smoke and pressure.

Not like hers.

Hers still felt like breath. Like wind catching a spark and carrying it skyward.

But she guessed that every magic felt different. Signets were shaped by the person, after all—and no two people burned the same.

Carr stepped back and finally, finally let her lower her hand.

“Do you know what it means,” he said, “to hold fire in your palm and not burn?”

Aelin shook her head.

“It means you’ve already chosen yourself.” He studied her. “Whether you know it or not. Most people wield fire like a weapon. They lash. They consume. But you pulled the flame inward. You shaped it.” He paused. “You made it a part of you.”

She hesitated. “I didn’t think. I just… reacted.”

“That’s what makes it real.” Carr stepped back fully. “Instinct doesn’t lie. Neither does fire.”

He considered her for a long moment, arms crossing over his chest. “To control flame that precisely on your first attempt—it’s rare. Extremely.” His gaze drifted to her hand again, now empty, the flame gone but not forgotten. “Most can’t even call it without burning themselves. You didn’t just call it—you commanded it.”

Aelin didn’t know what to say.

Carr’s mouth tightened, not in disapproval but in thought. “That kind of control, especially over something so new, is the mark of power. And given what little anyone knows about your dragon's true capacity…” He trailed off, the implication clear. “Let’s just say I expect great things from you.”

He picked up his worn leather notebook from the pedestal in the center of the chamber, flipped it open, and jotted something down without looking at her.

“We begin tomorrow,” he said.

Aelin nodded once and turned away, the warmth still curled in her chest. Not fire now. Just the ghost of it. Like it was watching, too.

That night, long after her squad had drifted into uneasy sleep, Aelin sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed, the moonlight silvering her hands.

She hadn’t meant to call the fire again. Hadn’t meant to summon it.

But there it was, flickering above her palm—small, steady, mesmerizing. A dancer of flame twirling on her skin. It didn’t burn. Didn’t even singe her shirt where the cuff brushed the edge of the glow. It just… waited. As if listening.

The fire made no sound, but the air shifted around her with every pulse of heat. She tilted her head, studying it. So fragile-looking. So alive. It had come faster this time—without thought, without effort.

And as she stared, heart thudding in her chest, Syrax uncoiled in her mind.

“You did well not to show him more.”

Aelin’s gaze didn’t lift from the flame. “ You saw it too?”

“I felt it.” The dragon’s voice was a murmur of wind through leaves, of stormclouds gathering beyond the horizon. A pause. Then quieter: “I opened the channel weeks ago. But you wielded today. It is yours now.”

The flame flared as if in agreement. Brighter for half a heartbeat, then softening again. Aelin could feel it—not just in her hand, but under her skin. Like her veins had remembered heat.

“Too much of it,” Syrax added.

Aelin swallowed hard, closing her fingers slightly around the fire. It curled obediently, resting in her palm like a sleeping creature.

“How much is too much?” she whispered.

“Enough to burn down more than just your enemies. Enough to make Carr look at you like a sword to sharpen.”

She huffed a quiet, bitter breath. “He already does.”

“Yes,” Syrax said, a low growl threading her words. “But now he’ll see you as more than just sharp. Now he’ll see you as useful. And that is worse.”

The fire pulsed again—like it knew. Like it agreed.

Aelin leaned back against the bedpost, letting her head tip up to the ceiling. The moon had shifted. Everyone else slept on, unaware that one of them sat in the dark holding a piece of a storm in her hand.

“What do I do? ” she asked, voice barely audible.

“You pretend, little liar.” The words wrapped around her like velvet and steel. “You let them think you are powerful—but not dangerous. Let them think you are impressive—but not unpredictable. Let Carr believe your signet is fire, and that it is strong, but nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

Aelin opened her fingers slowly, watching the fire twist and lean toward her palm like it wanted to stay. It didn’t rage. It didn’t scream. But it waited—coiled and ready.

“And what if I lose control?” she whispered.

“Then you learn. Quickly. Quietly.” Syrax’s voice darkened, ancient and immovable. “You are no one’s weapon to wield, Aelin Tauri.”

The fire didn’t answer, but in its heartbeat of warmth, in its breathless silence, she knew: it could burn the world down.

The Winter Solstice came on a night of stars and stillness.

Aelin slipped away before midnight, boots crunching softly over a thin layer of snow as she ducked into the tunnel. Her breath fogged in the cold air, and every step echoed too loudly in the silence.

She didn’t hear him until it was too late.

“You’re persistent,” said a voice from the dark.

She spun, but he was already there—leaning against the wall with infuriating calm, arms crossed, shadows pooling at his feet like spilled ink. The magelight didn’t reach his face.

“You’ve been following me since the first day,” he said, voice low and amused. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

Aelin didn’t flinch. “Clearly I gave your ego too much credit. How?”

He smirked. “The shadows. They hear everything.”

His eyes gleamed, obsidian-dark. “You think darkness is your ally. But you merely adopted the dark. I was born in it. Molded by it.”

She gritted her teeth. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.”

“If I wanted you dead,” he said lazily, “you wouldn’t have made it to Threshing.”

Her spine locked.

He stepped closer, shadows curling at his boots like loyal hounds. “I let you spy. I wanted to see what you’d do with it. And now that you’ve confirmed your suspicions…” His smile sharpened. “Let me guess—you’re going to run to Colonel Aetos? Or General Sorrengail? Win a medal for exposing the child of a rebel?”

She didn’t blink. “I’m not interested in stupid medals.”

“I know what your father fought for,” Aelin said quietly. “What he died for.”

Xaden’s smile vanished.

“Oh?” he said, voice like frostbite. “And please—do tell me, what did my father die for?”

She leaned in, close enough to see the tension in his jaw. “For the true enemy. The one no one acknowledges. He died because he tried to expose the truth.”

There was a silence so heavy it felt like a grave settling.

“What did you just say?” he asked, too softly.

“So tell me, Riorson,” she whispered. “Are my suspicions correct? Because from that reaction alone, I can tell you know about them .”

His amusement vanished completely. Gone in an instant, like a candle snuffed by wind.

His eyes didn’t leave her face. “What you’re talking about is treason.”

“Wouldn’t be your first time” she said coolly.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Careful.”

“Or what?” she challenged. “You’ll kill me for knowing about the Venin?”

Xaden stepped closer, shadows curling tighter around him like armor. “Where did you hear that name?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He said nothing. Just looked at her—like he was trying to peel her open with nothing more than his stare.

His voice dropped, hard and low. “Tell me where.”

Aelin crossed her arms. “Tell me what you know first.”

He laughed—cold and sharp and humorless. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then I guess we’re done.”

She turned, stepping past him.

But his voice stopped her. “My father told me. Before the rebellion ended.”

Aelin pivoted, slow and steady. “So I was correct. Now—what have you been doing all those late nights with Tavis?”

He didn’t confirm it. Not outright. Just said, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sardothien.”

“I always do.”

He didn’t answer.

So she kept going. “Let’s see. You fly at night, heading east. Always accompanied by Garrick—so he must know too. You carry a full backpack every time, but you never stay out long. You’re always in formation the next morning.”

She tilted her head, watching the way his body tensed.

“Tell me, Riorson,” she said softly. “What are you smuggling into Poromiel?”

The shadows at his feet shivered. Like they wanted to strike.

He said nothing.

So she pressed. “It has to be small to fit in the backpack. Not too heavy—but not too light either. It could be multiple items. Weapons, maybe—”

“Careful,” Xaden warned again, sharper this time.

But Aelin barreled on, like she hadn’t heard him. “But not just any weapons. Poromiel manufactures their own. Mass-produced, easy to track. What they’d need is something better. Specialized. Scarce.”

Aelin’s breath caught as a memory slid into place like a blade into its sheath.

Her brothers. Always carrying the same slim dagger, identical hilts wrapped in worn black leather. Her father too. And General Melgren, the man her father trusted most—he’d had one tucked into his belt every time he came to visit the palace. She’d never thought much of it. A show of loyalty, she’d assumed. A gift. A symbol. But what if it wasn’t?

Her gaze snapped up to Xaden.

“It’s a special weapon, isn’t it? Made here. At Basgiath.”

She’d never seen him so still. So taut. Not even in combat training. Every muscle was wound tight, his body coiled like a wire about to snap.

Aelin laughed, quiet and edged like glass. “Oh, Sorrengail is going to be absolutely furious when she finds out you've been stealing from her right under her nose.”

His voice was a blade drawn in the dark. “You’ll be dead before you get the chance to tell her.”

Aelin raised a brow. “ Tell her? Riorson, I thought we were on the same side. I’m not your enemy. I want to help.”

That earned a dry, humorless laugh from him. “Help? You? I’d rather not.”

She stepped closer, face illuminated by the low magelight, every word deliberate. “You’re already taking a risk—smuggling out Basgiath-forged blades behind enemy lines. Might as well take one more and actually start trusting someone who knows what you’re fighting.”

His stare was pitch-black steel. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough. I know the Venin exist. I know your father tried to expose them—and paid the price. I know the real war isn’t the one the King preaches, and that you and your little rebel friends are the only ones actually preparing for it.”

Xaden stepped forward, shadows curling like armor. “If you ever say that aloud again, even once, I will end you.”

But Aelin didn’t flinch. “You won’t.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And why’s that?”

“Because you need me,” she said simply. “Because unlike the rest of this godsdamned college, I actually see what’s coming. And I’m not going to run to General Sorrengail. I’m not going to betray you.”

His voice was low. Dangerous. “And what do you want in return?”

“Information. Truth. An alliance, if you’ve got the spine for it.”

He stared at her for a long, long moment.

Finally, Xaden said, “This changes nothing.”

“It changes everything. ”

Neither of them moved. Not for a while.

Then Xaden gave her a look like frost meeting flame. “You’re either the most reckless person I’ve ever met—or the most dangerous.”

“Maybe both,” she said, and walked past him, boots crunching on the thin ice without a backward glance.

His voice chased her down the tunnel. “Careful, Sardothien. Keep digging and you’ll hit something you can’t crawl out of.”

Aelin didn’t look back. “Let’s hope it’s something worth dying for.”

The cold of the tunnel bit into her cheeks as Aelin rounded the last corner and stepped into the deeper dark, away from the flickering mage light. Her boots echoed off damp stone, and her pulse finally began to slow—just enough for the adrenaline to turn sour in her stomach.

When she arrived to her room, she was shaking. Not visibly, not enough for anyone to notice—but inside, beneath skin and bone, her muscles trembled with the weight of it all. The confrontation. The truth. The fact that she’d said it out loud and that he hadn’t denied it.

