Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Honestly, it's a toss-up. Both require a kind of emotional acrobatics that leave me feeling like I've been run through a wringer. The rebellion demands strategy, subtlety, and the ability to lie to people's faces—especially the ones I care about. But pretending to like my father? That takes a special kind of soul-deep exhaustion.

I'm pacing around my room, boots thudding softly against the worn stone floor, mechanically checking that I have all my weapons strapped on me. Blade in my boot. Dagger at my hip. Throwing knives tucked into the lining of my jacket. Everything is in its place, every strap tight. It's muscle memory now—ritualistic. Something I do to quiet the storm inside me.

The silence is broken by a sharp, purposeful knock on the door. It slices through the air like a blade, making me freeze mid-step. Instantly, my instincts kick in. That's not one of my friends. Too sharp. Too precise. One of my father's guards. Infantry, most likely. He wouldn't bother sending a rider for me—I'm not important enough for that.

I sit down on my bed, forcing my limbs to relax. My hands rest on my thighs as I quickly school my features into the mask I wear like armor. Cocky. Self-assured. Unbothered. It's the suffocating mask that keeps me alive, that sells the lie. Gods, I hate it sometimes.

"Enter," I say in a cold, dismissive voice—the kind that makes it clear whoever's on the other side of that door is beneath me. Not worth my attention.

Through the thick door, I catch the faintest mutter, dry and unimpressed. A whispered insult. Probably calling me a bitch. They always do. They think I don't hear. I do. I just pretend not to. That's the game.

But when the door opens, I blink in surprise. It's a rider. Huh. Looks like volunteering to walk straight into a death trap has improved my standing with dear old Dad. Noted. He's got one of those faces—forgettable. Brown eyes. Brown hair. The kind of man you walk past on the street a dozen times and never recognize. By this time tomorrow, I probably will have forgotten him entirely.

He stands at attention in the doorway like I'm some kind of commander. "General Melgren has instructed me to bring you to him," he says, his tone clipped and authoritative, like he's above delivering summons but is doing it anyway.

That sounds exactly like my father. While other dads might frame it as a conversation or, wild idea, show up themselves to offer encouragement, mine just sends a summons. And I have to pretend not to hate it.

I force a perfect smile onto my lips. Polished, gleaming. The kind of smile I wore when I was seven and he wanted to show me off like a prized dog. "Well, let's not keep him waiting then," I say with carefully measured excitement, my voice bright and enthusiastic like I'm thrilled to serve.

The rider nods and turns, leading the way through the narrow corridors of the fortress. I follow two steps behind, eyes forward, back straight. Even though my father has only been stationed here for a few weeks, I know the way to his office like I've lived here all my life. I had to. He made sure of that.

When we arrive, the rider nods to the two guards flanking my father's door. They don't move. Their expressions are like stone. I think it's ridiculous—no one could get near my father without him knowing beforehand. His signet is too powerful for that. Or so he believes. That assumption might just be his downfall.

The rider turns to me and nods again before walking away, his boots fading into the distance.

Fucking traitor.

I was just starting to like that guy.

Okay, that's a lie.

But still, he didn't have to leave me here. Alone. Facing my father. Again.

Okay, that's also a lie.
Because I can say with 99% confidence that's exactly what he was ordered to do. Still. I now officially don't like him.

I draw in a slow breath and hold it, steeling myself before I push open the heavy door and step into my father's office. My posture is perfect. My face blank, but attentive. The carefully calibrated blend of fear, love, and adoration that keeps him from looking too closely. Keeps me safe.

He's at his desk, hunched over paperwork. He doesn't even glance up. Typical. I lower my pack to the floor and stand at attention like I'm not his daughter, just another cadet. A name on a list.

He keeps me waiting.

He always does.

At least with the looming conscription ceremony, I know he can't drag this out for hours like he has before. One of the few silver linings.

After what feels like a soul-draining eternity—ten minutes by the ticking clock—he finally looks up.

"Cadet Melgren, at ease," he says in that ice-cold voice that always manages to send a shiver down my spine no matter how many times I've heard it.

I shift, relaxing my posture, waiting. I've played this game enough to know that he doesn't want me to speak unless prompted. Words are weapons to him, and I'm not allowed to draw first blood.

"You're joining the Riders Quadrant today. And as we found out some months ago, General Sorrengail's youngest is also joining." His eyes pierce through me, full of expectation—not warmth. Never warmth. "I expect you to be better than her, Cadet. Do not let the name Melgren be turned into a laughingstock. But do try and make sure the General's daughter doesn't die. The more good bloodlines in the Riders Quadrant, the better."

Of course. His legacy. His name. That's all he cares about.

Not me.

I'm disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that Violet Sorrengail hasn't managed to convince her mother otherwise. She's clever—too clever to be wasted in the Riders Quadrant. But the decision's been made. And while I once thought she might be an invaluable ally in my revolution, her relationships—first with Halden, now with Dain—make her a dangerous liability. Especially now that I know what Dain's signet is.

"Yes, General," I say, voice devoid of anything personal. Professional. Distant. Like he's just another superior officer and not the man who raised me.

He stands. His movement is slow, deliberate, predatory. He crosses the room and stops in front of me, lifting a hand to cup my cheek.

It should be a tender gesture.

But I have to fight the urge to flinch.

He's not going to slap me. Not today. I repeat it in my mind like a mantra.

He looks down at me with what he probably thinks is a loving expression. But all I see is possession. Control. Ownership.

"Be safe, my little warrior. I have trained you for this. And if you happen to rid Navarre of any traitorous Marked Ones, you'll make me very proud, princess."

He says it like a blessing.

But it feels like a commandment carved in blood.

His hand tightens in my newly short hair, just enough to sting.

"I see you finally cut your hair. It was about time. A Melgren shouldn't have a weakness."

"I love you, Dad," I force out with my most adoring expression, the one that makes me look like I worship the ground he walks on.

He smirks. Smirks. That arrogant flash of teeth tells me he bought it.

"I know you do. Now go. Make me proud."

And just like that, he turns his back to me and returns to his paperwork, dismissing me as though I were nothing more than a shadow in his office.

I let my expression collapse. I let him think he's crushed me. Let him think he still has power over me.

Then I pick up my pack and leave.

And I pray to every god that I'm only pretending. That I don't care. That he doesn't matter.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When I get back to my room, my two best friends are already there—waiting, just like they said they would. Marcus Jones and Lilian Heart. My people. My sanity. The only ones I don't have to lie to.

They look up when I walk in, eyes flicking over me, checking for damage I might not say out loud. Not physical, because my father would never leave marks, at least not in places they would see. But they know the weight of that office. They've stood where I stood. They've worn their own masks. Faced their own war hardened parents.

Marcus is sprawled across my bed like he owns the place. Tall, dark, broad-shouldered, and so handsome it's almost tragic that he's both like a brother and hopelessly into men. It's probably for the best, because even thinking of him romantically makes me want to vomit.

Lilian leans against my desk with her arms crossed, one boot propped on the wall. She's smaller than me, with ice-blonde hair and skin so pale it practically glows. People underestimate her constantly. And we let them—until it's too late.

Their eyes soften when they see me.

"Ava! We've been here for agessss where were you?" Marcus whines, stretching the word like he's five years old. And honestly, mentally, I'm 90% sure he still is.

"My father wanted to speak to me." My voice is dry, detached. That's all it takes. Their smiles vanish.

"Fucking dick," Lilian mutters, scowling.

"Doors open, Lili," I remind her gently, a practiced warning. We've learned to keep our hatred for my father quiet. For our own safety.

She shoots me an apologetic look, no less furious but at least aware. We can't afford a misstep.

Marcus clears his throat, ever the one to shift the mood. "Uh, anyway, let's get going. Looks like there's a storm rolling in, and I would hate to get my hair wet."

Lilian and I roll our eyes in unison. It's an act—mostly. Marcus is far from superficial, but the drama is his armor. We all wear something.

We slip into our personas like second skins, laughing and talking like we don't have the weight of an empire pressing down on us. Like we're not marching into a quadrant where most of us won't survive. It's a lie, but it's a comforting one.

Outside, the courtyard is in chaos. Hundreds—no, thousands—of candidates and their families are clustered in tight, tearful knots. Goodbyes are said in frantic whispers, hugs dragged out until they're forced apart. Hope, fear, desperation—it's all here, painted on every face.

We don't slow. We stride through it like royalty.

We head straight for the registration desk, ignoring the queue entirely. I can feel the stares burning into our backs, the whispers racing like wildfire.

We don't look at them.

We don't have to.

Me in front. Marcus and Lilian a step behind me, flanking me like guards. Like soldiers. Like siblings.

At the desk sits a Marked One, but I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the scribe beside him.

"Ava Melgren, Marcus Jones, and Lilian Heart," I announce coolly. "And before you ask, yes, like the General and Lieutenant Generals."

Captain Fitzgibbions gives us a sharp, approving nod. Around us, the whispers spike in volume. The air feels charged, thick with judgment and awe.

I feel the glare of the Marked One beside him, and my eyes flick in his direction just long enough to register the challenge there. But I'm already turning away when Lilian sneers, "You got a problem?"

Her voice drips with disdain, every syllable a sharpened blade.

I rest a calming hand on her arm, not breaking stride. I flick a cold glance at the Marked One. "He's literally not worth it, Lili."

Marcus chuckles. "Yeah, let's just go."

And we do. We walk away without a backward glance. I can feel the heat of the Marked One's fury burning into my back like a brand, but I don't stop.

Let them hate us. Let them whisper. Our cruelty is a mask—necessary and calculated. A performance sharpened by the stakes of revolution. I'll carry that hatred if it keeps my people alive.

We're silent as we walk. Around us, candidates chatter nervously, trying to make friends, calm their own terror. But we know better. Save your breath. Save your strength. Save your heart.

I don't want to get to know anyone I didn't already know before this day.

Less chance of heartbreak that way.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When we reach the opening in the turret, I'm met with the sight of a tall, muscular, and annoyingly handsome guy. His presence is like a thunderclap—loud without sound, demanding attention. He stands near the edge with the kind of effortless confidence that says he knows exactly how intimidating he looks.

He doesn't need to turn around for me to know who he is.

Xaden Riorson.

The name hits like a punch of cold water. Half of my meetings are about him and his little band of smugglers that he likes to call a rebellion. His face has been burned into my brain from reports, projections, and my father's rants—always half-obsessed, half-furious. The infamous son of a traitor, turned rider, turned rebel-leader-in-disguise. The heir to everything my father hates.

I pretend not to notice him as I look up at the storm clouds. They're thick and swirling, dark as bruises. Not quite overhead yet, but close. The wind is already picking up, and the scent of rain clings to the air like a promise.

We'll be safe from the downpour, for now. But most of the candidates behind me won't be as lucky. Their fresh start will be soaked in cold water and nerves. Fitting, really.

"Name?" the rider taking the names asks me, voice brisk and bored. Just doing his job.

"Ava Melgren," I reply smoothly, my tone calm, measured, like I'm announcing something mundane.

And just like that, Riorson's head snaps towards me like he's never heard a name before. His body whips around so fast, it's a miracle he doesn't give himself whiplash.

Honestly, I have to fight not to laugh.

The expression on his face is priceless. His eyes lock onto me, and I can see the second he registers who I am. The tension in his jaw. The sharp flare of fury in his gaze. It's the kind of look most people would flinch from—deadly, full of promised violence.

"You're General Melgren's daughter," he growls at me, voice like gravel and thunder.

And you know what? I have to hand it to him. He does have the 'I'm going to kill you, be scared of me' thing down to an art. The glowering, the tone, the aura—it's textbook terrifying.

But as he's so helpfully stated, I grew up with my father.

He's going to have to do a lot more to scare me.

I scoff. "Really? I didn't notice."

I look at him like he isn't worth my time, like he's barely keeping my attention. Bored, unimpressed. A flick of the eyes. A dismissive arch of the brow. And I see it—the twitch in his jaw. The crack in his control.

I'm getting to him.

Marcus and Lilian both chuckle behind me. They know exactly what I'm doing. And they know exactly why it's working.

"Your father's dragon killed my father," he says in that low, dangerous tone that I'm supposed to be afraid of. A death sentence wrapped in civility.

I roll my eyes. "Uh yeah, I know. I was there, thanks."

I say it like it doesn't matter. Like it's an old joke I'm tired of hearing. But inside? Inside, my skin is crawling.

That day still haunts my nightmares—the screams, the heat, the ash in the air. That's the fate that awaits me if my father ever figures out what I'm doing.

And I have no doubt that he'd want his dragon to personally do it. To personally eradicate the stain on our family name that he would view me as.

He stares at me with clear, constrained rage. I feel it radiating from him, like heat off a forge. His eyes bore into me, black and sharp and furious—and then I feel it.

A brush against the shields I'm not supposed to have.

It's subtle, feather-light. Testing. Probing. He's trying to get in. Trying to feel me out. Maybe literally.

It's near impossible to develop mental shields without a dragon—but my father believes there's nothing more motivating than a beating. And unfortunately, he was right.

While I don't outwardly react, Riorson does.

Just for a split second, surprise flickers over his face. Not fear. Not anger. Just... realization. Something he didn't expect.

He opens his mouth to speak—but I cut him off.

"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to go now," I say with absolute finality, my tone bored, even a little amused.

And without waiting for a response, I step up onto the parapet.

The wind howls around me, catching my hair and tugging at my jacket, but I don't waver. I turn back to face Marcus and Lilian, still walking even though I'm not facing where I'm going.

I could cross this blindfolded and we all know it.

"Don't die. It'd be a pain to find new friends."

They both bark out a laugh. The sound is a balm against the weight of the day, grounding me.

Everyone else looks at me like I'm crazy—either for my words or for walking backwards on the parapet. Probably both. Let them stare.

"I knew you cared," Marcus teases, grinning as always.

"See you on the flip side, Ava," Lilian says, her voice steady and sure.

I wink at Lilian and flip Marcus off before turning around the right way, facing the rest of the parapet.

The stone is uneven beneath my boots, the wind shrieking like a living thing all around me, but I never falter. Not once. I've trained for the parapet in much worse conditions.

With a broken leg, sometimes.

So I stroll across.

And before I know it, I'm in the Riders Quadrant.
This is it.

No turning back now.

I give my name to the rider and lean against the wall, waiting for my friends.

All I can think is:

Here.

We.

Fucking.

Go.

Chapter Text

When Marcus and Lilian arrived on the other side of the parapet with me, I hugged them both.

They smelled like sweat, rain, and adrenaline—alive. And thank the gods for that. I didn't let go for a while. Though I knew that we'd all trained for years, no one was ever completely safe in the Riders Quadrant.

Not here. Not ever.

I didn't even want to think about what would happen if one of them hadn't made it.

My mother's death destroyed me. I couldn't lose one of my closest friends.

Not when they were the only family I had left that still felt like mine.

We stayed by the parapet, our backs to the stone wall, shoulders touching, wanting to see some of the other candidates cross.

A couple of them nodded discreetly as they passed me. My people.

Most of them don't know that I'm Wrath— my code name, they think that I also work for Wrath like they do. Can't have everyone walking around knowing my identity.

Each familiar face was a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Every time I saw someone I commanded, a weight lifted off my shoulders.

While I would never force anyone into this Quadrant, many only chose to join after they found out about the dangers beyond the wards. While I'd never feel guilty for telling people the truth, I would feel guilty if they had died because of choices they only made because I had told them.

The truth has a cost, and it's one I live with every day.

Even some of the older riders around nodded discreetly at me. Some of which I hadn't been in contact with since they joined the Quadrant, as too many riders consistently writing to me would be suspicious.

Many of the ones that wrote to me thought I was a go between, they didn't know they were actually writing to Wrath.

Their faces had aged slightly. Hardened by war, softened by time. But the loyalty in their eyes hadn't dimmed.

Not to mention the fact that my father was a paranoid fucker and had all my mail read, so everything had to be written in code or said in person.

Sometimes I wondered if he could even read between the lines anymore—or if the only thing he saw in every letter was betrayal waiting to bloom.

I was just about to ask Marcus and Lilian if they wanted to go further into the courtyard—as honestly, this was kind of getting boring—when entertainment came.

In the form of Violet fucking Sorrengail running across the now soaking wet parapet like a madwoman.

Rain streamed off her leathers, her braid whipping behind her like a war banner, and I swear I heard at least three gasps from cadets around us.

And then, to make matters more interesting, literally holding a knife to a man's balls.

I blinked. Did a double take.

Damn Dain fucking Aetos and his stupid fucking signet. Violet could be my badass advisor right now. But no. Dain had to go and ruin everything like the fucking ass he is.

Violet had already given her name, and now she and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Infertile were stuck in some silent staring contest.

Idiot. He should probably start begging. If it was me, I would've already killed him and moved on with my life.

"And what's your name?" the third-year asks again, her gaze drifting upward.

"Jack Barlowe."

What a pathetic name. He's not even a legacy. You'd think he was considering his fucking ego is filling the entire quadrant.

"Well Jack," the other rider who'd remained silent until now begins, "Cadet Sorrengail has you by the actual balls here, in more ways than one. She's right. Regs state that there's nothing but respect among riders at formation—you want to kill her, you'll have to do it in the sparring ring or on your own time."

I'm certain he'll try.

"That is, if she decides to let you off the parapet." I wouldn't, but I would bet every weapon I have that Violet will. She's a good person like that.

"Because technically, you're not on the grounds yet, so you are not a cadet. She is."

I don't know who this random rider is, but he's my new best friend because that was fucking hilarious. I need to ask around and see if we can recruit him.

"And if I decide to snap her neck the second I step down?" Jack growls.

I honestly think he might be stupid. There's literally a knife to his balls, and he's trying to make threats. Yeah, I've changed my mind. I wouldn't kill him. I'd chop off his balls. Make him live with that humiliation for a while, then kill him.

"You become a snack for the dragons," I answer, deciding to speak up because this might be the most ridiculous situation I've ever witnessed.

Jack shoots a glare at me but smartly decides not to say anything.

Maybe he can sense that I wouldn't think twice about pushing him off the parapet.

"What's it going to be, Sorrengail?" my new bestie asks. "You going to have Jack here start as a eunuch?"

"Oh gods please do, Vi, I'm actually begging you. It'll be so fucking funny," I say, and I'm not kidding. It might actually make my year.

Violet huffs but ignores me. "Are you going to follow the rules?" she asks Jack instead.

"Boo, boring," Marcus says from beside me, and I see my new bestie stifle a laugh, trying to remain professional.

Out of the corner of my eye, I do notice him checking Marcus out though.

Oh yes. I totally ship it.

"I guess I don't have a choice," Jack sneers.

I roll my eyes. Gods, this guy is an idiot.

"Well you could do us all a favour and pick the option that means we get to feed you to the dragons," Lilian chimes in.

Gods, she's so fucking funny sometimes. I chuckle, which earns me a glare from Jack.

I raise an eyebrow at him. He really doesn't fucking scare me.

At this point I'm more scared of a butterfly than of him.

His shoulder bumps with Violet's. His voice is low as he leans in close to her, but his eyes—his eyes remain on me.

"You're dead, Sorrengail, and I'm going to be the one to kill you. And then I'm coming for you three."

"Not today," Vi responds.

I can't help but laugh hysterically at his 'threat.' I hear Marcus and Lilian doing the same.

"That's such a cute threat, Barlowe. I'm shaking in my boots," I manage to say through giggles.

"Yeah, consider my timbers shivered," Marcus adds through his own laughter.

And just as I'm convinced Jack is going to combust from sheer embarrassment, Lilian adds on, "Some balls you've got to threaten us like that. Guess you better thank Sorrengail for letting you keep them."

With that, all three of us collapse into hysteria and walk away.

Jack shouts something after us, but honestly, I don't care enough to listen.

This was the hardest I'd laughed in a long time.
✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦
It took us a while to stop laughing because every time one of us managed to stop, we looked at the others and burst out laughing again.

We got more than a few strange looks from the other cadets, but to be completely honest, it was so worth it.

And hey—a rumor that we're crazy wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

It'd definitely make people think twice before trying to kill us.

After we'd calmed down, we were leaning against a wall, looking super cocky and—if I'm being honest—super hot.

When I spotted potentially the hottest guy I'd ever seen on the other side of the courtyard.

Gods, he was tall—easily over six feet, with the kind of effortless height that made him stand out in any crowd. His build was somehow the perfect balance between lean and muscular, like every inch of him had been carved by someone who really knew what they were doing. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, strong arms that hinted at power without being bulky—he moved like someone who could fight and win, but didn't need to flaunt it. And gods, his eyes. They were sharp and intense, the kind of eyes that made you feel like he could see straight through any lie you ever told. Piercing, intelligent, and framed by thick lashes that were honestly unfair on a man. Eyes that could make you forget your name if you stared too long.

I had a whole two seconds of perfect fantasy and hope that the gods had finally decided to shine down upon me when I spotted the relic curling up his arm.

"Fuck me sideways," I mutter angrily.

Which immediately pulls both Marcus' and Lilian's focus away from the 'fake' debate they were having about who's hotter.

"What's wrong?" Lilian asks.

Her eyes are already scanning the courtyard for threats.

"N-nothing," I choke out.

Fuck. I sound pathetic.

Marcus' eyes snap to mine with confusion before a smirk cracks across his face.

I want to slap it off his stupid face, but before I can, he's already turned back to Lilian, his stupid traitorous eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Lilian, I think our dear leader has a crush on someone."

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can get my mouth to form words, Lilian's eyes have already snapped to me and she has the fucking audacity to smirk as well.

I get no fucking respect.

I'm basically their boss and they're fucking teasing me. The fuckers.

"Oh, I think you might be right, Mar. Do tell, Ava—which one of these handsome men have met your impossibly high standards?"

You know what?

I don't care about the revolution anymore. I'm going to go feed myself to a dragon. Save myself from this evil torture.

"Oh fuck off the both of you," I snap, but I can't muster my usual level of aggression.

This only seems to spur them on.

"Oh Ava, they've really made an impression, haven't they? And we've been here this whole time, so they haven't even said a word to you. They must be handsome."

I'm going to strangle Marcus.

"Yeah Ava, do tell. Come on, just a hint. Who's got our tough 'I don't need no man' leader all hot and bothered?"

I'm going to strangle Lilian and Marcus.

At the same time.

"Fuck off both of you. Or I'll start talking about how you were totally checking out that hot rider at the end of the parapet, Marcus. And Lilian—you really don't want my opinion on your past relationships."

Ha.

That shut the fuckers up.

...for all of five seconds before Marcus opened his fat fucking mouth because, unlike Lilian, he had no fucking shame.

"Oh Ava, I would love to talk about the hot rider that was totally also checking me out. But your mystery man is more interesting right now."

And my traitorous eyes wander back over to the rider. Just for a second.

And of course they catch it.

I silently curse myself for training them to be so observant.

I just had to be amazing at my job?

Marcus whistles appreciatively while Lilian's grin grows impossibly wider.

"He's hot, I'll give you that."

Even though I know he's not Marcus' type, jealousy still burns through me for a few moments at his words.

Fuck. I didn't even know the guy. I couldn't know the guy. And I was already possessive of him?

Yeah, I need to stay the fuck away from him.

"Doesn't fucking matter. He's marked," I mutter.

And I see Marcus open his mouth, clearly about to argue that I could make an exception, when Lilian opens her mouth.

"Yeah, you sure know how to pick them, Ava. Haven't you noticed? That's Bodhi Durran, Xaden Riorson's cousin. There's no fucking way that can happen without you revealing yourself."

My eyes widen in shock as I glance back over at him, and fuck, she's right.

I was so focused on how gorgeous he was that I didn't even notice.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

"Fuck," I mutter.

It was never going to happen anyway because he was marked and I was supposed to pretend to hate them, but now it's like doubly not going to happen.

"Fuck is right," Marcus agrees. "Now you're star-crossed lovers, like in those romance novels Lilian reads."

Lilian promptly smacks him over the head. "You're the one that reads them, you fucker."

Their argument continues, but I zone it out.

Looking at Bodhi.

Totally not staring—because that would be creepy and inappropriate, and I'm not some lovesick cadet who forgets how to function at the sight of a hot guy.

But still... looking. Observing. Strategically. Quietly.

He was standing across the courtyard, framed by the dull stone and grey sky like he belonged in some epic tale of war and heartbreak. His shoulders were relaxed, posture easy, like the world could catch fire and he still wouldn't flinch.

Then, just as I was silently debating how long I could look without it becoming obvious, he turned.

And his eyes—gods, those fucking eyes—locked on mine.

My heart skips a fucking beat. Not in a poetic, fluttery way. In a punch-to-the-chest, air-leaving-my-lungs way. Like my body forgot how to function for a second.

Okay.

Admittedly...

I might have been full-on staring at him.

And then, the bastard winks.

He.

Fucking.

Winks.

It's not even a shy or uncertain one. No, it's cocky and deliberate, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he's just unleashed in my brain.

I feel heat flood to my cheeks so fast it's embarrassing. My whole body locks up, completely gobsmacked, just staring at him like I've never seen a man before in my life. It takes a full three seconds before my instincts kick in and I remember who the fuck I am.

Public persona: cold, unbothered, untouchable. Right. I slam the emotional door shut, roll my shoulders back, and force a glare onto my face that's made grown men shit themselves.

But of course, he's not even remotely phased.

He raises one eyebrow, and fuck, it shouldn't be that hot, but it is. It's this slow, challenging lift, like he's daring me to keep pretending I don't care. Then his gaze drifts—lingers—down my body and back up again, and he does it with a smirk that's equal parts amusement and interest.

Completely. Unbothered.

I scoff out loud and roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. I turn away, pretending to re-engage in the chaotic mess that is Marcus and Lilian's ongoing argument. Words filter in—something about whose abs could distract a dragon first—but I'm not listening.

Because I can still feel his eyes on me. Like a heat pressed against my skin, following the curve of my jaw, the angle of my shoulders, the tension in my spine.

Finally, I can't fucking take it anymore. I glance back.

Just a peek.

Big mistake.

Because of course, he's still looking. That smirk—godsdamn it, that fucking smirk—widens like this was exactly what he was waiting for. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even give a nod. Just that look, like he's already won something.