Poromiel’s Gryphon fliers. Specialized daggers forged at Basgiath. Her father. Her brothers. Melgren. That same sleek blade always at their side.

She pressed her back against the stone wall and slid down, knees bending, arms braced on her thighs as she drew in a long breath, then another. The cavern stank of moisture and old air. Her fingertips were numb.

What the hell had she just done?

One misstep. One slip of her tongue, and he would’ve killed her right there. She believed that. Xaden wasn’t just shadows and smirks and pointed silences. He was war incarnate, with no edges left to blunt. If he thought she was a threat to his cause, he wouldn’t hesitate.

But she hadn’t been wrong. Every instinct had screamed that she was right. And now she knew .

She laughed—quiet, breathless, a little unhinged.

Gods, she was in so much trouble.

And yet... a thread of satisfaction curled in her chest, warm and steady. She’d cracked it. All those nights trailing him through Basgiath, questions keeping her mind turning long after lights-out, pages of the history class books she’d reread until her eyes burned—not for answers, but for holes.

And there had been holes. Always had been. Because they didn’t teach about real war. Only the curated, structured, palatable version. Not the kind that Xaden and his rebels were quietly preparing to fight.

Aelin leaned her head back against the wall and stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling.

The silence in her mind didn’t last long.

“See?”

The voice unfurled like smoke, smug and far too amused for this hour.

“It was easier if you just asked, instead of keeping me awake with your endless questions about Sygael’s rider.”

Aelin groaned and shut her eyes. “ Syrax.”

“You’re welcome,” the dragon added dryly, her presence curling through Aelin’s thoughts like a velvet-weighted cloak settling over her shoulders. “I’ll take my thank-you in the form of fewer useless mental tangents.”

Aelin scowled. “ They weren't useless tangents. They led somewhere.”

“Eventually.” A sniff, tinged with the scent of sulfur and ozone. “I had to listen to you mentally pace for hours.”

“I wasn’t pacing,” Aelin muttered.

“You were. For two weeks straight.”

Aelin sighed. “ Well, now I know.”

Syrax didn’t answer for a moment. Which in itself was strange. She rarely let Aelin sit in silence for long.

Then, quietly:

“And now that you do… what are you going to do with it?”

Aelin blinked.

That was the real question, wasn’t it?

She pushed off the wall and stood again, brushing dust from her trousers with stiff fingers. Her breath clouded in front of her, white in the cold air. She stared through the window beyond, heart slowing, mind already shifting gears.

What was she going to do with it?

Because knowing the truth—that Xaden was smuggling weapons, that the daggers weren’t just sentimental tokens but something more —it didn’t mean she could act. Not until she knew more. Not until she was sure .

Because General Sorrengail knew. 

Melgren knew. 

Her father had known.

Maybe even Halden. Maybe even Cam.

Gods, Cam.

Aelin pressed her knuckles to her mouth, breathing through the tightness in her chest. She was surrounded by people who had always known—and no one had told her. No one had told any of them. Not about the Venin. Not about the war behind the war.

And if she said the wrong thing to the wrong person, she wouldn’t just be ignored.

She’d be eliminated .

She couldn’t risk her friends. Couldn’t risk Dain. His loyalty to the Codex— to his father —still ran too deep. He needed proof. Evidence. He needed to see it with his own eyes before he’d believe anything else.

But by the time he did… it might be too late.

Syrax’s presence stretched through her mind, steady and contemplative.

A beat. Then another.

“You want my opinion?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” The dragon’s voice was quieter now, but not soft. She wasn’t teasing anymore.

“You need to train your signet. Push yourself. Break yourself, if you have to. You need to become a force of nature—stronger, faster, relentless.” A pause, then: “I don’t know everything, little liar. But I know this: the Venin are monsters. More powerful than you’ve imagined. And only the strongest Riders stand a chance against them.”

Aelin’s throat tightened. Her hands fisted at her sides.

“I’m not strong enough yet.”

“Not yet,” Syrax agreed. “But you will be.”

The words burned in her blood. Because they were true.

Chapter Text

The cold months brought no peace.

By mid-January, Challenges resumed in full force, and Aelin felt the shift immediately—like something vital beneath the surface had begun to stir. Tension coiled between cadets like a second skin, thick with the sting of frost and the weight of unspoken things. Morning formations were shorter now, the death toll lower. But that didn’t mean the pace had slowed. If anything, Basgiath had grown hungrier. For strength. For skill. For blood.

The sparring rings were full before dawn each day, breath fogging the frozen air, the slap of bodies against mats echoing like war drums. Aelin rotated partners every few rounds, sweat clinging to her spine beneath her leathers. She could feel herself getting stronger. Faster. She had to—because the world was sharpening its teeth.

It happened on a brittle morning laced with snowmelt. Imogen was up against a second-year named Kael—broad, smug, fast, one of those Riders who always looked like he was halfway to laughter, even mid-strike. He hadn’t taken her seriously when the match began. He’d sneered something about how he didn’t normally hit girls.

Aelin had seen the slow curl of Imogen’s lip before she’d lunged.

The fight started clean. Imogen moved with practiced efficiency, every step coiled, every strike deliberate. But Kael was relentless, his confidence growing as he began to predict her rhythm, cutting her off with sweeping kicks and feints meant to wear her down.

And then he caught her by the wrist.

The contact was brief—just a hand on her arm to spin her around. But in the next instant, Kael froze.

Blinking, confused. His body went slack.

Imogen took two steps back, breathing hard. “Kael?”

He turned his head, brow furrowed. “Why am I in the ring?”

Silence crashed through the sparring yard.

Carr was the first to move, striding forward with that clipped urgency he never quite managed to disguise. Emeterio followed, slower, his eyes narrowing in that calculating way Aelin had come to know meant he already understood exactly what had happened.

“I didn’t mean to,” Imogen said quickly, still staring at her hand like it was no longer hers. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t trying to—”

Carr knelt beside Kael, speaking low, measured. Emeterio reached for Imogen, his voice gentler than usual. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I touched him,” she whispered. “And then… he didn’t know me. He didn’t remember the match.”

“Your signet’s manifesting,” Emeterio said. “That’s all.”

The words didn’t seem to comfort her.

They took her inside after that, not like a punishment—more like containment. A precaution, until they understood the scope. Aelin watched her squadmate vanish through the archway and felt something cold settle in her stomach. Not fear. Not exactly. Just… awe.

Because memory was power.

Imogen was allowed back into formation the next morning. She didn’t speak about it, and no one made her. She carried herself a little differently now—shoulders braced, eyes wary. Not because she was ashamed. But because she knew .

What she could do. What people would wonder.

And yet the squad didn’t pull away. If anything, they closed in tighter.

Quinn was the first to break the tension, that evening in the mess. She sat beside Imogen, dropped her tray, and said loudly, “So if I say something stupid, can you just erase it retroactively? Like, give me a do-over?”

Imogen gave her a flat look, but Aelin didn’t miss the way her shoulders loosened.

“Only if it’s really stupid,” Imogen muttered.

“Oh, I’m doomed, then,” Eris chimed in. “My entire personality is a war crime.”

Cianna snorted. “Can you erase the part of me that remembers Alric trying to flirt with that third-year?”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Alric yelped from down the table.

“Please don’t do it to us ,” Aelin said, finally. Quiet, but not soft. Her eyes met Imogen’s. “We trust you. Just… don’t take our memories. Even the awful ones.”

Imogen nodded, slow. “I wouldn’t. Not unless you asked.”

And from then on, when anyone outside the squad gave her a second look in the halls, it wasn’t just because of the rebellion mark.

It was because she could reach into your mind—and make you forget.

Late January blew in colder still. The wind sliced through the stone paths between the buildings like it wanted blood, hissing through the battlements, slamming doors off hinges.

They were on their way to breakfast, the squad trudging across the upper courtyard in a loose pack, half-asleep, muttering curses about frostbite and Kaori’s threat of pop quizzes before dawn. Quinn was just ahead of her, shoulders hunched against the cold.

And then there were two of her.

Aelin blinked once. Then again.

Both Quinns were walking side by side—same swagger, same hair, same clothes, same everything.  One real, one… not.

The second Quinn flickered faintly at the edges like sunlight off water, but otherwise looked perfectly solid, perfectly alive. She was even grinning.

Aelin stopped cold. “What the fuck .”

Cianna walked into her back. “Ow. Warn a girl.”

“Look,” Aelin hissed, pointing.

Ahead, the real Quinn had stopped too—staring directly at her glowing, mirror-self now standing five feet in front of her with the exact same expression. Like she’d come face to face with her own reflection—and neither of them knew who’d blink first.

“Is that…” Eris trailed off.

“Is she seeing double too?” Alric asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The second Quinn tilted her head. The real one muttered, “What in the name of all the gods…”

“Quinn?” Aelin asked carefully. “Did you… do that?”

“I don’t know, ” Quinn snapped, not taking her eyes off herself. “Do I look like I know what I’m doing?”

The copy folded her arms in a perfect mimic. Cianna swore. “Shit, that’s not just a ghost.”

Professor Kaori strode across the yard just then, stopping a few feet away with a low, appreciative whistle. “Astral projection.” He crossed his arms, golden cuffs catching the weak sunlight. “That’s rare.”

Quinn turned to him, pale and wide-eyed. “I just… I was thinking about skipping breakfast and suddenly— bam , here I was. And also there.”

Her double nodded solemnly, then reached out and gave her a thumbs-up.

Aelin barked a laugh. “Well. If one of you dies in mat training, the other can take your place.”

“Great,” Quinn muttered. “Double the risk of death. Living the dream.”

Then her copy gave her the finger.

“ Absolutely you,” Aelin said.

Quinn glared at her ghost-self. “Okay, how the fuck do I get me back inside of me?”

Kaori just smiled faintly. “I’d suggest focusing on your body. And maybe avoiding public spaces until you stop accidentally creating more of you.”

“Like that’s possible in this place,” Quinn muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her duplicate flickered once, then disappeared in a quick pulse of heatless light.

The squad stood in stunned silence.

“Okay,” Eris said finally. “That was sick.”

“Yeah,” Cianna agreed.

Quinn just looked vaguely traumatized. Aelin slung an arm over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ve always wanted to be twice as annoying.”

Quinn shoved her off with a snort, but the fear in her eyes had faded. Just a little.

Two days later, Aelin had the wind knocked out of her—literally.