And then, just when I think I might actually combust on the spot, he casually looks away—toward the entrance.

Where, thank the fucking stars, Xaden Riorson is storming into the courtyard with all the grace and fury of a thundercloud.

And for once in my godsdamn life, I've never been happier to see him. Because it means this whole painfully awkward, electrically charged moment is about to be interrupted.

And I could really, really use a distraction right now.

As predicted, Commandant Pancheck made his way on stage and I, along with my still-arguing guard dogs, made our way over to stand with everyone else.

I never thought I'd see the day where I was happy to hear Pancheck talk.

Chapter Text

Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today," Panchek starts, and when I see that sickly smile stretch across his face—that same smug, self-satisfied smirk I've grown far too familiar with—I feel the air inside my chest shift. It's the same expression my father wears whenever he manipulates someone into doing exactly what he wants. And just like that, the brief flicker of pride I'd felt upon hearing the number of survivors evaporates. I am no longer happy to hear him speak.

"Good job. Sixty-seven did not."

"Damn," Marcus mutters from behind me, his voice low with disbelief, and I can't help but echo the sentiment in my head. Violet has always been better at statistics than me, but even I can tell that's definitely higher than it should be. That many deaths on the parapet? Gods. I guess most people weren't trained for rain like I was. Most weren't trained for anything at all, really.

"I've heard this position is just a stepping stone for him," a girl says a few paces in front of me. Her voice is a little too loud to be a true whisper, tinged with derision. "He wants Sorrengail's job. Then General Melgren's."

I scoff under my breath. Yeah, fat chance of that ever happening. My father's signet—his ability to see the outcome of a battle—means he'll never be removed from his position, not by force or by vote. And the very same signet also means he can't be assassinated, because he'll see it coming.

It's one of the hardest problems I've spent my life trying to solve. How do you unseat a man who can predict every move before you make it? I know his signet better than anyone. I know the limitations, the loopholes. I've studied them the way other children studied fairy tales. But even if we somehow managed to take him by surprise, he's still an incredible fighter. I've never beaten him in training. Not once. Not even close.

If Panchek manages to get my father's job, I'll send him a gift basket. With a ribbon. Because that man would be so much easier to overthrow.

"As the Codex says, now you begin the true crucible!" Panchek shouts, his voice echoing like a drumbeat over the five hundred cadets gathered in the courtyard. "You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive until Threshing, and if you are chosen, you will be riders. Then we'll see how many of you make it to graduation."

Most of us won't make it to graduation. That's just how it works. You're never safe as a rider. Not during training, not after you bond, not even once you're a graduate. And yet, I've never wanted to be anything else. I know that might make me crazy, but I've never liked the idea of other people holding more power than me. I don't think I could live with myself knowing there was an option to bond with a dragon and I didn't take it.

Not that I ever had a real choice. Unlike General Sorrengail, my father wouldn't have waited until six months before conscription day to inform me I was joining the Riders Quadrant. If I had ever even hinted at wanting something else, he would've made sure my mind was changed—by any means necessary.

"Your instructors will teach you," Panchek says, sweeping one arm theatrically toward the line of professors standing by the doors to the academic wing. "It's up to you how well you learn." Then he lifts a single finger, swinging it toward us like he's casting a curse. "Discipline falls to your units, and your wingleader is the last word. If I have to get involved..." He pauses, letting the silence stretch and fester.

A slow, sinister smile pulls at his face. "You don't want me involved."

"With that said, I'll leave you to your wingleaders. My best advice? Don't die." He walks off the dais with the executive commandant, leaving only the riders standing on the stone stage behind him.

"Wow, I never would've thought of that. So glad he mentioned it," I whisper under my breath to my friends. I can hear them both laugh softly, trying not to draw attention.

Lilian leans in, her voice dry and sarcastic. "Yeah, I was literally just about to cartwheel off the parapet."

I glance back at them over my shoulder, and Marcus has that stupid grin on his face, the one that means he's going to say something stupid.

"Damn, me too," he says with a dramatic sigh. "He's completely ruined my evening plans with that advice."

I open my mouth to respond with something just as stupid when a woman steps forward. She's striking—tall, poised, her posture sharp enough to cut glass. She's pretty. Totally Lilian's type.

"Don't even think about it, Lili. You're not fucking a Wing Leader," I mutter under my breath. I hear her grumble something unintelligible in response, but before I can ask her what she said, the woman starts speaking.

"I'm Nyra, the senior wingleader of the quadrant and the head of the First Wing. Section leaders and squad leaders, take your positions now."

I spot Dain Aetos moving into position with Second Wing, and I silently pray to every god I can think of that I don't end up anywhere near him. I do not want to spend every waking hour wondering if he's digging through my memories.

Then, as my eyes scan further down the formation, I freeze.

Standing in position as executive officer for Fourth Wing is Bodhi fucking Durran. And like he's got some sixth sense for my attention, his head snaps up. His eyes find mine instantly. It's like he knows.

This time—thank the gods—he doesn't wink. But he doesn't look away either. He studies me like I'm some sort of complicated puzzle he's dying to take apart.

And because I'm so thrown off by that stare—so weirded out—I don't even react in time. My face just freezes. It takes longer than it should to remember myself, to sneer back at him like I don't give a shit. But by the time I do, he's already looking away, mouth curled in amusement.

I need to get a fucking grip. I've never been this bad at acting before. I've been playing this game to survive my father since I was a child, and I've only gotten better in the five years since the rebellion. So why the hell does Bodhi Durran make me forget how to pretend? Why does my body react like it wants to die?

"First Squad! Claw Section! First Wing!" Nyra calls out.

A man closer to the dais raises his hand in acknowledgment.

"Cadets, when your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader," Nyra instructs. No shit. I can't help but wonder how badly things have gone before if they felt the need to explain that.

The redhead with the crossbow and roll steps forward, calling names off her scroll. One by one, cadets peel off from the crowd and move into formation. I recognize some of them as my people, but most are unfamiliar.

Violet gets called to Second Wing. Dain Aetos' squad.

Relief punches through my chest. Thank the gods I didn't bring Violet in on my revolution. We'd all be dead by tomorrow night.

I zone out most of the names after that, letting the cadence of voices and footsteps wash over me. Until Xaden Riorson steps up, and none of our names have been called yet.

Which means all three of us—me, Marcus, Lilian—are going to be under his command.

Fuck. My. Life.

I hear Marcus echo my thoughts in a muttered groan beside me.

"Second Squad! Tail Section! Fourth Wing! Liam Mairi, Marcus Jones, Lilian Heart, Ava Melgren..."

That's all I need to hear. I walk toward my section without hesitation, Marcus and Lilian flanking me like twin shadows. Amari must be smiling on us today, because I was certain we were going to get split up. For the three of us to end up in the same squad? It feels like a miracle.

Or at least, it did. For all of two seconds—until I see who the executive officer of the Tail Section is.

Bodhi Durran.

Fuck everything.

And like this day wasn't already an absolute dragon stampede of a disaster, I hear Xaden Riorson's smooth, cocky voice announcing that Violet's squad is moving to Fourth Wing.

Because of course they are.

Like I didn't already have enough to deal with.

Now I've got to keep Violet alive and avoid being emotionally dismantled by Bodhi Durran.

I think the gods hate me.

Xaden starts speaking again, his words deliberate and sharp, and it takes me a couple seconds to realize he's baiting everyone—seeing who flinches, who doesn't. I tune him out. I get enough of that posturing from my father. I don't need to listen to another man's ego trip.

Then I feel it—that weight. Like someone's looking at me.

I scan the crowd, and of course. Of course. It's Bodhi Durran. His gaze is locked on me, sharp and unreadable.

Oh, this is probably the kind of moment people expect me to cheer or look inspired. Maybe I can play it like I'm above it all. Yeah, that's what I'll do. I already look bored—because I am. I keep my sneering gaze on him for a few seconds before looking down at my nails, inspecting the edge of my cuticle like it's more interesting than his cousin's speech.

Honestly, it is.

That's when I hear it.

The unmistakable sound of wings.

I look up—and see a hoard of dragons descending toward us.

"Oh gods," someone—Lilian, I think—says beside me. And I can't help but agree.

I've grown up around dragons. All three of us have. But I never tire of the sight of them.

As they slam down onto the wall with bone-shaking impact, I stare, breath catching.

Some cadets scream. If it's not just from the shock—if it's fear—they won't make it. No one afraid of dragons survives Presentation. My father used to make me stand in front of Codagh for hours to prove I wasn't afraid. To make sure.

Someone bolts. They sign their death warrant before I even feel the rush of heat. Then two more follow—and in a way, I guess they do escape.

Seventy more dead.

What an appalling waste of human life.

A green dragon stares directly at me, and like a complete fucking idiot, I make eye contact.

I tense. Bracing. Expecting flames.

But I don't run. If I'm going to die, I won't do it running.

The flames never come.

I stand there, breath held, staring at this magnificent creature. And then—it nods at me.

If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.

Dragons don't acknowledge humans who aren't their riders.

And yet, this one just did.

"Anyone else feel like changing their mind?" Xaden shouts. I decide to tune back in for the end of his speech, considering I didn't catch the start.

"No? Excellent. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer." The courtyard is silent except for a few sobs from my left. More people who won't make it. You have to be a master of your emotions to survive here.

But today? Today has made it clear I'm a fucking hypocrite.

"A third of you again the year after that, and the same your last year. No one cares who your mommy or daddy is here. Even King Tauri's second son died during his Threshing. So tell me again: Do you feel invincible now that you've made it into the Riders Quadrant? Untouchable? Elite?"

No one answers. No one cheers.

My father's name will only be a hindrance here. It paints a target on my back.

Another blast of heat shoots past toward Violet's wing. It's steam, not fire, but the navy-blue dragon that releases it looks directly at Violet.

Huh. Maybe I didn't have the worst luck after all. At least my staring contest ended in a nod.

"Because you're not untouchable or special to them," Xaden says, gesturing to the navy dragon. He leans forward slightly, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "To them, you're just the prey."

Okay. He's pretty scary, I'll give him that.

But unfortunately for him, he has nothing on my father.

After the speech, the older years start dispersing, and we're told to pick up our uniforms. Liam—a marked cadet in our squad—approaches us with a smile, clearly about to introduce himself.

But Marcus cuts him off, cold as frost. "Yeah, we're not going to be friends with you, so don't even try it."

Despite how it makes my chest clench, I tack on, "Yeah, Mairi, we have standards. Don't talk to us."

We walk away, leaving him behind.

He doesn't look angry.

Just... subdued.

And it fucking breaks me.

I know it's for the revolution. Logically, I know why it's necessary to act this way.

But sometimes...

I wonder if I'm just slowly becoming my father.

If I'm wrapping myself in pretty excuses so I won't notice.

Am I slowly becoming the very monster I'm trying to fight?
And if I am...

Is freedom still worth it?

Is fighting for what's right worth it—if it costs you your soul?

Chapter Text

"Elena Sosa. Brayden Blackburn."

Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, flanked on either side by two silent scribes perched on the dais like solemn statues. The names hang heavy in the courtyard air as we stand shoulder to shoulder in stiff formation, squinting into the sharp glare of the early morning sun.

It's the following day. None of us have gotten much sleep, least of all me. I spent most of the night slipping through back corridors and moonlit alcoves, meeting with informants I hadn't seen in years—people I could only contact through coded letters sent by Dean Shaud, a third-year and one of the few constants in my life since childhood. He's the only one I ever let write to me. If I'd suddenly started corresponding with a dozen new "friends," it would've drawn attention, the kind that kills.

We're all dressed in our summer uniforms now—lighter fabric, sleeveless and streamlined. We won't get our winter ones until later in the year... if we make it that long.

"Elliot Blackwater."

My spine stiffens, and I feel Marcus tense behind me at the exact same moment.

"Wasn't he supposed..." Lilian begins, her voice tight with disbelief.

"Yeah, he was supposed to head to the Healers Quadrant."

It's my voice, but it doesn't feel like it. It leaves my mouth as though it belongs to someone else entirely. Elliot was never someone I knew well. He'd only been brought into the revolution a few months ago. He'd been dreaming of being a healer since we were kids—kind, soft-spoken, gentle. He didn't have a soldier's heart.

And I told him.

I told him about the Venin. I thought he'd be fine. I told him to stay in the Healers Quadrant, told him that we needed more than just Riders if we had any hope of completely overtaking Navarre's leadership.

He didn't listen.

And now he's dead.

"Ava, it's not your—" Marcus begins, voice low with sympathy.

"Don't, Marcus. I don't want to hear it," I snap, my voice still a whisper but sharp enough to cut. I don't need a lecture. I don't need forgiveness. I need Elliot to be alive, and since that's not happening, I need silence.

I shift my gaze away from Pancheck, who is still reading names like there's no end in sight. That's when I see them—those eyes. Already locked on us.

Bodhi Durran.

Of course.

He's watching. He always is. Every single time my mask slips, even for a second, he's there—like he's cataloging my breakdowns for later. His expression is unreadable, but the sharp attention in his eyes makes it clear: he saw that. All of it. Every flicker of guilt and pain that passed over my face.

Our squad leader approaches—a woman with a shock of almost-white hair cropped close to her skull. Her name is... Shit. I should know her name. I will soon. She doesn't waste time, tells us we should've memorized our schedules by now and, like everyone else with a death wish, reminds us not to die.

Why does everyone keep saying that, like it's a hobby of ours? As if we wake up each day thinking, 'Hm, yes, today I shall die dramatically.'

I did memorize my schedule. I live by structure, and my father had me studying maps of Basgiath before I could even spell my own name. Getting lost isn't going to be the thing that kills me.

I'm just about to suggest heading to the dorms to grab our packs when I hear it—a sharp, shrill bird whistle. Subtle as a brick to the face.

Of course.

Dain Aetos.

This is exactly why I didn't recruit him for the revolution. He wouldn't just blow his cover, he'd tie it up in a bow and throw a parade.

Well that and he treats everything his father says like it's fucking gospel.

It's obvious the whistle is for Violet, but I couldn't care less what he wants. Not my problem. Not today.

"I'm going to supervise that," I say casually. "Do you guys mind grabbing my pack and saving me a seat?"

"Yeah, sure, Ava. Go annoy Aetos," Marcus grins.

I smirk as I start walking after Violet.

"Give him hell for us," he calls after me.

I laugh under my breath but don't turn around.

I slip through the door a second after Violet disappears through it, just in time to hear Dain ask, "No one tried to screw with you last night?"

He makes it too easy.

"Wait, screwing was an option? Damn. And here I slept like a loser."

Both their heads snap to me. I savor the moment, smirking. Dain's hand instantly moves to the hilt of his sword, because of course it does, but once he sees it's me, he rolls his eyes like a disappointed parent.

"Always have to make an entrance, don't you, Melgren?"

"Keeps you on your toes, Aetos."

Contrary to what most people think, I don't hate Dain. We're actually good friends. Not like Violet is with him—I'm not in love with him or anything. But we go way back.

"Would it be so bad if they did?" Violet teases, and my smirk grows wider when I catch the way Dain's jaw tightens.

"You know that's not what I meant, Violet."

I can't resist. "Well I totally thought you were talking about fucking."

They both ignore me.

Rude.

"No one tried to kill me last night, Dain. Or even hurt me."

I sigh and lean back against the wall, already settling in for another episode of Dain Babysits Violet While Pretending Not to Be in Love. I'm still waiting for the drama, but they're giving me nothing. Just endless variations of 'Have you eaten? Cut your hair. I should've snuck you out.'

Yawn.

Then he says it.

"Xaden Riorson wants you dead. It's common knowledge among the leadership cadre after yesterday. And Ava, you're in his wing as well, so he probably wants you dead too."

I scoff, stepping back into the conversation.

"Yeah, and the sky is blue. Tell me something I don't know, Aetos."

"This is serious, Ava. You might be trained, but Violet isn't," Dain snaps.

"He moved the squad so he has a direct line to me. So he can do whatever he wants and no one will question a thing. I'm his revenge against my mother," Violet says, her voice soft and resigned.

She saw this coming, same as I did.

"Pretty hypocritical, if you ask me."

They both stare. Fuck. Said that part out loud.

"Just, uh... just that they're mad they got punished for their parents' actions, and now they're doing the exact same thing."

Violet's thoughtful, but Dain looks like I just took his annotated copy of the Codex and used it for kindling.

"You can't say shit like that, Ava. Are you asking to be killed?"

"Don't speak to me like that, Dain. You're not my squad leader."

He opens his mouth to respond but Violet cuts in first.

"She wouldn't say stuff like that in public, Dain. Stop making such a big deal out of it."

And just like that, his full attention swings right back to her.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you." Dain steps forward, cups her face gently, his thumb stroking her cheekbone like he's some tragic hero in a play.

And that is exactly why Violet isn't allowed to know about the revolution. Dain read her memories five minutes after seeing her again. Five minutes.

"There's not much you can do," she murmurs, and I have to agree. If Xaden Riorson walked in right now and decided to gut us both, the Codex says Dain has to let him. And if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that Dain Aetos would never break the Codex—not even for us.

"We have to get to class," Violet adds, snapping me back to reality. Yeah. Right. Class. My father would love to hear that I was late on the first day. Probably send me straight to dinner with Malek.

"Just do your best to keep a low profile," Dain says, voice laced with urgency. "Especially in Battle Brief. Not like the colors in your hair don't already give you away, but that's the one class the entire quadrant takes. I'll see if one of the second-years can stand guard—"

"No one is going to assassinate me during history," Violet rolls her eyes. "Academics are the one place I don't have to worry. What is Xaden going to do, stab me in the middle of the hallway?"

"I'll also be in most of the same classes as her, Dain. You think I'll just stand back and watch her get stabbed?" I shoot back, voice dry.

"I wouldn't put it past him. He's ruthless, Violet. Why do you think his dragon chose him? And as good a fighter as you are, Ava, Riorson is better."

I resist the urge to laugh. If Riorson's so unbeatable, what exactly does Dain think his precious second-years are going to do about it? What he's going to do? Last time I checked, I could wipe the floor with him—and I've only gotten better.

"The navy-blue one who landed behind the dais yesterday?" Violet asks.

Dain nods. "Sgaeyl. A Blue Daggertail. She's... vicious." He swallows hard.

Ah. The pretty one with attitude. Makes sense. I wonder who the green one I noticed belongs to...

"Don't get me wrong. Cath is a nasty piece of work when he gets riled—all Red Swordtails are—but even most dragons steer clear of Sgaeyl."

Violet stares at him like she's seeing a stranger. I don't blame her. Her Dain Aetos is gone, replaced by a squad leader with a dragon and secrets.

"What?" he asks, brow furrowing. The hallway's getting busier now, voices and footsteps echoing around us.

"You bonded a dragon. You have powers I don't even know about. You open doors with magic. You're a squad leader." Her voice is hushed, almost childlike. "It's just hard to wrap my head around you still being...Dain."

"I'm still me." His voice softens as he lifts the sleeve of his tunic, revealing a crimson dragon relic etched into his skin. "I just have this now. And as for powers—Cath channels a significant amount of magic compared to other dragons, but I'm nowhere near adept. I haven't changed that much. Lesser magic powered through my relic lets me open doors, run faster, power ink pens instead of those annoying quills..."

He smiles like this is all completely normal.

Gods help us all.

His relic looks absolutely epic—deep crimson lines etched like molten glass into his skin, tracing the shape of a Red Swordtail dragon coiled protectively on his shoulder. But Dain already has trouble fitting through doorways with the size of his ego, so I don't tell him that I think so.

"What's your signet power?" I ask, leaning slightly against the wall, folding my arms. Oh, here we go. This should be good. I'm half hoping he lies just to see how badly he fumbles it.

"I can read a person's recent memories," Dain admits quietly, almost reluctantly. "Not like an inntinnsic reads minds or anything—I have to put my hands on the person, so I'm not a security risk. But my signet's not common knowledge. I think they'll use me in intelligence."

My eyebrows rise. I'm shocked that he told us just like that—like this wasn't a major secret to keep close to the chest. But it's the last thing he said that really makes my stomach twist. Intelligence. Which, in Basgiath-speak, is just a sanitized word for torture. That's the direction they'll push him in—sifting through people's memories whether they want it or not. I try not to shudder. It's an efficient way to rise in rank, sure, but torturing people day in and day out? I think I'd lose my mind.

"No way," Violet breathes, like he just told her he can fly.

"I'm still learning, and of course I'm better at it the closer I am to Cath, but yeah. I just put my hands on someone's temples, and I can see what they saw. It's...incredible."

"Incredible is not the word that I'd use, Aetos, but congrats. Though just for the record, put your hands near my face and you'll lose them," I say, crossing one boot over the other, posture casual but my words sharp. Violet looks stunned—like she hasn't even considered the possibility of Dain using his signet on us. Typical. Dain, to be fair, just nods like he expected that response.

"Yeah of course I'll respect your boundaries, Ava."

"And you say you haven't changed," Violet teases, and I find myself seriously wondering why won't they just fuck and put me out of my misery?

"This place can warp almost everything about a person, Vi. It cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you are at your core. They want it that way," Dain says, tone more somber now. "They want it to sever your previous bonds so your loyalty is to your wing. It's one of the many reasons that first-years aren't allowed to correspond with their family and friends. Otherwise, you know I would have written you both. But a year doesn't change that I still think of you as my best friend. I'm still Dain, and this time next year, you will still be Violet, and Ava will still be a bitch. We will all still be us."

"If I'm still alive," Violet jokes, and the bells ring before anyone can unpack that. Time's up.

"We have to get to class."

"Yeah, and I'm going to be late to the flight field." He gestures toward the edge of the pillar. "Look, Riorson is still a wingleader. He'll be after you both, but he'll find a way to do it within the rules of the Codex, at least when people are watching. I was..." His cheeks flush slightly. "Really good friends with Amber Mavis—"

Yeah, they definitely fucked.

"—the current wingleader for Third Wing—last year. And I'm telling you, the Codex is sacred to them. Now, you both go first. I'll see you in the sparring gym." He flashes a smile, warm and rehearsed.

"I'll see you."

"Yeah bye Dain, hopefully see you never," I tease, shooting him a mock salute.

I follow Violet out into the crowded rotunda. It's loud and chaotic, cadets pressing past us, the scent of leather and sweat thick in the air. Just as I'm getting my bearings and spotting the exit we need to take to get to class, I feel it—that now-familiar sensation of eyes burning into the back of my skull.

I pause, letting my gaze drift upward, scanning the crowd like it's second nature.

Top of the steps that lead to the gathering hall.

And there they are.

Xaden Riorson.

Garrick Tavis.

And of course...

Bodhi fucking Durran.

I know Violet has noticed too—her entire body has gone tense beside me, like a bow string pulled taught. I, on the other hand, keep my posture loose, unconcerned. They don't scare me. And even if they did, I'd rather be dragged through dragon fire than let them see it.

Violet's debating something. Probably whether or not to bolt. I wouldn't blame her—but I wouldn't do it. That's what they want. That flinch. That fear. And they're not getting it from me.

Xaden's obsidian eyes are locked on Violet like he's carving her name into a gravestone. Bodhi, though? His eyes are locked on me. Steady. Calculating. I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at him like I'm above this whole drama. He just looks amused. Smug asshole.

Garrick stands beside them, expression unreadable beneath layers of careful neutrality. But that glint in his eyes? That's the look of a man who loves a little spectacle.

Then their attention shifts—glancing slightly to our right—and I see Bodhi's eyes widen in surprise.

Dain must've joined us.

"What are you—" Dain starts, clearly confused, his brows pulled tight.

"Top of the steps. Fourth door," Violet hisses, cutting him off.

"Speak for yourself, I'm standing here to get a tan," I quip, my voice light, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Dain's gaze shoots up, and his whole body goes rigid. He mutters a curse under his breath, not-so-subtly stepping closer to Violet. Fucker. Don't bother to protect me. Not that I need it—but a little concern wouldn't kill him.

"I already knew your parents are tight," Xaden calls down from the steps, a cruel smile curling at the edges of his lips. "But do you three have to be so fucking obvious?"

Heads turn. Voices quiet. The rotunda stills around us. Just perfect—we're now the main event.

I roll my eyes, but stay silent. No point adding fuel. Bodhi grins at my reaction like I've just handed him a glass of wine and a front-row seat to a bloodbath. That stupid beautiful smile again—damn it. And the way his dark eyes sparkle—gods, now is not the time, Ava. I have a revolution to run. No distractions.

"Let me guess," Xaden continues, voice dripping with mockery. "Childhood friends? First loves, even? Some weird threesome thing?"

I gag. Loudly.

All eyes whip to me—including his.

Xaden raises that scarred brow like it's a goddamn weapon, and I wonder if he practices that look in the mirror.

"Ava," Dain hisses at me like I'm a dog that just peed on the rug.

"I'm sorry, Dain, what did you want me to do? It's a disgusting thought. Vi, I love you like a sister—so ew—and Dain, well... you're you, so fuck no."

Bodhi looks absolutely delighted, like I've just handed him a puppy. I narrow my eyes on him. Fucking weirdo.

Dain stares at me like I've grown a second head. Not angry—just deeply concerned for my sanity. Violet's too preoccupied by existential dread to appreciate how funny I'm being.

"He can't hurt you without cause, right?" Violet whispers. "Without cause and calling a quorum of wingleaders because you're a squad leader. Article Four, Section Three."

I want to smack her. If Xaden wanted Dain dead, Dain would already be a memory. He's fine. She should be worrying about herself.

"Correct," Dain replies, not even trying to be quiet. "But both not—"

"Wow, thank you Captain Obvious," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Bodhi's eyes find mine again. Still watching. Still locked in. He really needs to work on his staring problem.

"I expected you to do a better job of hiding where your affections lie, Aetos."

Xaden starts walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Down the steps.

His little death-squad follows just behind him.

"Run, both of you," Dain orders, his voice low but urgent. "Now."

Violet bolts like she's been stabbed. I don't move. Like hell am I running.

"Ava, what the fuck are you doing? You need to go!" Dain hisses again.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Dain, don't fucking talk to me like that. I'm not a fucking dog." I glance back at the marked trio. My expression slips into practiced boredom before I turn back to Dain. "I'm not running in the opposite direction of class for no good fucking reason. I'm not scared of them, Dain."