They were in the west courtyard, running reflex drills between the weathered columns. Snow crusted the edges of the flagstones, brittle and cracking beneath their boots. Cold sunlight slanted through the spires overhead, illuminating the frost that clung to every surface in a glittering sheen.

Professor Emeterio barked orders from the perimeter, pacing in his heavy fur-lined coat, arms crossed as his breath misted in the frigid air. His gaze was sharp, watching every pivot, every strike, every hesitation with his usual brutal patience.

Cianna was up next.

She’d been unusually focused all morning, quiet in a way that made Eris joke about her plotting someone’s murder. Now, as she stepped into the ring of columns, her posture went still—not lazy or relaxed, but like a bowstring held taut, vibrating with energy.

The moment she raised her arms, something shifted.

Aelin felt it before she saw it. The stillness. That awful, suspended breath of a moment when the world waited to shatter.

Then the wind howled.

Not a breeze. Not a gust.

A gale.

It slammed into them like a tidal wave of air—raw and furious. Cadets shrieked and stumbled as the force swept through the courtyard with enough strength to knock bodies to the ground.

Training targets were ripped from their stands like paper. Mats flipped and tumbled. The nearest practice dummy—carved from solid stone—exploded into rubble as if struck by a catapult.

Aelin stumbled, throwing up an arm to shield her face. Her braid whipped across her skin like a lash, eyes stinging from the dust and grit the wind carried.

And through it all, through the chaos and the roar, she saw Cianna.

Standing in the eye of the storm.

Utterly still. Utterly calm.

Her braid snapped behind her like a banner in the gale, her boots rooted as if she’d grown from the stone itself. The wind didn’t just surround her—it spiraled outward, wild and sentient and sharp as a blade.

When it finally died—abrupt as it had begun—silence rushed in behind it. Debris still skittered across the flagstones. Someone groaned from a heap near the far wall. A third-year dragged himself out of the fish pond, soaked and sputtering.

Emeterio let out a long, low whistle. His expression was unreadable as he stepped toward the center of the ruined courtyard, snow crunching underfoot.

Cianna blinked. Her arms dropped to her sides. “...Oops.”

Emeterio arched a brow. “Oops?”

She offered a tentative smile. “I was just aiming for the target.”

“You hit it,” Eris called from where he lay sprawled on the ground, rubbing at his shoulder. “And me. And the wall. And probably the eastern battlements.”

“That,” Emeterio said, stopping before her, “was not air wielding. That was wind. Movement. Pure force, shaped and loosed by your will. Rare. Dangerous.”

Cianna’s grin turned feral. “So I did something cool.”

“Extremely reckless,” Emeterio corrected. “But yes. Cool.”

Laughter rippled through the squad as the shock of the moment finally cracked. Even Alric was smiling faintly as he got to his feet, brushing snow from his sleeves.

“Can someone write on my gravestone,” Eris groaned, “that I died because Cianna unlocked the power of the gods mid-warmup?”

“Only if I get a quote on mine that says ‘She asked for a breeze and got a hurricane,’ ” Quinn added dryly, helping Alric up.

Cianna gave a theatrical bow. “You’re all welcome.”

Aelin, still catching her breath, found herself grinning. Really grinning.

Two days ago, Quinn had split herself in two like it was nothing. Today, Cianna had summoned the wind like she was born for it.

Strength was waking in them.

Eris’s came the first week of February, in true Eris fashion: unannounced, inconvenient, and utterly chaotic.

He slammed open the door to Aelin’s room just after breakfast, arms flailing like he’d been chased the whole way there. His hair was a disaster, his uniform rumpled beyond saving, and his eyes—his eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

“I think my ears are haunted,” he announced, with the solemnity of someone declaring war.

Imogen, sitting cross-legged on Aelin’s bed and braiding Quinn’s hair, didn’t even flinch. “You didn’t drink anything weird again, right?”

“I was asleep,” Eris said, pointing to himself. “In bed. Dreaming about scones. And I heard whispering. On the battlements . At two in the morning . Miles away!”

“That’s called paranoia,” Alric called from the hallway. “It’s not a signet.”

“No, no,” Eris insisted, stalking into the room. “I can hear everything. Like right now—I can hear Cianna grinding her teeth because she knows I’m about to bring up her crush.”

Cianna, curled in the corner with a stolen blanket and a mug of tea, went very still.

Quinn didn’t miss a beat. “You mean her criminal obsession with that third-year who likes climbing?”

Cianna didn’t look up. “I will murder you.”

“I welcome death,” Quinn chirped.

Imogen snorted. “I knew it. She watches him climb like she’s about to write poetry about his forearms.”

“I do not—” Cianna started, scandalized.

“She absolutely does,” Eris confirmed. “And now I can hear her heart rate spike whenever she lies. It’s honestly deafening.”

Cianna buried her face in her blanket with a low groan.

Aelin, sprawled on the floor with a map open in front of her and her back against the wall, just grinned. “So. When’s the wedding?”

Eris opened his mouth—

Then the door creaked again.

Dain stepped inside.

He paused just inside the threshold, his hand still on the doorknob, brow furrowed at the chaos in the room. “Am I interrupting something?”

Everyone went silent.

Dain’s gaze flicked to Aelin—then stayed there a second too long.

And Eris, bless him, grinned like he just got the best gift he could ask for. 

“Well now your heart rate’s spiking,” he said, pointing at Aelin. “ Loudly. ”

Aelin didn’t even look up from her map. “I will set you on fire.”

“I welcome death,” Eris repeated, beaming. “Especially if it’s dramatically fire-based.”

Dain, clearly baffled but too polite to ask, just cleared his throat and walked over to Aelin. “We’re due at training in ten. Emetterio wants us paired again.”

“Fine,” Aelin said casually, but her ears were definitely pink.

Eris made a tiny gasping sound , like a scandalized court lady.

Quinn collapsed against Imogen’s shoulder, laughing. “Gods, we need popcorn.”

“I can hear your heart too, Dain,” Eris said, looking very smug. “It’s doing this little *pat-pat-*pause- pat thing. Honestly tragic.”

Dain muttered something that sounded like “I regret speaking,” and turned to go.

Aelin followed a moment later, grabbing her boots—only to pause at the door and glare back over her shoulder. “If any of you breathe a word—”

“ We welcome death ,” the room chorused in unison.

And Aelin—gods help her—laughed all the way down the hall.

Squad Battles arrived with the melt of spring—sunlight finally warming the ancient stones, the smell of fresh mud and training oil thick in the air.

Aelin rolled her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in her back as she eyed the course ahead. Cloud rings floated like massive silver hoops, staggered and twisting through the sky above Basgiath’s western cliffs. Gleaming runes shimmered faintly between them—magical traps set to fire illusions, wind blasts, or force pulses meant to knock even the strongest dragons off-course.

The sky was a deep, endless blue. The breeze smelled like sunlight on wet stone.

She’d almost forgotten how good it felt to sweat without freezing.

“Alright,” Professor Kaori called, his long coat snapping in the wind as he strode to the front of the assembly. “Here’s how this works. Entire squads run the course—one after another. You clear a ring, the next in your flight clears theirs. You miss? Penalty. You touch the mountain? Penalty. You die—well, that’s on you, but still, penalty.”

A few cadets laughed nervously.

Kaori ignored them. “Some traps are illusions. Some are real. You’ll find out when you hit them. Fastest complete time wins. Form up.”

Flame Section’s Second Squad huddled near a stone outcrop just beyond instructor range—an unofficial war council spot, blessed with shade, echoes, and distance.

Amber Mavis stood at the center, her strawberry-blonde braid wound tight. Calm, composed. “We fly in a staggered coil,” she said, nodding toward Quinn’s chalk map. “Four waves, two to three riders each, one cluster of rings per wave. Fastest flyers first. Final sprint needs someone who can tank illusions or pulse traps.”

Imogen nodded once. “Second wave for me. Glane can outrun a collapse trap. Gaothal should lead third. Cianna’s wind shaping can push back a gust rune.”

Eris stretched lazily, cracking his spine. “I vote I don’t go last. I’m more useful alive.”

“Define useful,” Quinn muttered.

“I look good in the air. That counts.”

Aelin crouched beside Amber, eyes flicking over the map. “Gaothal’s steady, but if the fourth ring’s a vertical drop, Thron’s better. Eris and Cianna take third. Imogen and Alric second. Me, Dain, and Quinn go first. Heaton and Emery clean up with you. The third-years flank support.”

Amber’s gaze sharpened. “You sure Quinn can handle the twist in the second ring?”

“She’ll ghost ahead and scout it. If it’s a pulse rune, I’ll burn it before we reach.”

Aelin flexed her fingers. Heat curled faintly across her knuckles. “Try not to fly too close.”

Quinn grinned. “He screams when startled.”

“It’s a battle cry,” Eris snapped.

“It was a whimper,” Cianna deadpanned.

Amber rolled her eyes. “You all know your marks. Trust each other. We fly clean.”

Aelin gave a sharp nod, Syrax already prowling toward the cliff edge, the wind stirring the massive folds of her wings. Her morningstartail swayed like a spiked war club. The sulfur scent of her scales filled Aelin’s lungs as she followed, black flight leathers tight across her limbs.

“Ready?”

“Always,” Syrax growled, golden eyes blazing. “ Let them watch us burn.”

Dain approached on Cath, the red swordtail’s wings flaring wide as he joined them. Cath’s hide shimmered like blood in the sun.

Dain adjusted his grips and called over the wind, “Try not to show off.”

Aelin smirked as she swung up into the smooth seat behind Syrax’s neck. “Only if you don’t drag behind.”

Quinn vaulted up Cruth’s flank, the green daggertail’s talons gripping stone. “No promises!”

Professor Kaori’s voice cracked across the sky. “Second Squad, Flame Section—on my mark!”

Wings spread. The cliff dropped away.

Syrax launched like a comet.

Wind screamed past. Aelin leaned into the movement, the rush of the air matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Cath flew left, Cruth right. A shimmer ahead—the first ring. Runes flickering.

Quinn’s astral form streaked forward, a ghost-flame against the sun. Her voice echoed back down the line: “Illusion! Sunfire burst—centered!”

Aelin called to Syrax, “Flame. Now.”

Fire roared from Syrax’s throat, carving through the false blaze. The trap shattered in a burst of sparks.

“Clear!” Aelin shouted.

Second wave launched—Glane and Holstrom, orange and green streaks cutting upward. Imogen’s voice boomed across the sky: “Coming in!”

A glow flared ahead.

Force pulse.

“Right! Bank right!” Aelin screamed.

Cath veered sharply, catching the worst of it. Syrax twisted midair, wings flexing against the pull. Cruth swept beneath them, trailing smoke as Quinn shouted, “Trap cleared!”

Third wave launched—Cianna on Gaothal, wind coiling around them. Eris and Thron surged ahead, reckless and fast.

“Watch your edge!” Imogen bellowed.

Eris whooped back, “Battle cry!”

“Definitely a whimper,” Aelin said.

Fourth wave thundered in—Amber on her bronze, flanked by Emery and Heaton. Third-years swept in behind, holding positions and clearing lingering traps.

Aelin spiraled above them, scanning, heart hammering.

“Still good?” she asked.

Syrax snorted. “ Child’s play.”

“I’ll tell Cath you said that.”

“He can take it.”

Dain pulled up alongside them, Cath’s wings steady. He shouted across the wind, “You holding?”

Aelin grinned. “Still on fire!”

Far below, a shriek cut upward.

Aelin barked a laugh. “There it is!”

“Battle cry!” Eris howled again, somewhere beneath.

“That was a whimper!,” Aelin said, still grinning.

Dain laughed beside her, the sound low and golden and utterly real.

Amber raised her fist above the last ring—signal: course cleared.

Second Squad rose together over the cliffs, wings beating, breath ragged.

They’d flown as one.

They’d won as one. 

Aelin’s room was barely large enough to fit three people comfortably, but somehow, it had become the default gathering place for the first-years of Second Squad.

There were no lounges in the Riders’ quadrant—just stone, cold halls, and the occasional patch of sun-warmed rock if you were lucky enough to find one. But her room had a view, a window that caught the last light of the day spilling over the cliffs, and a corner where Quinn and Imogen had dragged in an old floor cushion they'd pilfered from the supply room downstairs.

Tonight, they lounged barefoot on the floor, their leathers shed in favor of undershirts and comfort. A bottle of cider passed between them, their cheeks still flushed from the battle course and the long, adrenaline-fueled ride back to the quadrant.

“That sunfire trap was mean,” Quinn said, stretching her legs out until they bumped Imogen’s. “But very you,” she added with a grin toward Aelin.

Aelin, perched on the edge of her narrow cot, tilted her head. “Why?”

Imogen smiled into her mug. “Oh, just... all the fire and flair and unnecessarily dramatic timing. Subtle as a sword to the face.”

Aelin smirked. “It worked, didn’t it?”

A knock came at the door. Sharp. Hesitant.

Quinn lifted a brow. “You expecting someone?”

Aelin shook her head and rose, bare feet soft on the stone. She cracked the door open.

Dain stood just outside, wind-tousled and still in his leathers, a cut blooming red across one cheekbone. His hand was braced on the frame, expression faltering slightly when he saw she wasn’t alone. “Oh. I thought—sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Aelin said, keeping her tone even, opening the door a little wider but not stepping aside.

Inside, Quinn and Imogen instantly became too quiet. Imogen sipped innocently from her mug. Quinn tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear with exaggerated delicacy, watching like a hawk.

Dain didn’t enter. He just leaned slightly against the frame, a casual slouch that looked too practiced. “I can come back.”

Aelin arched a brow. “What, and let Imogen and Quinn make up stories about why you showed up in the first place? No. Face the consequences like a real Rider.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes flicking past her to the lounging girls before settling on Aelin again. “I was coming to check on you,” he said, quieter now, like the words weren’t meant for anyone else.

“You were good out there today.”

“I know,” Aelin said without hesitation

He smiled. Just a little. “Syrax didn’t just dodge that trap. She baited Cath into it. That was deliberate.”

“It was strategy,” she replied. “If we don’t think three moves ahead, we’re dead.”

His gaze softened. “Still. You didn’t miss a single beat.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Had a lot riding on it.”

A quiet moment stretched. His voice dipped lower, softer. “Or maybe,” he said, “you just wanted to impress someone.”

Her breath caught. Just slightly.

Aelin leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, mirroring his posture. “Takes more than fire to impress that said someone, doesn’t it?”

“Usually,” Dain murmured, leaning in—just enough to close the space. His words came softer than smoke. “But you’re not just fire… princess .”

Her heartbeat stumbled.

From inside the room, Quinn made a strangled squeak of noise.

Imogen elbowed her hard under the blanket.

But neither of them had caught what he’d said—only the fact that he was still standing scandalously close to Aelin, his voice a hush meant for her alone.

Aelin didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You’re not supposed to call me that,” she said, barely audible.

Aelin didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The space between them had shrunk to a breath, the air gone quiet and slow.

On the floor, Quinn leaned forward, chin propped in her hands like this was the best entertainment she’d had all week.

Imogen took a slow sip from her mug, eyes glinting over the rim. “Don’t mind us,” she murmured, lounging back with exaggerated leisure. “Carry on.”

Dain sighed, straightening slightly. He glanced toward Quinn and Imogen lounging on the floor, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Looks like we’re putting on a show for them.”

Aelin chuckled softly, stepping just a fraction closer. Her voice dipped low, almost a whisper. “Think they have any idea what we’re actually saying?”

He leaned in, voice just as quiet. “Doubt it. They’re too busy pretending not to listen.”

From the floor, Quinn exchanged a quick, gleeful glance with Imogen, whispering just loud enough for each other:

“Do you think they even know how close they are?”

Imogen grinned, eyes sparkling. “Nope. But I’m enjoying the front-row seats.”

Quinn nudged her, voice breathy with excitement. “Best drama at Basgiath, and it’s all free.”

They stifled giggles, faces flushed with the thrill of being secret spectators.

And then—

A door slammed open down the hall.

Eris stormed into view, shirtless, pants slung low on his hips, hair a tousled mess of sleep and rage. He didn’t even pause at the threshold, just threw his hands in the air and declared:

“Are you kidding me?! I was halfway through the best nap of my entire week when I start hearing voices so breathy I thought someone was dying.”

Aelin blinked. “You’re a Sound Seeker. You’re supposed to be able to filter things.”

“I was filtering,” Eris snapped. “Until someone started whispering like their words were dipped in forbidden tension and lust.”

Quinn howled with laughter, collapsing onto Imogen, who wheezed so hard she dropped her mug.

“I’m begging you,” Eris went on, pointing dramatically at Dain like he was the villain in a tragedy, “if you two are going to have your… Your… whatever this is , please take it far, verrrry far away. Preferably like the next cliff over. Or an active battlefield.”

Aelin smiled sweetly. “Next time, don’t eavesdrop, Eris.”

He stared at her. “Unbelievable.”

Then turned, muttering as he stalked back down the hall, “What is wrong with these people.”

The door slammed again.

Silence.

Then Quinn whispered, “Best. Night. Ever.”

Aelin didn’t look at Dain right away. She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, that single word echoing through her like it had left a mark.

She reached out—just the barest brush of her fingers against the back of his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

And gods help her, she didn’t want him to.

Chapter Text

The arena was alive with murmurs and anticipation as Professor Emetterio stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the assembled cadets. The sun was just beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the dirt floor stained with past bouts. 

“Listen up,” Emetterio’s voice rang out, cutting through the chatter. “Each cadet will face two opponents today. No killing. No signet use. This is about skill, endurance, and tactical precision—nothing more.” 

He let the words hang for a moment before continuing, “Remember, this isn’t about brute force. This is finesse. Footing. Breath. You win with your mind as much as your blade.”

Aelin’s eyes narrowed. She knew what he meant. Someone would be tallying their movements, their wins and losses. Choosing.

Cadets milled on the outskirts, rolling shoulders and stretching limbs, the smell of sweat and anticipation thick in the air. Second squad had claimed a shaded spot near the stone barrier wall, clustered together like a wolfpack.

“Two fights?” Eris groaned, balancing his sword on one shoulder. “Who are we trying to impress? The gods?”

“You’d lose points for even trying,” Imogen said dryly, lacing her boots tighter.

Cianna cracked her knuckles, serene as ever. “It’s not about points. It’s about keeping your teeth.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Quinn muttered, eyeing the third-years across the way with wary amusement. “Some of us have faces worth protecting.”

Aelin smirked as she rolled her wrist, the dagger sliding smoothly into her palm. “You’ll still be pretty when they knock you unconscious.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Quinn replied. “Also an insult.”

Dain stepped beside Aelin, brushing his shoulder close. “You ready?”

She glanced at him. The sunlight struck the edge of his jaw, casting part of his face in shadow. Shadows he didn’t seem to notice, didn’t care to. He radiated calm focus—coiled, efficient.

“I was born ready,” she said, then added in a whisper only he could hear, “but if you need me to take it easy on you, I can pretend.”

Dain’s mouth curved, slow and sharp. “That’s adorable,” he murmured. “But I think we both know who’s going to be watching who.”

Before she could reply, Professor Emetterio’s voice boomed across the arena, silencing the murmurs.

“When I call your name, enter a ring. You’ll have two matches. Win or lose, you don’t leave until you’ve fought both.”

He began reading from a scroll, name after name echoing across the grounds. Cadets surged into motion—some drawn toward the rings with grim determination, others practically bounding with energy. Dust kicked up under boots, the clang of steel filled the air, and the arena split into chaos—ten matches erupting all at once.

Second squad fanned out quickly, slipping into position near the outer rings, watching for their turn. Aelin stood with the others, scanning the names, the fighters, the rings forming like eddies in a storm.

“Alric Bren, Ring Four,” the marshal called.

Alric hesitated only a second before stepping forward. His opponent was a third-year who looked like he could lift a dragon by the neck.

“You’ve got this, Alric!” Eris hollered from the sidelines. “Remember what I taught you—stab low, scream loud!”

“I am not screaming,” Alric muttered under his breath, but he gave a nervous grin.

“Then stab harder,” Quinn advised, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

The two fighters clashed, blades ringing. Alric ducked a brutal strike and spun away, faster than he looked. Aelin caught Imogen giving a small, approving nod.

Cianna’s name came next.

She stepped into her ring without a word, her opponent grinning like he’d already won. He wielded knuckle blades—fast, flashy. But Cianna didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

They collided like weather fronts—him aggressive, all showy footwork and spinning strikes; her calm, methodical. She studied his patterns, waited for the overreach, then pivoted and slammed a fist into his ribs so hard he staggered, choking. Another hit to the temple, clean and sharp, and he crumpled.

The squad whooped from the sidelines.

“Remind me not to spar with her,” Eris muttered. “Or stand within punching distance.”

“She’s a flower,” Imogen said, deadpan. “A very violent flower.”

Then came the name that sent a ripple through their group.

“Celaena Sardothien. Far left ring.”