All three of them look mildly shocked. Like they've never heard a girl speak before.

Bodhi is the first to recover, stepping forward with that low, velvet voice. "You're not scared of us, Melgren?" He uses my last name like a challenge. Like a dare. Like it's meant to put me in my place.

Too bad for him—I like a good dare.

I look him straight in the eyes, smile sharp and sweet like poison. "Well, I'm not scared of Malek. I'm not scared of pain. And most importantly, I'm not scared of my father. So why should I be scared of you, Durran?"

His jaw tightens.

My words are half a lie. A well-worn half-truth I tell myself. Because no matter how hard I try to move past it, part of me will always be scared of my father. But he doesn't need to know that.

"So you're not scared, then," Xaden says, voice smooth as glass. That scarred brow lifts again.

I swear Dain is having a heart attack beside me. This is the longest I've ever seen him speechless.

"Nope." I pop the 'p', rolling my eyes at the same time. "Anyway boys, I've gotta get to class. I'd say it was a pleasure, but Daddy didn't raise a liar."

And just as I move to walk past, Dain clamps a hand on my shoulder—making me look weak. Like I need to be held back. Like he's the one in charge.

I snap.

I wrench my arm out of his grip and spin to face him, eyes blazing.

"Treat me like a fucking dog one more time, Aetos, and I'll cut off your fucking hands!"

Silence.

And with that lasting, dramatic impression, I storm away, boots echoing against the stone floor. As I pass the marked ones, I catch glimpses of their faces—varying degrees of shock frozen across them.

And then, because apparently I like to ruin my own life...

As I pass Bodhi Durran?

I lock eyes with him...

...and fucking wink.

Like a fucking idiot.

Fuck my life.

Chapter Text

History might've been one of the dullest classes I've ever sat through. It didn't help that I knew it was all fucking bullshit.The only good thing about it was this guy in Violet's squad who kept cracking jokes under his breath, just loud enough for Marcus to catch on. Eventually, the two of them had a whole running commentary going, and it was the only thing that kept me from slamming my head against the desk out of sheer boredom. A life raft in a sea of lies.

Now we're in Battle Brief, waiting for the professor to arrive, and the atmosphere is anything but boring.

"Welcome to your first Battle Brief," Professor Devera says from the recessed floor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. The patch on her shoulder — a sharp, vibrant purple — gleams under the mage lights and matches her short-cropped hair perfectly. It suits her. Authoritative. No-nonsense. Dangerous.

This is the only class held in the circular, tiered room that curves around the entire end of the academic hall, and one of only two rooms in the citadel that can actually fit all of us. Every creaky wooden seat is packed with first-years, second-years, and even the third-years who are standing against the walls behind us. Packed like sardines, but somehow, we all fit.

I wonder idly how long it'll take before the second and third-years can sit down again. Will the gauntlet take enough of us out that they won't have to wait for threshing? Will we be whittled down that quickly?

"In the past," Devera continues, pacing deliberately in front of a twenty-foot-high map of the Continent mounted on the back wall, "riders were seldom called into service before graduation." Her tone tightens slightly, her mouth firm. "And if they were, they were always third-years who'd spent time shadowing forward wings. But we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we're up against."

The mage lights reflect off her sword, strapped to her back like an ever-present warning. She doesn't just talk about war — she lives it.

"It's not just about knowing where every wing is stationed." She makes eye contact with each first-year in her line of sight, taking her time, letting her gaze linger. "You need to understand the politics of our enemies. The strategies behind defending our outposts from constant attack. You need to grasp recent and current battles with clarity, precision — and without hesitation. If you can't manage that, you have no business on the back of a dragon."

Her black brow arches, darker than her deep brown skin, and I can't help the flicker of pride that stirs in my chest. That's why I like Devera. She doesn't coddle anyone. Doesn't waste time with platitudes or comforting lies. She tells it like it is — or at least, like she thinks it is.

It's also why I'm almost certain she doesn't know about the Venin. Because she wouldn't lie to us. Not her.

I've been training with Devera for years — on my father's orders, of course — and I already know I won't be raising my hand in this class. Not today. She'll come to me when she's ready. Wouldn't want to ruin the fun for the amateurs.

Marcus and Lilian won't be speaking up either, though for them it's less about strategy and more about the fact that they haven't had enough practice at sticking to non-classified intel. If Marcus gets a little too proud and starts showboating in front of the class and spills something that could expose us, I might actually kill him.

"This is the only class you'll have every day," Devera continues, eyes sweeping the tiered seating, "because it's the only class that will matter if you're called into service early."

If only she knew that even she doesn't really know what's waiting for us out there.

Her gaze lands on me for a fraction of a second — and there it is: that barely-there smirk, just at the corner of her mouth. She knows I'm here. Knows what I bring to the table. And then her eyes flick past me and widen, just slightly, before her smile changes — more approval now, directed at someone else. I follow the shift, and sure enough, she must've spotted Violet.

Because of course she did.

"This class is taught daily," Devera goes on, "and relies on the most current intelligence available. For that reason, you will also answer to Professor Markham, who deserves nothing but your utmost respect."

She gestures to the side, and the scribe steps forward. The cream color of his uniform makes him look like he doesn't belong next to Devera, who's dressed head to toe in the stark black of Flame Section. She whispers something to him and he immediately glances at Violet, thick eyebrows shooting up like someone just stuck a spike up his ass.

I sigh loudly, and to my right, I hear Lilian mutter, "He's not fucking subtle."

No, he is not. He may as well have shouted to the room that Violet Sorrengail shouldn't be here.

"It is the duty of scribes not only to study and master the past," he says, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose like he's been carrying the burden of history on it, "but to relay and record the present. Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable intelligence with which to make strategic decisions, and — most importantly — veracious details to document our history for future generations, we are doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society."

"You'd know all about that, slimy fuck," Marcus mutters so quietly only I can hear it.

I agree — Markham's a dirtbag — but that doesn't mean Marcus can go around saying that shit out loud. I shoot him a glare that clearly translates to 'shut the fuck up before I make you swallow your own tongue'.

"First topic of the day." Devera moves toward the towering map and flicks her fingers, bringing a mage light to hover over the eastern border. "The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders."

I don't bother picking up my quill. I've sat through enough briefings like this to know I'll remember the important parts. Instead, I listen to the collective ripple of surprise that spreads through the first-years like a shiver. I want to scoff. What did they think we were fighting out there? Sunflowers and daisies?

"Some information is redacted," Devera warns, "but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains."

The light expands as she spreads her hands, illuminating the jagged mountain range that forms our border with Braevick. "This allowed the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but to channel and wield sometime around midnight."

I already knew the wards were failing — not just from my extracurricular activities but from private sessions with Devera. What I notice now, though, is that only the first-years look shocked. The second- and third-years? They're unmoved. That tells me this has happened before. Probably more than once.

"Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive," Devera says, folding her arms across her chest. "But the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift. Based on that information, what questions would you ask?" She lifts a single finger. "First-years only."

I have questions. Lots of them. Most of which would probably get me hauled out of this room and straight in front of my fathers dragon to be executed. I also have plenty of ideas on what should be done. But I don't raise my hand.

If Devera wants to hear from me, she'll ask. She knows I always have something to say.

"Come on, first-years," she presses, pacing slowly. "Show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical-thinking skills to be here."

Eventually, the first-years start chiming in with questions. Some are decent. Others are the equivalent of asking a dragon what its favorite color is. One girl in Violet's squad starts acting like a raging bitch and I roll my eyes. Not my problem. I can't even name everyone in my squad — I'm definitely not getting involved in another's drama.

"What altitude is the village at?" a girl sitting next to Violet asks.

Devera's eyebrows lift. "Markham?"

It's a good question — deceptively good — and I'm almost certain Devera, like me, has already guessed it's not the girl's. It's Violet's. What I don't understand is why Violet isn't asking herself. She won't be able to hide how smart she is for long.

"A little less than ten thousand feet," Markham answers. "Why?"

The girl looks nervous and glances at Violet before replying. "Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."

Devera's smirk is quick and sharp. "Why don't you tell me why that's bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out."

"Oh, busted," Marcus mutters with a grin, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Everyone turns to look at Violet like they haven't all already heard the rumors. Please. Riders are the worst gossips in the world. Half this room probably already memorized her face.

"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude," Violet says. "And neither is their ability to channel. It's an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail."

There she goes. That brain of hers cutting straight through the noise.

"Especially since the village looks to be what...an hour's flight from the nearest outpost? That's Chakir right there, isn't it?"

"It is," Devera replies, smirking now. "Keep going with that line of thought."

I recognize that smirk. Violet's onto something.

"Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad to arrive?" Violet asks, and that's it. That's the key.

"I did."

"Then they were already on their way."

People laugh. Idiots.

"Yeah, because that makes sense," Jack Barlowe snorts, turning in his seat. "General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know when it'll happen, dumbass."

The moment he mentions my father, my shoulders lock up. That split-second of hesitation is enough to stop me from lashing back.

"Fuck off, Barlowe," the girl beside Violet snaps, and it pulls me back from the edge. I want to applaud her. Or kiss her. Or maybe both.

"I'm not the one who thinks precognition is a thing," he sneers. "Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon."

I can't help myself.

"I don't know, Jack," I say, leaning forward. "I think precognition might be a thing because I'm getting a vision right now. It says..."

I pause, let it hang.

"...Jack Barlowe is a massive fucking twat."

The room erupts. Marcus and Lilian are wheezing beside me, and Jack goes tomato-red. Worth it.

"ENOUGH!" Devera shouts, and I throw up my hands in mock surrender. But I see it — that tiny tick at the corner of her mouth. She's not mad.

"Why do you think that, Violet—" Markham stammers. "Cadet Sorrengail?"

"For Malek's sake, he's super bad at this," Lilian whispers, and I just nod.

Violet doesn't miss a beat. "Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way. It would take at least half that long just to light the beacons and call for help. No full squad is just sitting around waiting. Most of them would've been asleep."

She's got them. All of them.

"And why would they already be on their way?" Devera asks, her tone sharp with anticipation.

"Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking."

And just like that, the entire room goes still.

Violet is right — and we all know it.

"That's the most—" Jack starts.

Okay correction everyone with a functioning brain knows it.

"She's right," Professor Devera interrupts, her voice slicing through the lecture hall like a blade. A hush falls immediately, thick and tangible.

I take the opportunity to catch Jack's eye and flip him off with zero hesitation. If looks could kill, I'd still be breathing just fine. His glare might be vicious, but it's got nothing on my father's. Jack's more like a poorly trained attack dog—loud, embarrassing, and prone to pissing on the rug.

"One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward, and the wing flew," Devera continues, calm and sharp. "Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher, and the destruction of the village much worse."

"Second- and third-years, take over," she says, stepping back and folding her arms. "Let's see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets."

Her gaze lingers on Jack for a moment, one eyebrow arched in warning. The silence breaks as riders behind us start firing off questions, fast and practiced.

"How many riders were deployed to the site?"

"What killed the lone fatality?"

"How long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons?"

"Were any left alive for questioning?"

Better questions than the first-years, I'll give them that. Still not in Violet's league, but then again, not many are.

Then a deep voice floats down from the back of the hall, rich and level, cutting straight through the chatter.

"What was the condition of the village?"

I sit up straighter. Now we're getting to the good part.

"Riorson?" Markham shades his eyes with a hand, peering into the upper tiers to find the source of the voice.

"The village," Xaden repeats coolly, unfazed. "Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn't demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack."

Look at that. He's not just a broody bastard with pretty cheekbones and a homicidal reputation—he's also capable of saying something useful without giving himself away. That takes skill. Especially considering he already knows exactly what they were looking for.

Devera's rare, approving smile returns. "The buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived."

"They were looking for something," Xaden says, full conviction, voice like flint striking steel.

Of course he knows. He's probably halfway responsible for smuggling it to them. Not that I'm judging. I do the same thing—except I'm smart enough to keep a stash for me and mine.

"And it wasn't riches. That's not a gem-mining district," he continues, still calm, still measured. "Which begs the question—what do we have that they want so badly?"

"Exactly. That's the question," Professor Devera nods, scanning the room. "And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider."

And there it is. The moment his ego becomes an actual structural hazard. I swear to the gods, his head might not fit through the door by the time this class ends.

Then her eyes lock on mine, sharp as ever. I feel the shift in the room a split second before she speaks.

"Cadet Melgren. You've been suspiciously quiet."

I smile—slow and deliberate—as every head in the room turns toward me.

"Didn't want to ruin the fun for everyone else, Professor," I say, easy and casual, lounging back in my creaky seat like I don't have a care in the world.

To the untrained eye, it might look like Devera's annoyed by my attitude, but I see it—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Amused. Always.

"Do go on then, Cadet. Say what you're thinking."

Oh, I intend to.

"Well, for starters, I definitely think the wards have been falling on a semi-regular basis for the last year at least," I say, loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Because when you announced that they'd fallen, not a single second- or third-year looked shocked. They've become accustomed to hearing it."

It's not a question. She wasn't expecting one. Devera knows me too well for that.