She drew her blade without hesitation, stepping into the far corner ring. Her first opponent was a girl she recognized—second-year, stocky, well-muscled, known for being relentless in sparring. She grinned like this was already hers.

They circled. The girl lunged, fast and low. Aelin spun, blade grazing across her side—not deep, not meant to kill, but enough to make her bleed.

Pain bloomed where a knife clipped Aelin’s ribs. She didn’t flinch. She adjusted, let the adrenaline burn through her veins, then countered with a hard strike to the back of the knee and a flat slam of her blade against the girl’s collarbone.

The second match was worse.

A third-year with long arms and quicker feet—he fought like he wanted to humiliate her, not beat her. He moved in close, hissing insults under his breath, taunting her every step.

“Too small,” he sneered as he blocked her strike. “Too slow.”

She smiled.

Then she dropped low, swept his feet, and before he could recover, slammed her elbow into his throat. When he fell, she drove her blade into the dirt beside his head, not touching—but close.

“Too dead,” she said sweetly.

Second squad howled from the sidelines.

Quinn cupped her hands. “Someone’s in a mood! ”

“Someone,” Eris called, “just made my week!”

Aelin stepped back, sweat trickling down her spine. Her side throbbed where the knife had cut her earlier, but she stayed standing.

And then she heard it.

“Dain Aetos, center ring.”

She turned, pulse steady now, eyes locking onto him.

Dain stepped into the center like it was his throne. He didn’t strut, didn’t swagger. He just walked—composed and dangerous. His first opponent was a brute of a third-year who favored broad swings. Dain let the man tire himself, blocked every strike with elegant efficiency, then slipped under a swing and drove his elbow into the cadet’s gut. He didn’t even draw blood.

Just left him wheezing in the dust.

His second fight was faster.

A whip-thin second-year with twin blades, darting in and out like a wasp. Dain didn’t rush. He watched. Calculated.

Aelin leaned forward, ignoring the ache in her ribs.

His blade flicked out once—twice. Sparks flew. He caught one wrist, spun the boy, kicked him behind the knee, and had his blade pressed to the back of his neck in a single seamless move.

Finished.

“Show-off,” she muttered, unable to stop the smile curling on her lips.

As Dain walked back to their cluster, brushing off his hands like he hadn’t just dismantled two opponents with surgical precision, he didn’t look away from her. Neither did she.

“You’re staring,” he said lowly, stopping beside her.

“So are you,” she replied, voice a little hoarse, heart still racing more than she’d like to admit.

His gaze swept over her—sweat-slick skin, the blood on her ribs, the way her chest still rose and fell a little too fast. But there was no smugness in his face. Just focus. Concern, maybe. And something else that made her spine straighten.

“You bled,” he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear.

“You noticed.”

A pause. His fingers twitched at his side, like he might reach for her and thought better of it. Then he said, voice softer than it had any right to be, “Remind me never to make you angry.”

She turned to look at him, sidelong, the corner of her mouth twitching into something close to amusement. “Oh, I think we’re well past that point.”

They stood like that, close enough that the heat of his body brushed hers, breath mingling in the heavy, sweat-salted air. Not touching. Not yet. But charged.

From behind them, Eris’s voice cut through the tension like a thrown dagger. “If you two don’t start kissing or stabbing each other soon, I swear I’m going to go mad.”

Quinn cackled. “I give it two more fights before they do both. Possibly at the same time.”

Imogen just sighed into her mug of water, ever the resigned observer. “Gods help us all.”

Aelin rolled her eyes and took a half-step back, ignoring how her skin still buzzed from proximity. Dain only raised an eyebrow, like he was considering the probability of both options Eris had suggested.

“I’m not kissing anyone with blood on my shirt,” she said, deadpan.

“You’re not denying the stabbing part,” he murmured, amused.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to. The weight of his gaze was enough.

Aelin dropped back onto the bench beside Quinn, reaching for her water flask as if her pulse wasn’t still rattling from that too-close moment. As if Dain’s voice wasn’t still echoing in her chest, brushing against the edges of things she wasn’t ready to name.

But she could feel it—that thread stretched taut between them, humming with every breath they didn’t take together. Ready to snap. Or ignite.

Either way, it was going to burn.

The sky was a dull, reluctant blue as the remnants of the afternoon sunlight flickered off the training field’s scorched edges. Steam curled off damp uniforms and smoldering boots as Second Squad trudged across the outer courtyard, dragging sore limbs and bruised egos from yet another grueling round of Signet Wielding. Professor Carr had been especially ruthless today, his clipped voice echoing through the cracked stones as he paired them into magic-on-magic matchups, pushing limits until cadets either collapsed or combusted.

Aelin’s skin still glowed faintly, the fire under her ribs refusing to quiet. She didn’t try to tamp it down—let it hum there, like a warning.

Beside her, Cianna used a quick gust of wind to blow a layer of ash and mud off her calves, her braid slapping against her shoulder. Eris wore a blooming bruise across his jaw but was grinning like he’d been given a crown.

“Tell me again how that counts as a victory,” Quinn said, half-laughing as she peeled a scorch mark off her sleeve.

“I stayed standing,” Eris replied with a dramatic limp. “Winning is relative.”

“You also screamed,” Imogen added mildly. “A little high-pitched, too.”

“That was a battle cry, ” Eris sniffed.

“Sounded more like a goat,” Emery chimed in from the back, and that was all it took—laughter rippled through the squad like breath returning after too long held.

But it all slowed when they rounded the stone pillars that marked the sleeping quarters entrance.

Alric was already there, leaning under the shaded overhang, his damp shirt clinging to his back in patches. He clutched a dented water flask like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world, his stare locked on the ground.

He didn’t notice them until Aelin called softly, “Alric?”

His head jerked up, eyes wide—like he'd just surfaced from deep water. “Yeah.” His voice came out too fast, too bright. “I’m good. Fine.”

“You’re not,” Quinn said, skipping the last step and landing beside him. “You pace when you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” he muttered, jaw clenched.

“You’re spiraling,” Eris confirmed, giving him a friendly slap on the back. Alric winced, barely glancing his way.

Dain moved quietly to Aelin’s side, arms crossed. “It’s your signet, isn’t it?”

Alric’s throat bobbed. “I know I shouldn’t care. I know it’s not a race. But everyone else is manifesting, and Holstrom—I’m trying, but it’s like… nothing’s there. Like I’m already behind and I haven’t even started.”

“You’re not behind,” Imogen said firmly, her voice soft but unshakable.

Aelin stepped forward, but Dain beat her to it.

“I haven’t manifested either,” he said simply.

The group stilled—not out of surprise, but in quiet solidarity.

Dain didn’t look ashamed. He didn’t even look uncertain. Just… grounded. Honest.

“I keep thinking maybe today will be it,” he added with a shrug. “Then it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean it won’t come.”

Alric’s mouth twitched. “Sounds like something an oracle would say.”

“Or someone very, very tired,” Dain replied with a faint smile.

“You’re bonded,” Imogen added. “That’s the part no one can fake.”

“Holstrom chose you,” Aelin said, tone quiet but sharp. “That dragon looked at everyone and picked you. That’s not luck. And it sure as hell isn’t nothing.”

Alric’s eyes darted between them all, squadmates old and new. The corners of his mouth lifted just slightly. “Thanks.”

Then Cianna’s head snapped toward the doors. “Wait—what’s that?”

Pinned to every single room door along the outer corridor was a piece of parchment. One for each of them, the edges fluttering faintly in the breeze. Aelin’s name was written across hers in precise, clipped handwriting.

One by one, they approached, plucking their notices free.

Aelin unfolded hers—and felt her breath catch.

Squad Evaluation Final: Retrieval Exercise

Location: Northern Grid Forest

Objective: Recover and return with hidden enemy battle plans.
Duration: Indefinite
Victory Condition: First squad to return with the satchel.
Parameters:

• Dragons will drop squads and depart immediately.
• Use any magic or equipment you can carry.
• The satchel is hidden. Its location is unknown.
• The area contains active, high-grade tactical traps.
• Combat between squads is permitted.
• No alliances allowed.
• Retrieval is mandatory.
• Prize: High-level enemy strategy documents. One copy. One winner.
  
  

Aelin’s heart kicked.

Imogen let out a low whistle. “Capture the flag. Except we don’t know where the flag is, and we might explode.”

“No dragons,” Dain murmured, eyes scanning the fine print again. “We’re on our own.”

“They’re just dropping us into a cursed forest and flying off,” Quinn said, deadpan. “Very nurturing.”

“‘Use any magic or supplies’ means we’re free to kill ourselves however we like,” Heaton observed.

“And ‘indefinite’ means this goes until someone finishes it,” Cianna added grimly. “Could be hours. Could be days.”

“It’ll be days,” Aelin muttered.

“Oh good,” Eris said, too brightly. “I was hoping we’d revisit our trauma bonding exercises.”

The third-years found them just as the bells tolled the quarter-hour before lights out and guided the group in near silence up to the third floor. The corridor was dim, lit only by the guttering sconces that lined the ancient stone walls. Every cadet who passed them did so without a word—Second Squad wasn’t the only one summoned tonight, but it felt like they were already halfway to war.

The room they were led to wasn’t luxurious—spartan, really—but it was the only chamber large enough to hold them all without being crammed shoulder to shoulder. The walls were bare save for a few tattered, battle-worn banners, sigils of squads long disbanded or dead. The worn wooden floor bore the deep scuffs of boots and blades and lives lived on the edge.

The third years set up noise wards outside the room in case anyone tried listening in. 

It felt… right. Like a place strategy belonged.

Weapons were set down. Packs lightened. The Northern Grid map was unrolled and pinned to the stone wall with sharpened daggers. They formed a circle around it, some standing, some crouching. Aelin stayed on her feet, arms crossed, while Dain knelt beside the map, fingers already tracing the ridged topography.

“The center’s a trap,” he said, voice clipped with certainty. “It’s too obvious. If I were hiding something important, I’d layer the middle with every explosive and silent snare I had.”

“We don’t go for the middle first,” Aelin agreed, tilting her head as she studied the terrain. “Perimeter sweep. Disturbed foliage—anything that looks even slightly off.”

“Careful,” Imogen added, already scanning the trees. “There could be traps anywhere.”

“We check every corner,” Dain said quietly. “Nothing gets missed.”

“I’ll project ahead,” Quinn said, tying her curls back into a messy knot. “Short bursts. I’ll scan the ground a mile out and pull back fast if there’s trouble. No one catches me twice.”

“Imogen and I will clear our trail as we move,” Cianna added from her crouch at the edge of the circle, tightening the cord at her vambrace. “No prints. No scent markers.”

Heaton cracked their knuckles. “We’ll lay misdirection—false trails, phantom sounds. Confuse anyone trying to follow.”

“I can mimic voices now,” Eris said brightly, sprawled on the floor with his head resting dramatically on his pack. “Might drop in a ‘help me!’ from deep in the trees. See who panics.”

Alric, quiet until now, leaned forward. “Smaller units. Split into pairs or threes. Less noise. Harder to track.”

“We rotate,” Aelin decided. “Six-hour intervals. One team scouts, one guards the fallback point, one rests. Rotate like clockwork.”

“I can reinforce the fallback spot with wind,” Cianna said. “Make it loud as hell if anyone gets close.”

“We move before dawn,” Imogen added, voice calm. “They’ll be expecting arrivals at first light or full dark. We fly just before the sun rises—no one expects the in-between.”

Amber, sharpening her blade with steady, deliberate strokes, finally looked up. “We go airborne at quarter to four. No lights. No talking. Land a klick outside the Grid and move on foot from there.”

“No fire unless I say so,” Aelin added, cutting a look toward Eris.

He clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “One time— one —and I’m banned from fire forever.”

“You lit a bush on fire,” Quinn muttered. “ While we were in it.”

“You all lack vision.”

Emery, lounging with his boots crossed, nodded once. “If things go sideways, we destroy anything they could use. Maps. Gear. Tools. We leave no trail.”

Dain arched a brow. “You always plan for failure?”

Barnes smiled, slow and sharp. “I plan for everyone else to.”

Aelin leaned over the map again, golden hair catching the low light. “No direct routes. We come in from the northeast—thicker trees, natural cover. If we time it right—”

Imogen finished, “—they’ll still be stumbling through shadows while we’re already circling the objective.”

Silence settled then. Not heavy. Not fearful.

Focused.

Resolved.

Amber stood. “We’ve got four hours. Prep what you need. Sleep if you can.”

They didn’t linger. The map was left pinned, weapons carefully laid out and double-checked. Eris dared Quinn to attempt an upside-down projection—she did, coming back sideways and laughing.

By the time the sky lightened with the earliest blue of false dawn, their plan was sharpened to a blade’s edge.

And then, the dragons came.

Syrax. Cath. Cruth. Glane. Gaothal. Holstrom. Thron. One by one, wings dark against the paling sky, they descended in silence—no trumpeting cries, no fiery breath. Just the whisper of wind and the low thud of talons brushing ground.

No goodbyes.

No well wishes.

Just the scent of sulfur and the heavy breath of dawn.

They mounted wordlessly. Aelin swung up onto Syrax’s back, settling into the familiar divot before the wings. Across the clearing, the others did the same, one by one, until the squad hovered in silent formation.

And then—flight.

They flew low, nearly skimming the tree line, not a single torch lit, eyes sharp as they raced the sun.

At the edge of the Northern Grid, the dragons touched down in a silent circle and launched off again without waiting, vanishing into the sky above.

Dain's voice answered from a few paces behind her. “We move west. Slow and quiet.”

No further commands. No reassurances.

Second Squad slipped into the trees like shadows.

They moved for hours. No sound—only the whisper of feet over moss and leaf-litter, the occasional flicker of movement as Quinn’s projection darted forward like moonlight caught in motion. Imogen walked rearguard, erasing every trace of their passage. Cianna kept the wind moving just enough to rustle nothing.

No talking. Just glances and signs, a language forged not from words but from instinct and rhythm—blood and bone and fire. Second Squad had trained for this. But now, out here, they were it. No safety net. No instructors watching.

Just the forest, watching back.

It was shortly after nightfall when Quinn’s projection returned, breathless even without lungs, and pointed toward a rise shrouded in low, leafy branches. Dain dropped to a crouch, running his fingers over the ground. He brushed back moss and dead leaves until a shimmer rippled like heat off stone.

A trap.

“Confirmed,” Quinn murmured. “Two others further west—also hidden.”

“We proceed carefully,” Aelin said quietly, eyes scanning the shadows.

The squad ghosted toward a hollow nestled beneath a ring of ancient boulders, half-consumed by vines and centuries of moss. It offered partial cover, enough to conceal a rest rotation. They’d sleep in shifts—Amber and Emery volunteered for first watch, joined by one of the third-years. No fires. No unnecessary heat signatures.

Aelin dropped to her bedroll, back aching, muscles heavy. Her fire was coiled deep in her bones, banked and waiting. Every part of her wanted to stay alert, to keep planning, but exhaustion tugged at her like a tide.

The night was quiet—almost sacred in its silence. Quinn lay sprawled between Cianna and Imogen, limbs a loose tangle. Alric twitched now and then, murmuring half-formed words into his blanket. Even Eris had gone still, arms crossed over his chest, face unusually serious.

Then, a soft sound. A shift of fabric. A familiar rustle.

Dain.

She felt rather than saw him settle beside her, his bedroll barely brushing hers. Their shoulders grazed. He didn’t speak. Just lay there, facing up toward the canopy, breathing slow and even.

Aelin exhaled through her nose, turning her head slightly. “You never sleep.”

Dain’s voice was low, almost a sigh. “You never stop watching.”

She smiled faintly at that. “Touché.”

Silence settled again, broken only by a distant owl and the rustling of leaves high overhead. Moonlight filtered down in silver slants, casting pale streaks across Dain’s face. He looked… steady. Tired. Real.

Her heart beat a little louder in the quiet.

“If you snore,” she whispered, “I will roast you alive.”

He huffed a soft laugh, eyes still on the sky. “Noted. Try not to burn the moss while you’re at it.”

Aelin shifted onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. “I’ve been practicing restraint.”

Dain turned his head toward her. “That’s… new.”

She snorted under her breath. “I know when to hold back.”

He studied her, the corner of his mouth tugging into something warm and unreadable. “I thought about kissing you.”

The words dropped between them like a spark.

Aelin blinked. “When?”

“In the hallway,” he said, voice barely audible. “After Signet class.”

Oh,” she said. 

“I didn’t,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, laying back down, turning so her face was toward him in the dark. “You didn’t.”

His gaze flicked over her. “Would you have let me?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Above them, the forest sighed. The stars blinked faintly between branches. Her body felt heavy, sore from travel, but there was something alert inside her—something bright and watchful.

“I wouldn’t have stopped you,” she murmured finally.

Dain’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Slowly, like he was moving through water, he reached out and brushed his fingers along her wrist. Once. Then again. Then his palm slid over hers, rough and warm, curling gently like it belonged there.

It did belong there.

Her breath caught, just a little.

“We’ll win this,” he said, voice hoarse.

“You’re sure of that?”

His fingers curled slightly tighter. “I have to be.”

Aelin watched him in the dark, her heart moving faster than it had moments ago. “And after?”

Dain smiled faintly, almost to himself. “Then I’ll ask.”

Aelin’s lips curved, slow and soft. “You’d better.”

They lay like that for a while. No kiss. No rush. Just the quiet tether of fingers and the slow, easy burn of something that didn’t need to be declared aloud.

Not yet.

Eventually, Aelin’s eyes drifted shut, her body sinking deeper into the bedroll, into warmth that wasn’t only from the fire slumbering inside her. The burden on her chest—the grief, the rage, the fear—it didn’t vanish.

But it eased. Slightly.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t cracking.

It was catching fire.

The next morning dawned slowly, pale light threading through the leaves like spilled milk.

Aelin was already awake when the birds began their tentative chorus. She hadn’t moved, but Dain’s hand still rested loosely over hers. At some point in the night, he’d shifted closer—barely a breath of space between their bedrolls. He didn’t stir when she gently slid her hand free.

She sat up, spine cracking. Syrax wasn’t near, but Aelin could feel her presence like a steady pulse in the back of her mind—distant, but alert. Watching.

“Morning,” Imogen murmured from across the hollow. She stretched, then glanced toward where Dain was still asleep. One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Aelin didn’t rise to the bait—just smirked faintly and pulled on her boots.

They broke camp swiftly. Silent hand signals, checked gear, bedrolls packed. Quinn muttered about needing a hot bath and a breakfast that didn’t taste like bark. Eris offered to find her some particularly moldy bark. Cianna grunted, unimpressed.

“We’re close,” Dain said once they regrouped, studying the trap with narrowed eyes. “If I were hiding the satchel, I’d put it behind the obvious trap.”

“That’s exactly what they want us to think,” Quinn muttered, brushing a cobweb off her shoulder.

Alric crouched beside a tree root. “There’s a pattern to the terrain. See that rise behind the hollow? Same formation as the western training maps.”

“You memorized the topography?” Aelin asked, incredulous.

Alric gave her a mild look. “You didn’t?”

Aelin flipped him off without looking. “Stick to singing, pretty boy.”

They moved like shadows. Cianna softened their steps with wind. Quinn sent projections forward in arcs, scouting for movement and hidden traps. Imogen erased their tracks behind them, precise and calm. The third-years kept the perimeter sharp, barely speaking, weapons always in reach.

They found the trap mid-afternoon. A cluster of trees with a gaudy, shimmering—bright, clumsy, trying far too hard to look dangerous.

“Too easy,” Aelin said, standing just at the edge of it.

“So we go left,” Dain replied.

They skirted the edge of the bluff, then picked their way along a narrow ridge, the earth crumbling beneath their boots. The air stank faintly of sulfur—Syrax’s kind of territory. A deep ravine cut through the next stretch of land like a wound, and they followed it carefully, using the rocks and mist as cover.

By dusk, they reached a sunken clearing where the trees stood eerily still. The bark was smooth as glass, the leaves motionless despite the breeze.

No one spoke. They fanned out, scanning, probing. Every bootfall was deliberate. Every breath held a beat too long. Hours passed—long, tense, quiet. The forest around them didn’t stir. Not a birdcall. Not a breeze. Just that strange, heavy stillness.

Then—

Aelin stilled, fingers hovering over a moss-veined stone near the base of an ancient tree. Not large. Twisted roots snaked around its trunk, bark pale and smooth as bone. The slab wasn’t obvious—half-sunken, oddly positioned, like it had been placed deliberately not so long ago and made it look old. 

“Here,” she whispered, low enough that only the closest of them might catch it.

She knelt, brushing away the debris. Her hands moved slow, steady—to sense any traps or mechanisms. Traps could be carved into the smallest grooves. Anything could trigger a blight burst or a full collapse.

Nothing.

Just earth. Old, dry, undisturbed.