"Well deduced, Cadet. Continue," she says, her voice low, almost satisfied. The silence stretches taut around us—no coughs, no whispers. Even the air feels like it's holding its breath.

"All due offense to Wingleader Riorson—" I say, pointedly sweet, eyes flicking toward him for just a moment, "I think he's only partly right. Sure, the gryphon riders are looking for something, but I don't think they expected to find it in Chakir."

A ripple moves through the hall. I've got their full attention now. Even Xaden's cousin is staring like I just smacked him across the face with a revelation.

Devera's watching me closely now, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"You said they were there for a whole hour and only killed thirty-seven people," I continue, my tone calm but deliberate. "And while any civilian death is a tragedy, that number should be way higher if they were truly desperate. Not to mention you also said only one rider died and one dragon was injured. So what does that tell us?"

No one dares interrupt.

"It tells us they didn't stick around for a fight. If they were that desperate to find something, they'd have fought to the death. Or they would've brought reinforcements. Multiple drifts. But they didn't."

I pause for a moment, just to let it land. I can practically feel the tension crackling in the air.

"They weren't trying to win. They were practicing. Running drills. Whatever they're actually looking for is important enough that they don't want to botch the real thing."

There. The truth—part of it, anyway. Not too much. Just enough to let the smart ones connect the dots. Let the others try to keep up.

Devera smiles. Not a smirk. A real, full smile.

Ha. Eat shit, Riorson. I got a smile too.

"And that is the standard I want everyone in this room aiming for," she says, turning back to the rest of the hall. "See how Cadet Melgren puts herself in the enemy's shoes? Thinks about what their strategy must be?"

"Fucking show-off," Marcus mutters under his breath, but I just toss him a smug grin. He's proud of me. He better be, or I'm throwing a training dagger at his head later.

"So what's the answer?" someone to my left—another first-year—asks, clearly bewildered.

"We don't know," Professor Devera says, and she shrugs, as if to remind them all that this isn't about certainty. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering?"

She paces again, looking more tense now than when the class started. I see the shadows under her eyes now. I hear the weight in her voice.

"Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. There will be another attack," she says flatly. "And maybe we'll get another clue. Go to history if you're looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask—so that all of you have a chance at coming home alive."

Or the really important question: Why is our leadership full of fucking morons who can't tell the truth?

I don't say it out loud—but the look Devera shoots me out of the corner of her eye tells me she might be thinking the same thing.

She doesn't know about the Venin. Doesn't know about the rot spreading behind our lines. But I can see it in her posture. The way her fingers twitch toward the hilt of her sword. She knows something's coming.

And while I'm sure she's right—that this war is about to get a hell of a lot worse—I still pray to the Gods every night that she's wrong.

Even though I know she isn't.

Chapter Text

"You just had to show off, didn't you?" Lilian teases from where she's leaned against the wall beside me, arms folded like she's some kind of smug oracle.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. Gods help me. "This is all you've talked about since lunch."

She shrugs, unapologetic. "Well, you did practically summon a standing ovation in battle brief."

Marcus snorts from my other side. "She acted like she wasn't gonna go off. We all knew you were going to."

They're still going on about it like we didn't discuss it beforehand. Like I hadn't laid out exactly what I was going to say and they hadn't both nodded with conspiratorial smiles. I swear, they'll be talking about this when we're old and grey, sitting in rocking chairs on some war-torn porch, still teasing me about this one stupid moment.

"Oh my gods, if both of you don't shut the fuck up about battle brief, I'm finding new friends," I snap, but I'm grinning when I say it. It softens the bite, and they know me well enough to hear the laughter under my words.

Not that it matters. Lilian could probably tell even if I wasn't smiling. She reads people like she was born with the cheat codes.

"Okay, fine, no more talking about battle brief," Marcus says, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"Thank you," I mutter.

A pause.

Then: "So can we talk about how you keep eye-fucking our section's executive officer?"

I smack him. Hard. Right across the back of the head.

I don't dignify his stupidity with a response.

I also don't look away from Bodhi.

He's standing across the hall, surrounded by other second and third years. They're lounging like they own the place — all sharp smiles and crossed arms and casual arrogance. And, to be fair, they kind of do.

They've all survived at least a year of this madness.

They could probably wipe the floor with most of the first years.

Most.

Because I've been trained by General Melgren himself.

And if anyone underestimates me, that's their mistake to make.

Still, aside from a few spars with Marcus and Lilian — who are the only ones who know how I move before I do — I haven't fought anyone else. So maybe I'm just as full of arrogance as the rest of them.

But, I also regularly fight off assassins. So maybe my arrogance is earned.

Before either of the idiots I call best friends can get in another word, Lilian suddenly goes still. Her body stiffens, spine straightening like she's being yanked by a wire.

Before I can even ask what's wrong, she speaks.

"He's going to snap that kid's neck."

Her voice is low. Flat. Dead certain.

That's all it takes.

I whip my head toward the mats, scanning the fighters — and I see it.

Jack Barlowe's hand wrapped tight around his opponent's neck, his body coiled like a predator, face twisted in something half-sneer, half-focus.

I open my mouth to call out — to shout, to warn someone, anyone —

But I'm too slow.

Crack.

The sound is too loud.

It's too real.

The instructor's voice bellows across the gym, his boots pounding toward the mat.

"What did I say?! he roars. "You broke his damned neck!"

The entire gym stills.

My breath catches somewhere between rage and disbelief.

He should've seen it coming. The instructor. He should've noticed.

Lilian wasn't even paying full attention and she knew. So what the fuck was he doing?

Jack, meanwhile, just shrugs, looking disgustingly casual.

"How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?"

I want to kill him.

Not metaphorically. Not with words or curses. I want to kill him.

He's so casual. So flippant.

A person is dead and he looks bored.

Someone with a family. With people who were probably waiting for them, praying they'd survive their first year.

And Jack's standing there with blood on his hands and not a single ounce of remorse in his eyes.

I've killed. I'm not perfect. But I've never killed carelessly.

And I've never been cruel.

Even the ones who tried to end me — I made sure their deaths were clean. Fast. Peaceful.

Because no matter the crime, no matter the sin — everyone deserves at least that.

"Eyes forward," Emetterio orders, and this time his voice is gentler, quieter. Like he knows how many of us are still staring at the body.

Most people turn away.

I don't.

I can't.

His next words come like a soft command:

"You don't have to get used to it. But you do have to function through it."

He calls out two names from Violet's squad. Orders them to the mat.

But I barely register who.

Because my eyes are still on the dead boy.

Still on the way his limbs don't move.

Lilian's hand finds mine — firm, grounding.

"Don't feel guilty, Ava," she says, her voice threaded with quiet certainty. "He wasn't one of yours. And you can't save everyone."

She's right.

But it doesn't make it feel any better.

I don't get a chance to respond.

"You and you," Emetterio calls again — and this time he's pointing at me.

I shove everything down. Lock it all in a box, like I've been trained to do since I could walk.

A fight is no place for feelings.

"Feelings will get you killed," as my father always said.

I start unstrapping my weapons — the visible ones, anyway. I want to look less threatening, not be less threatening.

Across the mat, I see another second year doing the same. There's something familiar about him, but I can't place it.

When I'm done, I glance at Marcus and Lilian.

They don't say anything. No "good luck." No advice.

We're long past needing those.

If I don't know what I'm doing by now, it's already too late.

As I step onto the mat and get a closer look at my opponent, my face splits into a grin.

"Oh Gods, you're my new bestie."

There's a beat of confused silence. A couple of scattered laughs echo around us — the audience clearly growing now that General Melgren's daughter is about to fight.

The guy blinks at me, caught completely off guard. "Uh... what?"

I wave, bright and peppy, my voice pitched like one of those shallow noble girls at a court party.

"Oh yeah, I know that sounds weird, but I saw you after the parapet! You were hilarious when my friend Vi was threatening Jack Barlowe! Hi!"

He smirks. Condescending. Arrogant.

I want to wipe that look off his face.

"Oh yeah," he says lazily. "You were with that hot guy."

I blink innocently. "Oh yeah, that's—"

"This isn't a social event. Fucking fight!" Emetterio snaps.

The crowd barely has time to laugh before I move.

I pounce.

My fist connects with his face before he can even process what's happening.

He's still reeling when I duck low, sweeping his legs out from under him.

He goes down.

The surprise on his face is satisfying.

But I hesitate.

Because I'm used to fighting someone that knows every move I'm about to make.

It was just for a second.

And that second costs me the pin.

Still — the crowd is stunned.

So is he.

I see Xaden inspecting me like I'm a new puzzle he hasn't seen before.

Bodhi, beside him, has a bruise on his jaw and a smug smirk on his face. Like he's not surprised at all.

I don't have time to think about that.

Not while I'm still in the middle of a fight.

I fake a kick — obvious, lazy — and as he reaches to grab my foot, I throw myself forward into a roll.

I land behind him, arm snatching his as I twist and lock it.

He drops to his knees.

I don't stop there.

I never stop there.

A knee to the back sends him flat onto his stomach. I step on his other wrist, pinning him.

The whole room's watching.

"Yield."

My voice is cold. Steady.

It cuts through the noise like a blade.

He coughs once. "I yield."

And then... I freeze.

I don't know what to do next.

I haven't won before. Not like this. Not clean. Not public.

Not mine.

I hear a throat clear.

Marcus nods at the empty mat beside me.

Right.

I should get off the poor guy.

I release his arm, step off his wrist, and back away as he rolls onto his back, just lying there like he's still processing what happened.

I glance at my friends. Marcus looks like he's seconds from teasing me, but Lilian points subtly at my hand, then to the guy still on the mat.

...Oh. Right.

I slowly offer him my hand, glancing at Lilian for confirmation. She nods, encouraging. I complete the gesture, awkward but sincere.

He blinks, then laughs and takes it.

"Good Gods, Melgren, you pack a punch."

"Uh... thanks," I mumble, feeling the full weight of everyone's eyes on me.

"Name's Bane Wreaton," he says with a grin. "We should spar again sometime, Melgren."

He walks off, and I return to my friends, ignoring the staring.

Marcus opens his mouth, but surprisingly, it's Lilian who shuts him down. "Not the time, Marcus."

Thank the gods.

Because inside, I'm crumbling.

Visions are racing through my mind — old wounds, broken bones, the sickening crack of joints that should've never been twisted.

I barely register their fights.

I think Violet's injured.

But I can't focus enough to be sure.

And then it's over.

Everyone's leaving.

I hear myself telling them I'll catch up.

And suddenly —

I'm alone in the gym.

Just me, my ghosts, and my trembling hands.

And I can't move.

BODHI DURRAN

I'm still standing next to Xaden, the bruise on my jaw throbbing faintly. It's the only hit that landed in my last match, but fuck, it hurt. Of course, Xaden's been mocking me for it all afternoon. He does it in that dry, deadpan way that makes it hard to tell if he's teasing or genuinely disappointed, but I catch him glancing at the bruise like he's afraid it might turn into something worse when he's not looking. That's the thing about Xaden—he pretends he doesn't care, and then he does things like that.

We're supposed to be watching the matches, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be a threat. Especially the marked ones. Especially the ones like her.

Ava Melgren.

I already know what fight's coming before her name is even called. I recognize the way Emetterio scans the field—he's choosing carefully now. He picks Bane Wreaton from my year, which tells me all I need to know. He wants to see what Ava can do. Wants to test her, and maybe see what happens when a blade raised in shadow meets one forged in fire.

Ava starts stripping her weapons, and my eyebrows raise slightly as they just keep coming. Daggers, throwing knives, gods know what else. I mutter under my breath, "That's a small arsenal, not a kit." Xaden doesn't laugh, but I see the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Then she looks up.

And for a second, I forget why we're here.

Her eyes flick over the crowd like she's searching for a threat, but they don't land on me. They barely brush past. That shouldn't disappoint me, but it does. Because I can't stop watching her.

Xaden elbows me. Hard.

"Fuck, what was that for?" I snap.

He doesn't say anything. Just gives me a pointed look with that scarred eyebrow raised like he's the fucking patron saint of good decisions. The kind of look that says Bodhi, maybe don't ogle the daughter of the man who helped murder our parents. Just a thought. And yeah, he has a point. But that doesn't mean I listen.

She starts talking to Bane like they're old friends meeting at a noble's garden party. Like she's bored. Like she's playing him. I lean closer to Xaden, muttering low, "She's baiting him."

Xaden nods. "She baited Barlowe in battle brief, too. She's not as naive as she acts."

And then—without warning—Emetterio barks at them to start.

Ava moves like she's been uncaged.

It's immediate. A blur of motion. Her opponent barely sees her coming. She drops Bane like he's nothing more than weight on her shoulders she's tired of carrying. The entire gym stutters into silence.

I watch her face as it happens.

She's surprised. Actually surprised it worked.

A slow, involuntary smirk pulls at my mouth. I can't help it. The girl just floored one of the best second-years without breaking a sweat, and she's looking at him like she didn't mean to. Like it was an accident. Like she wasn't sure it would work.

Her eyes flick across the room again, and this time they do catch mine.

Only for a second.

But in that second, it's like she sees through me. Not in a way that makes me feel exposed—but in the way that makes me want to see her again. To stay in her line of sight a second longer.

And then she's moving again. Disappearing into the fight like that moment didn't even happen.

What follows is clinical. Devastating. Every move she makes is deliberate. She breaks him down step by step, limb by limb, until she's standing over him, one foot on his wrist, hands locked around his arm. He has no choice but to yield.

But that's not the part that grabs my attention.

It's what happens after.

She freezes.

Not like she's being cocky. Not like she's soaking it in.

She looks... lost.

Uncertain.

I've never seen her look like that. Not in battle brief. Not even during the match.

There's a pause. Long enough that it starts to feel awkward. Someone clears their throat—her friends, I think—and she moves again. Gets off Bane. Steps back.

But she doesn't walk away.

She just stands there, caught in some invisible hesitation like she's not sure what the next step is. Like no one ever told her what to do after a win.

I hear Xaden murmur beside me, "Her friends are coaching her."

And I say, quietly, because the thought is forming even as I speak it, "She's never won a fight before."

Xaden turns sharply. "But she's good."

"She's too good," I reply, eyes still locked on her. "If she was trained by Melgren—"

"—then she's never been allowed to win."

We don't say anything else for a long moment. And then she offers her hand to Bane. Awkward. Unsure. Like she's copying something she's only seen done, never experienced herself.

And when she walks off the mat, she's not strutting. She's not even confident. She looks like she's holding herself together with sheer willpower and not much else.

Xaden moves off, distracted by whatever fresh disaster Imogen's stirring up with Sorrengail. But I can't look away from Ava.

Not even when the next match starts.

She's not really here anymore. Not present. I see the signs—shaking hands, unfocused eyes. Her friends try to keep things normal, and when they're called to fight, she stays behind. Tells them she'll catch up.

But she doesn't.

When I leave the gym, I see them outside. Lilian and Marcus. They're glancing back at the doors. Quiet. Nervous.

They left her alone in there.

I know I should walk away. I want to. She's not my responsibility. She's not even my friend. And nothing about this is smart.

But I can't.

So I double back.

Take a breath.

And push open the gym doors.

She's still there.

And when she looks up at me—finally, really looks at me—

Her eyes don't narrow. They don't widen. They don't even focus.

It's like I'm not even there.

Like I'm just another ghost in a room already full of them.

Chapter Text

BODHI DURRAN

I close the gym doors gently behind me and pause, my hand lingering on the cool metal handle. The hollow click as the door locks with a quiet pulse of lesser magic echoes through the cavernous room. It feels final, like crossing a line. One I probably shouldn't.

But I don't move.

She's standing exactly where I left her. Still and unmoving, like a statue carved from glass—brittle, breakable. Her arms hang by her sides, her hands trembling so subtly that if I didn't know what to look for, I might've missed it. Her expression is blank. Not neutral—blank. Like the world's dropped away and left her behind.

"Cadet Melgren," I say softly, the name unfamiliar on my tongue despite how often it's passed through others' mouths in hushed whispers or sharp insults. I keep my voice low, almost reverent, as I take a cautious step forward.

She doesn't react.

"Ava?" I try again, quieter this time. "Can you hear me? Can I... touch you?"

Still nothing. No flicker of acknowledgment. No tension in her shoulders. No shift in weight. Just that same awful, empty stillness.

I've seen this before. Once. Years ago. When Xaden was dragged from the courtyard and sentenced to take the 107 scars. The moment after the cuts finished being carved, he wasn't there anymore. Not really. His body stood, swaying, barely breathing, but he was gone. I remember watching him fade right in front of me, powerless to stop it. And then being ripped away before I could reach him. Before I could anchor him back.

That same kind of vacant distance lives in Ava's eyes right now.

I should leave. She doesn't know me. She's made it abundantly clear how she feels about the marked ones—how she feels about me. And maybe I deserve that. Maybe we all do. But I can't walk away from this. From her.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I slowly, gently reach for her hand. It's cold and tense beneath my fingers. I barely brush it before she flinches—just the slightest twitch, but I freeze instantly. My breath catches. I start to pull back.

Then her fingers curl—tentatively, softly—around mine.

I exhale in relief, grounding both of us with that fragile connection. "Okay," I murmur, "I'm not going anywhere. You're okay. You're safe."

She doesn't look at me. Doesn't move. But she speaks.

"I'm never safe."

The words are so quiet I almost miss them. A whisper, raw and hollow.

And just like that, something sharp lodges in my chest.

Gods.

She believes it. She believes that she's never safe.

And suddenly it all makes sense. The tightly wound tension in her spine. The way she moved during the fight—controlled, brutal, but never reckless. The calculated performance, the forced grin, the mask she keeps welded to her face like armor. I used to think she was just another soldier's spoiled daughter. The infamous Melgren's golden girl. But now?

Now I realize I've been an idiot.

She's not golden. She's glass. Shattered and reforged so many times that the cracks have become part of her shape.

One tear slips down her cheek. Without thinking, I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb, my hand still loosely holding hers. My touch is careful, like I'm afraid she might break.

She doesn't say anything else. Doesn't move. So I stay quiet too, just standing with her, our hands loosely twined, the way you might anchor a kite from drifting too far into the sky.

I don't know how long we stand like that. Minutes, maybe ten. The world slows around us. Her shaking calms. The silence between us feels less like absence and more like understanding.

And then, too suddenly, she jolts back.

Her fingers pull from mine as she stumbles a step away, blinking like she's surfacing from deep water. Her chest rises and falls a little too fast.

I raise both hands in surrender, voice gentle. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

Her expression flickers. Confusion. Relief. Then something closer to fear.

"F-fuck off, Durran." Her voice trembles, but she tries to bury it under forced indifference. "T-this... this never happened. And if you tell anyone, I'll gut you."

She backs toward the door in a jerky retreat, the walls clearly closing in.

But I move without thinking. Just one step. Just enough to gently grasp her wrist—not tight, not demanding, just to keep her here a second longer.

"Okay," I say. "If this never happened, then there's no harm done in you sitting for a couple more minutes. Just to catch your breath."

She hesitates.

Her gaze flickers down.

And I know what she sees. The sleeve of my shirt pushed up just far enough to reveal the black relic burned into my forearm—the symbol that marks me as one of them. A rebel. A traitor. The son of the movement that killed her mother and burned half of Navarre.

Her expression shifts again—this time it's unreadable.

I should let go. Gods, I should let her go.

Instead, I release her wrist slowly and tug my sleeve down to cover the mark.

"There. Now I'm just a guy," I say, voice soft, a little tentative. "And you're just a girl. And as a random guy... I'd really like it if you sat down. Even just for a minute."

She doesn't speak. Her breathing's still too fast. But her eyes meet mine, and something flickers behind them. Something raw.

And then—cautiously, like she expects the floor to collapse beneath her—she takes a few slow steps back... and slides down the wall.

She doesn't look away from me the entire time.

I move toward her and sit beside her—close, but not too close. I keep my hands to myself, my posture loose and unthreatening. She doesn't relax, but she doesn't bolt either, so I take that as a win.

After a minute, I break the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!" she says quickly. Too quickly.

I don't push.

We lapse into another silence, heavier now. Not uncomfortable. Just thick with everything unsaid.

She breaks first.

"I'm not weak or anything," she blurts out, voice sharp with defensiveness. "I've just never had to do that before. Okay?"

I glance over, keeping my tone easy. "Never said you were weak. And anyone who has said that clearly didn't see you on the mat." I pause, then add, "And I mean, yeah, I can figure how training with your dad meant never winning a fight. But... I don't get how that means no one's ever helped you up. You've never lost to anyone else?"

She scoffs bitterly, looking away. "Everyone likes to talk about how cruel my father is, like he's some monster only strangers see. Like he suddenly stopped being who he is just because I was born." The words spill out—sharp, unfiltered. Then her face freezes. "I—I shouldn't have said that."

I turn my head to look at her fully. "Well, none of this is happening, remember?" I offer her a small smile. "So technically you didn't."

She blinks, startled.

"And... I'm sorry," I add, more quietly. "You're right. I never thought about it like that before."

She looks away again, jaw tight. Her posture shifts like she's trying to fold herself back into the version of Ava that the world expects.

I know she's about to run. I can feel it in my bones.

And sure enough, she's on her feet the next second, brushing imaginary dust from her trousers like she's trying to erase this moment.

"Thanks, Durran, but I'm going now," she says stiffly. "Tell anyone about this and even your cousin won't be able to save you."

I watch her turn and walk toward the door, and despite everything, I can't help myself.

"You think I need Xaden to protect me?"

She hesitates, just a beat, and I hear the smirk in her voice as she calls over her shoulder, "I think you'd need ten Xadens—but who's counting?"

And then she's gone. The doors swing shut behind her.

I don't move.

I just stand there, staring at the place she used to be.

And wondering why I already miss her like hell.

AVA MELGREN

It hits me like a breath I wasn't ready to take—too sudden, too sharp.

The world comes rushing back all at once: the gym walls, the weight of the air, the ache in my limbs. And him—Bodhi Durran—too close.

My fingers tear away from his like I've been burned.

I stumble back a step, blinking fast, trying to shove the fog out of my brain. My chest is rising and falling too quickly. I can't breathe. I don't want to be seen.

He doesn't move to stop me. Just lifts both hands, palms out, surrendering.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

The gentleness in his voice doesn't help. It makes it worse. Because he sounds like he means it.

Confusion twists in my gut, followed by something that feels too much like relief—then fear. Cold, slicing fear.

Because I know what he saw.

Because he's marked.

Because if he even suspects what I am—what I'm hiding—I'm dead. We're all dead.

"F-fuck off, Durran." My voice wavers and I hate it. I layer it with venom, force it into something I can control. "T-this... this never happened. And if you tell anyone, I'll gut you."

It's not just a threat. It's a plea.

Don't talk about it. Don't ask questions. Pretend I'm still the spoiled general's daughter with nothing to lose.

I move toward the door, already trying to fold myself back into the lie. But then—

His hand brushes mine again.

Just barely.

Just enough to stop me.

Not forceful. Not angry. Just asking me to stay.

"Okay," he says, calm and level. "If this never happened, then there's no harm done in you sitting for a couple more minutes. Just to catch your breath."

I freeze.

My eyes drop—damn it, Ava, don't look—but it's too late. I see the edge of his sleeve pushed up, and beneath it, the black mark burned into his skin.

The rebellion relic.

My blood turns to ice.

It's not that I hate the mark. It's not that I'm afraid of what it means.

It's that I have one too.

Not on my arm. Not where anyone can see it. But it's there, etched beneath my skin all the same—loyalty to the same cause. The same fire.

The difference is, no one knows about mine.

And I can't afford for him to guess.

I school my expression into nothing.

He lets go—slowly—and tugs down his sleeve, covering the mark. Hiding it, like he knows it's the thing keeping me at the edge.

"There. Now I'm just a guy," he says softly. "And you're just a girl. And as a random guy... I'd really like it if you sat down. Even just for a minute."

I don't know why that line nearly undoes me.

Maybe it's the softness in his voice. The way he gives me space when I expect a shove. The way he sees me, not the image I've spent years building.

It terrifies me.

But still... I nod. Just once.

I take a few slow steps back until my spine meets the wall and I let myself slide down it. I don't look away from him—not once. I can't. Because trust is a liability, and I'm not sure if he's a threat... or worse, if he's safe.

He sits next to me, giving me space. His body is relaxed, but I can tell he's watching me carefully—measuring my edges.

The silence stretches.

It's thick, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with the weight of what neither of us is saying.

Then he speaks.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." It comes out too fast, sharp and brittle. I hate the way it sounds. I hate that I answered at all.

He doesn't push.

That makes it worse.

The silence sinks in again, pressing on my lungs.

And then I break.

"I'm not weak or anything," I blurt. "I've just never had to do that before. Okay?"

I hear the edge in my voice and immediately regret it. But Bodhi just glances over, calm as ever.

"Never said you were weak," he says. "And anyone who has said that clearly didn't see you on the mat."

His tone is casual—careful, even. Like he's trying not to spook me. I hate that it works.

"And I mean, yeah, I can figure how training with your dad meant never winning a fight. But... I don't get how that means no one's ever helped you up. You've never lost to anyone else?"

I flinch at the question.

He doesn't know what he's asking.

He doesn't know what it means to lose in my house. In my family.

"Everyone likes to talk about how cruel my father is," I snap, "like he's some monster only strangers see. Like he suddenly stopped being who he is just because I was born."

I hadn't meant to say that. Not out loud.

I feel the blood drain from my face. "I—I shouldn't have said that."

He looks at me—not with pity. Not with fear. Just... understanding.

"Well," he says gently, "none of this is happening, remember? So technically you didn't."

I blink.

"And... I'm sorry," he adds. "You're right. I never thought about it like that before."

He means it.

That's the problem.

Because the more he sees me... the more he might see everything.

I can't let that happen.

So I stand up abruptly, brushing off invisible dust, armor sliding back into place.

"Thanks, Durran," I say coolly. "But I'm going now. Tell anyone about this and even your cousin won't be able to save you."

I turn for the door.

But of course, he can't help himself.

"You think I need Xaden to protect me?"
I smirk, just once, without turning around. "I think you'd need ten Xadens—but who's counting?"