Still, she hesitated. One more pass with her fingers.

When she was certain—utterly certain—she slid her fingers beneath the stone and lifted.

It gave way with a soft crackle of loosened soil.

Beneath, nestled in a hollow carved by careful hands and time, was a leather satchel. The leather was worn, the flap stained and cracked, but the seal was unmistakable: the Navarrian crest, faded but proud.

She didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

“Trap?” Dain asked quietly.

“No,” Aelin whispered, eyes still on the satchel. “This was meant to be found.”

A breath passed in silence.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” Imogen said.

Aelin held up a hand. “Wait.”

Everyone froze.

Her fingers moved carefully as she crouched again. “What if it’s a fake?” she murmured. “Wouldn’t be the first time they tested us with a decoy.”

She unbuckled the worn flap, her movements slow and precise. Inside, folded and sealed in oilskin, were several weathered documents. She pulled one free.

The paper was thick, heavy. The ink—Navarrian military code. Stamped three times. Seal unbroken. Another sheet bore troop positions and a classified cipher only used in internal High Command transmissions.

All of it looked real. All of it was real.

“Genuine,” Aelin confirmed. “Let’s move.”

They reached the cliff at midnight.

Syrax was waiting.

So were the others.

Twelve dragons ringed the plateau, eyes glowing in the dark like molten stars. Syrax stood tallest, wings half-flared, tail looped in lazy menace.

Amber stepped forward, her voice steady and clear. “Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing. Retrieval complete.”

At the cliff’s edge, Kaori stood in his flight leathers, arms folded. He didn’t speak for a moment, just watched them with eyes like flint.

“Show me.”

Aelin stepped forward and handed over the satchel. Kaori opened it, checked the contents: old documents, stamped and weathered. Coded maps. Real enough.

He didn’t smile. But his chin dipped slightly in acknowledgment.

“Congratulations,” Kaori said. “You’re the first squad back—with the real thing. Not a decoy.”

A pause.

“Most of the others brought back empty satchels or forged maps. Clever fakes, but not clever enough.”

Amber exhaled hard. Emery let out a low, awed laugh. Quinn made a triumphant whooping sound—cut off halfway by Cianna’s sharp elbow to her ribs.

“Report to your Wingleader,” Kaori said. “Clean yourselves up. Then rest.”

Aelin turned to Syrax, whose molten eyes gleamed in the dark.

“Well done, little liar” the dragon said, voice dry and approving. “Even if you took your time.”

Aelin smirked, brushing dirt from her hands. “You try threading a satchel out of a forest full of traps without dying”

Syrax’s tail flicked once. “ Child’s play.”

Dain came to stand beside her. He didn’t speak right away—just looked at her, really looked. At her smudged face, the torn sleeve, the quiet fire still banked in her eyes.

He brushed a streak of soot from her cheek with two fingers.

Something passed between them then—quiet and sharp and steady. A spark, slow-burning. Steady as her fire.

They mounted their dragons in silence. Syrax crouched, then launched skyward with one powerful push.

Wind screamed past them. Basgiath waited below—glowing like embers in the distance.

Second Squad had returned.

And they hadn’t just survived.

They’d won.

Chapter Text

Chakir Outpost stood like a scar on the edge of the wilds, a jagged fortress carved into wind-blasted stone. The spires were crude and utilitarian, stained from decades of sulfur rain and ash storms, its battlements manned by seasoned Riders whose eyes were hard from seeing too much. Dragons lined the ridge like sentries, tails curled, wings tucked, golden eyes watching everything.

For three days, Aelin and her squad weren’t cadets.

They were shadows.

Each cadet had been assigned to a senior Rider posted to Chakir as their first long-term assignment. They were given strict orders: observe, follow, listen. Not to interfere. Not to act unless told.

They were here to learn.

And the lessons came fast.

Patrols at dawn meant rising in the pitch-black cold, pulling on leathers stiff with salt and wind, and running drills along the jagged cliff paths that bordered the outpost. The terrain was brutal—choked with thorned scrub and sudden drops, wind so sharp it peeled moisture from their eyes. Dragons flew overhead in tight formations, low enough for the downwash to nearly knock them from their feet.

Aelin shadowed a Rider named Loras, a wiry woman with scars slicing across her jaw. Loras didn’t talk much, but what she showed Aelin—how to read wind shifts by the bend of grass, how to count breaths between dragon calls to measure distance—taught her more than half the lectures at Basgiath.

“They don’t teach survival,” Loras had said, glancing back once as they crouched behind a rock outcrop. “They teach procedure. Don’t mistake one for the other.”

Aelin had nodded, absorbing every word.

Across the outpost, Dain trailed a Rider who barked every command like a curse, Eris managed to charm his shadow within minutes, and Imogen’s assigned mentor didn’t speak at all—just pointed, gestured, and expected Imogen to keep up. Which she did. Effortlessly.

Quinn returned from her first patrol soaked to the bone and grinning. “We got dive-bombed by a Gryphon scout. I swear Glane bit its tail off.”

“You what?” Aelin asked, blinking.

“Bit its tail off,” Quinn repeated cheerfully, yanking off her boots and flinging them into the corner of the room she shared with Imogen. “Didn’t even get to throw a knife. I’m offended.”

“You were there to observe,” Imogen said mildly from where she sat cross-legged on her cot, braiding her damp hair.

“Oh, I observed,” Quinn replied. “I observed my dragon being a badass.”

Down the narrow stone hallway, Aelin’s room with Cianna was marginally warmer, though it still smelled like wet leather and old soap. Cianna sat on her bunk, fletching arrows with careful precision.

“They don’t trust us,” she said without looking up.

“They shouldn’t,” Aelin replied, pulling off her outer coat and slumping onto her bed. “We’re not ready.”

Cianna flicked a glance up. “You are.”

Aelin huffed a laugh. “Tell that to Loras. She told me I walk like I’ve got something to prove.”

“You do walk like that,” Cianna said dryly.

They both snorted.

After a pause, Cianna leaned back on her elbows, eyes thoughtful. “You don’t talk much about your life before Basgiath.”

Aelin’s hand stilled on her boot strap.

Cianna didn’t push. Just asked, quietly, “Was it bad?”

Aelin exhaled, slow and shallow. “Strict,” she said at last. “Cold. Everything was about control. Appearances. Loyalty.”

Cianna tilted her head. “Military?”

“In a way.” Aelin gave a thin smile. “My father… he liked things orderly. Punished anything that wasn’t. My brothers and I—well. We learned early not to be children.”

Cianna’s gaze softened. “Is that why you’re always first to react? Always ready to fight?”

Aelin didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because if I don’t fight, someone else dies.”

Cianna nodded once, not pitying. Just understanding. “I’m glad you’re in our squad.”

“So am I,” Aelin said, and meant it.

Down the corridor, Dain and Eris’s room was the loudest. Eris had somehow acquired a bottle of contraband orange wine and was pouring it into battered metal cups.

“For morale,” he insisted.

“You are not dragging me into a disciplinary hearing because you want to toast imaginary victories,” Dain muttered, but he took the cup anyway.

“To your grim sense of duty,” Eris said with a wink.

“To your eventual demise,” Dain replied, clinking cups.

Later, when Aelin passed their doorway heading to the shared mess, Dain caught her elbow and tugged her into the dimly lit room.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, face flushed from the wine and warmth. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Aelin said, but didn’t pull away.

“You look tired.”

She gave him a crooked smile. “You try following Loras through hell terrain and tell me you don’t feel like you’ve aged five years.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “She’s the one with the scar like a lightning bolt, right?”

“Mmhmm. I think she could kill a man with a look.”

Dain's smile faded slightly, his eyes tracing her features in the low light. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t.” Her voice was soft. “I know how to survive.”

“I know. But I still do.”

She didn’t say anything. Just rested a hand briefly against his arm before ducking back into the hallway, pulse unsteady.

Alric and Jerran sat in their room playing a quiet game of dice. Jerran showed him how to cheat. Alric showed him how to count cards. By the end, they were both laughing and neither had won a single round.

In the room next to them, Emery and Heaton were arguing about how wind direction affected long-range communication between dragons.

“You can’t just calculate by trajectory,” Emery was saying as they both hovered over a field map. “There’s a difference between channeling air and riding its currents.”

“I literally breathe underwater,” Heaton deadpanned. “You think I don’t understand flow dynamics?”

Amber and another third-year shared the final room. Amber, brushing out her braid, muttered, “If I have to spend one more hour standing still while someone explains the difference between reconnaissance and scouting—”

“You’ll what?” the third-year asked.

Amber sighed. “Smile politely and take notes. Obviously.”

That night, Aelin stood atop the outpost wall, looking out at the wastes that stretched like a cracked sea beyond the ridge. The wind howled. Her hands were scraped raw from a fall earlier—training with Syrax in the rocky eastern flats—and she still hadn’t gotten the sulfur stench out of her hair.

But she felt steady.

She felt stronger.

She didn’t turn when boots crunched on stone behind her. Didn’t need to.

Loras stopped a few paces away, arms crossed over her weather-beaten leathers, the moonlight silvering the scar that carved from the corner of her jaw to her temple. Her dragon—sleek and copper-scaled, a brown with a scorpiontail that curled like a loaded whip—perched farther down the battlement like a gargoyle, eyes glowing gold in the dark.

“You think you know what it’s like,” Loras said, voice rough as gravel. “But until you lose someone mid-flight, until your dragon screams in a voice that tears through your soul—”

“I know,” Aelin said softly.

Loras didn’t speak for a while. Just stood beside her, shoulders squared to the wilds, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond.

“Who was it?” she asked at last.

Aelin didn’t answer right away. She hadn’t said his name in weeks. Maybe months.

“My brother,” she said eventually.

Loras shifted. “Rider?”

“No. He died at Threshing last year. He never got the chance to bond.”

Silence again—dense, but not cold. Shared.

“My sister,” Loras said after a beat. “She was posted here. Three years ago. A border patrol caught a Poromish ambush along the southern cliffs. She and her squad held the line long enough for reinforcements to fly in. But her dragon went down.”

Aelin looked over. “And you stayed.”

A dry smile tugged at Loras’s scarred mouth. “I didn’t stay for revenge, if that’s what you’re thinking. I stayed because this wall is the only thing between the wards and the Poromish flyers who’d burn our villages to ash if they could.”

Aelin swallowed, throat tight.

“You’ve got it in you,” Loras said, turning her head toward her. “That edge. That fire. But it’ll burn you hollow if you let it.”

Aelin met her gaze, wind lifting her hair off her neck.

“What do I do with it, then?” she asked. “The anger. The grief.”

Loras looked back to the horizon, where the wastes met the sky like a blade’s edge.

“You use it. Not to prove something. Not to win praise or be the best. You use it to survive. To keep the ones beside you alive.”

She tapped two fingers against her temple. “The difference between a cadet and a Rider isn’t skill. It’s purpose.”

Aelin took in the words like they were iron hammered into her bones.

Loras gave her one last look, then turned to go.

“Come to the eastern ridge at dawn,” she said. “We’re flying a perimeter route. And I want you to see what’s really out there.”

Aelin blinked. “You’re not supposed to take cadets with you.”

Loras shrugged. “Good thing I never gave a shit about supposed to.”

Then she was gone, her dragon unfolding from the battlement and gliding silently into the dark sky.

Aelin stayed a moment longer, wind biting at her cheeks, sulfur in her nose. But her spine felt straighter now. Her breath steadier.

She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was starting to understand what it meant to protect. What it meant to choose her fire, not just wield it.

And beneath the cold stars above Chakir Outpost, she let the silence settle around her like armor.

Dawn came slow and bloodless.

The eastern ridge caught the first bruising light, casting long shadows over the frostbitten rocks as Aelin climbed the worn path. She’d risen before the bugle calls, before most of the outpost stirred, shrugging on leathers stiff with yesterday’s salt and smoke. She could feel Syrax still sleeping.

She hadn’t needed to tell her to stay behind.

Not for a training flight. Not for a spar.

This was something else.

Her boots crunched over gravel and frost as she crested the ridge.

Loras was already there.

She stood at the cliff’s edge beside Vekra, the copper-scaled dragon unmoving except for a slow, twitching flick of her scorpiontail. Her wings gleamed with frost. The wind pulled at Loras’s braid, her posture sharp as flint.

“You’re late,” she said without turning.

“I’m early,” Aelin replied, stepping up beside her. “By half an hour.”

“Late,” Loras said again, glancing sidelong. “They were here fifteen minutes ago.”

Aelin blinked. “What?”

Loras pointed east, past the jagged gorge that split the land. “Poromish scouts. Four. Two on foot, two on griffons. They come at dawn, always. Map our rotations. Test our response time. Count dragons.”

Aelin looked to where the sun bled weakly over the rocks. Nothing now. No movement. But she could still smell it—musk, steel, old blood on the wind.

“You let them go?”

“They were never here to stay,” Loras said. “That’s the tactic. Harass. Fade. Leave us chasing shadows until we’re exhausted and exposed. You follow them? They lead you straight into an ambush or a rigged ravine.”

It was a cruel kind of precision. One that gnawed at something in Aelin’s chest.

“They’re not fools, these flyers,” Loras continued. “They study. They strike. Then they vanish. One crate of blades here. A bolt barrel there. Little by little, until they’ve taken more than we realize.”

Aelin’s fingers curled around the frozen ledge. “And we just let them.”

Loras gave her a flat look. “We learn. We anticipate. You can’t win a war by charging blindly into a snare. You win it by knowing when not to strike.”

But it wasn’t a war, not really.

Not the one Aelin was fighting.

The real enemy didn’t ride griffons or draw maps in frost. The real enemy wore mortal faces and walked in shadows and stole the magic from the earth while the Empire played war games.

“If I told her,” Aelin thought, staring east again, “ if I told Loras what’s really out there—what the Poromish are running from—would she believe me?”

Would she change sides?

Would anyone?

“Syrax?”

Her bond stirred—distant, half-asleep, but there.

“You’re asking the wrong question.” Her dragon’s voice curled through her thoughts like smoke. “You already know who would stand with you. The question is: who can you afford to lose?”

Aelin inhaled slowly, chest tight. The truth weighed heavy. Heavier than any blade.

“I thought I understood who the enemy was,” she said softly.

Loras didn’t hear. She was crouched, drawing lines in the frost with her gloved finger—a rough terrain sketch. “Here’s what they do,” she said. “Scouts come first. Then three days later, the strike team hits—small, fast, surgical. Then gone. Before anyone blinks.”

“And we track their pattern,” Aelin said, dropping into a crouch beside her. “Run the counter. Wait.”

Loras gave her the barest nod. “Exactly. Tomorrow they’ll be back. You’ll trace them. Next week, you’ll reroute the watch towers. Set the trap. Let them think we’re still blind.”

“Then make them bleed,” Aelin whispered.

“Only if you have to.” Loras stood again, brushing frost from her knees. “You win by seeing first. And not being seen.”

Aelin rose slowly, the cold sinking deep. But her spine held. Her breath was steady.

She looked once more east, to where the scouts had vanished. To where shadows stretched longer than they should. Where another war pulsed just beneath the skin of this one.

Syrax stirred again.

“You do not have to speak it yet,” she said. “But when you do, speak it with fire.”

“I will,” Aelin whispered, knowing Loras couldn’t hear.

Vekra exhaled behind them, sulfur curling from her nostrils.

Loras turned toward her dragon, one hand resting on the shoulder ridge. “Come again tomorrow. No blade. Just eyes. The ones who survive are the ones who see .”

Then she mounted Vekra with fluid grace, and the copper launched, wings snapping wide, the wind shattering the silence.

Aelin stood alone on the ridge.

But not empty.

She stayed long after the sound of wingbeats faded. The cold sank through her bones, but it couldn’t touch the fire rising in her blood. Not anymore.

Because clarity wasn’t just seeing the Poromish scouts.

It was knowing they weren’t the only ones hiding in plain sight.

And that one day soon, she would stop watching.

She would act.

Even if she had to do it alone.

The sky over Chakir had turned iron-grey by the time Second Squad assembled for departure.

Three days of cold mornings and colder nights had left soot in their clothes, sand in their boots, and the sharp edge of exhaustion in every movement. But Aelin felt stronger for it—more honed. Loras’s lessons had lodged deep beneath her skin like embedded shards of truth. Watch. Learn. See before you strike.

They flew back tight in formation. The wind didn’t chatter today; it howled. Even Syrax had grown quiet in her mind, a coiled sentinel. Beneath the steady beat of wings and the roll of low clouds, Aelin kept her thoughts guarded. Watched her squad.

Watched Alric.

He hadn’t spoken much on the return, his mouth tight, his brow furrowed as though warring with something inside himself. When Cruth bumped wings playfully with Holstrom midair and Eris cackled, Alric winced and turned away. Something was building in him. Something close.

They landed just past midafternoon.

No one said it, but the moment the squad touched down, a ripple passed between them. They were not the same cadets who had left. They were a unit now. Tired, windburned, grim—but bound.

And then Eris opened his mouth.

“I swear,” he said, staggering slightly as he dismounted Holstrom, “if I ever see another sand ration again, I’m starting a coup. I’ll overthrow the entire quadrant. I’ll poison Fitzgibbons. I’ll—”

His words cut off.

Not trailed off. Not stopped.

Cut.

Clean.

Mid-rant, mid-gesture, Eris froze, hand still waving dramatically, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’ of unfinished rebellion.

The silence rang.

“Did he—?” Cianna asked.

“Gods above, did we finally get peace?” Quinn muttered.

Eris tried again. His lips moved. No sound came out.

His hands slapped at his throat. Wide-eyed. Then he glared at Alric.

Who looked pale. Focused. A hand half-raised.

“I—” Alric said, his voice a whisper of horror. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—he was being loud and I thought—”

“ You manifested, ” Imogen said quietly, stepping closer. Her gaze swept over him, then Eris. “It’s you. Your signet.”

Eris stomped his foot like a petulant child, mouthing something violently.

Alric flinched. “I didn’t— How do I stop it?”

“Feel it,” Aelin said, stepping in. “Wherever the power’s gathered—release it.”

His hand shook. His lips parted. And then—he let go.

“ YOU UTTER FIEND, ” Eris bellowed, staggering back. “I COULD’VE DIED WITH WORDS UNSAID— SILENCED, LIKE A SCENE FROM A TRAGEDY—”

He was still ranting when Cruth hissed low in warning, and Syrax, from her perch above the rotunda, grumbled: “Child’s play.”

But Alric—Alric just stood blinking, stunned, and slowly… smiled.

The knock came just past midnight.

Soft. Measured. Like he already knew she was awake.

Aelin didn’t ask who it was. She crossed the room in silence, heart thudding in her throat as she cracked open the door.

Dain stood there, soaked from the rain, hair curling over his brow in damp waves. His shirt clung to his chest, dark with water, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—looked like they carried the weight of every storm he'd ever walked through.

She blinked, heart hammering. “You went for a run?”

He didn’t smile. Just held her gaze like he was hanging on by a thread. “I needed to think.”

She stepped back without a word. A silent invitation.

Dain crossed the threshold. She closed the door behind him, the click echoing louder than her breath. The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue magelight above her bed. It cast everything in shades of silver and shadow—like a dream she hadn’t dared want back.

Aelin turned to face him. “What were you thinking about?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “You.”

Her breath caught.

“I can’t keep pretending, Aelin.” His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Like there’s nothing between us. Like I don’t feel you in every breath I take. I’ve tried to ignore it. Gods, I tried. But every time I walk into a room, I’m looking for you. Every time I close my eyes, it’s you I see. I can’t do it anymore.”

Her lips parted, but the words snagged in her throat.

Dain stepped closer, shadows curling around him like armor falling away. “The day you left me, you broke me, Aelin. You didn’t give me a reason. You just walked away. Left me standing there like I meant nothing to you.”

She flinched, arms wrapping tight around herself.

“And then years passed. And when I saw you here at Basgiath for the first time, I thought I was hallucinating. Because even after all that time—after everything I did to forget you—I never could. Believe me, I tried . Gods, I tried so hard.”

His voice cracked.

“But it was always you. Still is.”

Aelin stared at the floor. She couldn’t look at him—not when his words were gutting her open with every breath.

“When I saw you again, you looked so composed. So untouched by it. Like you’d moved on, like what we had hadn’t even left a scratch on you. And it made me so damn angry—because I was still bleeding from it.”

He took another step, slow and deliberate. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I hate that it still undoes me.”

Her eyes shimmered.

“I love you, Aelin,” he said, raw and sure. “I am in love with you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending like I’m not, not when it’s killing me every time I wonder what we could’ve been if you’d stayed.”

Her breath came in a shudder. “Gods, Dain.”

She looked up at last. Her voice broke as she said it— “I never stopped loving you.”

Something in him shattered then. He reached for her, hands trembling as they hovered over her arms like he wasn’t sure she’d let him touch her.