And then I'm gone.

The doors swing shut behind me and I keep walking. I don't let myself look back. I can't afford to.

By the time I reach the dining hall, I've slipped back into the version of me they all expect.

The perfect, untouchable general's daughter.

When Marcus and Lilian ask if I'm okay, I lie. Easily. Beautifully.

I even eat. Barely.

I don't look at Bodhi.

Except once.

Just once.

And of course, his eyes are already on me.

Like he knows. Like he sees something no one else has ever dared to.

And that should terrify me.

It does.

But what terrifies me more?

For the first time since my mother died...

I feel safe.

And that's the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

AVA MELGREN

It's later that same night, and I'm walking through a dark corridor. I couldn't take the suffocating silence of the barracks anymore. The walls feel too close. The bed too empty. My brain too loud.

I should be asleep—one of my rare nights off from endless meetings—but I can't.
Every time I close my eyes, I see my mother's face. My father's fists. That room. That moment.

Every time I blink, Bodhi Durran is still standing in front of me, looking like he wanted to catch me as I fell. And I let him see me fall.

So here I am, aimlessly pacing through an abandoned wing of the academy like a fucking ghost.

I'm just about to round the next corner when I hear voices ahead. I stop cold.

I pivot to walk the other way—instinct—but then one of the voices registers.

Bodhi.

Fucking.

Durran.

Of course it's him.

Of all the people to run into on my grief-induced midnight breakdown spiral round two, it has to be the only person who saw round one.

I've been avoiding him like the fucking plague since earlier.

And now he's here. In my corridor. Talking. Laughing. With friends. Like none of it happened.
What an arsehole.

To make things worse, I hear his cousin's voice join in. And by my count? At least two more.

This—this right here—is why I keep my revolution a secret.

Because they've stopped for a casual fucking chat in the corridor. In the middle of the night. After curfew. After a probable weapons drop. In a public hallway.

Seriously? They have rooms. Private spaces. Secret tunnels, for gods' sake. But they've decided to hang out and talk treason in the middle of the night like they're at a damn tea party.

It's honestly a gods-damned miracle they haven't been executed yet.

And they're lucky it was me who stumbled across this scene. Anyone else would've reported them for—COMMITTING A FUCKING CRIME!

But I'm totally calm about this. Professional. Measured.

Not at all spiraling into an internal rage spiral with a side of emotional whiplash.

I was just about to stomp loudly down the corridor to scare them off when I see him.

Dain Aetos.

Rule-loving, codex-kissing, uptight Dain fucking Aetos.

Fuck. My. Life.

I have seconds before he sees me—then them.

Then he'll put it together.

And if Dain catches those idiots mid-secret meeting? That rebellion of theirs? Gone.

Which, fine, affects them. But it also affects me. My operation. My revolution.

The one no one sees. The one I built in the dark. Carefully. Quietly.

Not like these loud idiots whispering in hallways like they're narrating their own executions.

So, I do the only thing I can think of.

The one trick that always worked on my father when I needed him to look away.

I start crying.

Well—fake crying. But the kind that sounds real. Quiet, restrained, gut-deep sobs. The kind that makes people uncomfortable. The kind that makes them leave.

Sure enough, the voices in the hallway go silent.

I feel Dain's gaze snap to me. A second later, I pretend to just now notice him. I frantically wipe my eyes.

"D-Dain?" I say, loud enough to make sure the fuckwits around the corner hear me. I want them to know how close they just came to being caught. I want him to know.

"Ava?" he says, stepping closer. "What's wrong? Why are you out after curfew?"

He sounds... concerned. Uncertain.

There's something tight in his voice. Probably because, up until tonight, Dain Aetos had never seen me cry.

So congrats to Xaden Riorson and his crew of whispery rebels. They owe me big time.
Because I just trashed my entire cold-hearted reputation with Dain to save their asses.

"I just... um..." I lower my eyes, pausing like I'm holding back tears. "It's my mom's birthday soon. I just... miss her."

This time, the choke in my voice doesn't feel fake.

I add the sob-laugh combo for good measure—something polished. Practiced.

But under the mask, it's still raw.

Because it is her birthday soon.

And I do miss her.

Dain's expression softens. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Oh Ava, I didn't even think... but why are you out here? If anyone else caught you, they'd punish you for breaking the codex."

Really, Dain?

I'm having a goddamn existential breakdown and you're worried about the codex?

He must be so fun at parties.

"I didn't want the other cadets to see me like this," I murmur. "Or worse—what if my father found out?"

I look down again. Let him fill in the blanks.

He's seen how my father trains me. He knows.

"You know how he gets about... weakness."

That does it.

Dain's jaw tenses, and something flickers behind his eyes. Empathy, maybe. Memory. Fear.

"Yeah. I get it," he says. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

"Thanks, Dain."

I even mean it. A little. Then I pause, perfectly timed. "Could you... never mind."

"What?"

Ugh. Men are so predictable.

"It's just—could you maybe walk me back to the barracks? Now that you've mentioned it, I'm kind of terrified of getting caught. My father would kill me."

He hesitates. Just for a second.

If he says no, I've cried for nothing. And Bodhi?

Dead. Not that I care.

(I care.)

"Yeah, sure," Dain says. "Just... don't sneak out again, okay?"

"Oh, so what I'm hearing is: don't get caught next time." I smirk.

He huffs a half-laugh, and we start walking—away from the corridor.

Away from the reckless conspiracy club. Away from him.

They're lucky I'm a great liar.

Or they'd be fucking dead.

And honestly? I still might kill them in the morning.

Especially if Dain ever brings this up again.

BODHI DURRAN

We've been frozen for five whole minutes.

Not by wards. Not by guards.

By the sound of Ava Melgren fake-crying like her life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

The second she said Dain's name—loud, pointed, unmistakable—I felt my stomach drop. Garrick actually started praying.

And still, no one moves.

Not until her voice fades. Not until the danger passes. Not until we're sprinting after Xaden like our lives literally depend on it.

Ten minutes later, we're locked in his warded room.

Still no one says a word.

Because Ava Melgren just saved us.

And none of us understand why.

"What the fuck just happened?" Imogen finally says, and honestly? That's the smartest thing anyone's said all night.

"I think..." Xaden starts, then trails off. He actually looks unsure. "I think Ava Melgren just saved our lives."

Silence again.

"Why the fuck would she do that?" Imogen asks, pacing.

"Maybe she didn't know it was us?" Garrick offers.

We all turn to glare at him.

"She knew," I say.

Not because I'm guessing. Because I'm sure.

"She used Dain's name like a warning bell. She wanted us to hear her. She gave us time to disappear."

"She didn't just give us time," Xaden mutters, pacing. "She created it. Lied so smoothly I almost believed her myself."

"And Aetos fell for it like a drunk cadet standing on the back of a dragon," Garrick says.

Imogen snorts. "You could tattoo the word TRAITOR across her face and Aetos would still ask for written permission to notice."

Xaden runs a hand through his hair. "So Ava Melgren—who hates marked ones, who's been cold as ice to you since day one, Bodhi—"

"Believe me. I've noticed."

"—just risked everything to cover for us."

We go quiet again.

"She didn't have to," Garrick says. "Could've walked away. Let Dain catch us. That would've been the easiest way to stay clean."

"But she didn't," Imogen says, narrowing her eyes. "Which means she's hiding something."

"Either she's not who she says she is," I say, "or she's more dangerous than we thought."

They all glance at me.

I don't say the rest.

That I saw her cry tonight.

That I saw the cracks in her armor. The kind no one fakes.

"She didn't do that to manipulate us," I say instead. "She did it to protect us. Whether she meant to or not."

Xaden watches me. "And you're sure about that?"

I meet his eyes.

"Not even a little."

But in my gut?

I think Ava Melgren just stepped onto the board.

And I don't know if she's playing for our side.

But I do know she's done hiding.

Chapter Text

I'm walking back from the healers' quadrant, head down, steps dragging. The meeting ran longer than expected—last-minute intel, encrypted messages on scraps of bandages, and a woman who couldn't stop glancing over her shoulder every three seconds. Marcus and Lilian couldn't make it, which means I've been alone the entire time.

Now, walking back through the moonlit courtyard? Tired doesn't even begin to cover how I'm feeling. My limbs ache, my brain feels wrapped in fog, and I swear if someone so much as looks at me wrong, I might collapse from sheer irritation.

Literally just yesterday I broke down in front of Bodhi fucking Durran. Then, as if that weren't humiliating enough, I saved his ass and the rest of his whispery little rebellion crew by fake-crying to Dain Aetos like I was a broken-hearted widow in a godsdamned opera. All while being my father's perfect little soldier. The picture of loyalty. The image of compliance.

While I'm supposed to hate marked ones.

While I'm supposed to hate him.

I'm almost at the barracks. I can see the light of the wardstones gleaming ahead, warm and welcoming. Just a few more steps and I can collapse into my cot, shove tonight into the archive of shit I won't think about again, and—

Movement.

A shadow shifts just ahead of me. Too fast. Too tall.

My body freezes before my brain catches up.

For a harrowing second, I think it's an assassin. Reflex kicks in before logic does—my weight shifts, hand twitching toward the knife strapped under my coat.

I could fight. Even half-dead, I could still fight.

But it won't be clean.

Then I see his face.

Bodhi. Fucking. Durran.

Of course.

The guy I've spent the entire day avoiding like he's the godsdamned plague just happens to be lurking between me and my bed.

Fucking typical.

I try to turn on my heel, pretend I didn't see him, walk off into the night and pretend I haven't ruined my reputation, my image, and maybe even my entire operation by saving his life.

But apparently I'm more tired than I realized.

Because I hesitate. For just one second.

And that's all he needs.

He's in front of me in an instant. One hand presses against my hip, the other braces beside my head, pinning me to the stone wall behind me. The shadows eat the space around us, but not him—not his eyes. His gaze is sharp, furious, burning into mine.

I should push him off. I should shove him back and bark out some snarky command like I usually do.

But I don't.

Because his body is warm and solid against mine, and his eyes are molten steel, and something in my chest flutters in a way it absolutely shouldn't.

Oh—

That should not be hot.

But it fucking is.

The press of him, the tension vibrating between us, the way his breath brushes my skin—it sets something alight inside me, and I hate that I want to lean into it.

I force my focus back where it needs to be. I lock my jaw, narrow my eyes.

"What the fuck was that last night?" he says, low and sharp, the question a blade between us.

His voice is low but sharp enough to cut straight through me. Gone is the charming, sarcastic Bodhi who always has some clever retort locked and loaded. This version is harder. Leaner. Dangerous.

And gods help me, it makes my pulse stutter.

Still—I force myself to focus.

Last night.

When I destroyed the walls I've spent years building and fake-cried my way into saving his life.

I square my shoulders against the wall, even as he's still pressed against me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, voice cool. I squirm, belatedly playing the part of the cornered soldier. "Let go of me."

He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. It curls around me, dark and dry and dangerous.

"Don't play dumb, Ava. It doesn't suit you." He leans in just enough for me to feel the heat of his breath. "Why did you cover for me and my friends last night?"

I open my mouth to lie again, but he cuts me off with a look.

"Don't even try and tell me you didn't know we were there. You said Dain's name like it was a fucking flare in the sky. You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing."

His breath ghosts over my skin. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the involuntary flutter it causes deep in my stomach.

My breath hitches traitorously.

And now I have to decide.

Truth? Impossible. It exposes too much. My plans. My allies. My entire identity.

So I go for the middle ground—the believable kind of lie. The kind that tastes like truth because some of it is.

I drop my gaze, force my shoulders to hunch just slightly—like he's made me admit something I didn't want to.

"I, um..." I swallow, pretend to hesitate. "You guys were technically in a group larger than three, but... apart from that, you weren't doing anything wrong."

I peek up at him through my lashes, small and self-conscious. Selling it.

"And it's a bullshit rule," I add, letting the bitterness in my voice slip out. "I know my father made it. And I know how controlling he is."

His eyes flicker.

Bingo.

I hesitate again, just long enough for the silence to feel real.

"You didn't deserve to die for talking."

I let the words out softly. Carefully. Like I'm ashamed to say them.

Like I've lived them.

And in a way, I have.

I use the real fear—the real memories—of my father's punishments, of training until my hands bled, of the way he looked at me like a failure if I so much as flinched. I let that fear bloom just beneath my voice.

And I know the second it works.

Because Bodhi's jaw ticks. His grip loosens, just barely.

He's looking at me like he sees something he wasn't prepared for.

"I know what your father's like," he says after a beat. His voice has dropped—less rage, more... restraint.

Then, quieter, "I've seen it."

Of course he has.

All of the marked ones have.

My silence fills the space between us. I let it sit there. Let it grow.

Then he speaks again, more careful this time.

"But you still lied."

I tense. "What?"

He leans in. Close enough to make me forget where we are. "You told the perfect lie," he murmurs, tone almost admiring. "Used just enough truth to make it believable. Used your fear. Your grief. That thing you said in the gym..." His eyes search mine. "About your father never stopping being who he is."

I look away. "You don't know me."

"I'm starting to," he says. "And it's pissing me off."

I huff a laugh—quiet and sharp. "Good."

He leans in again, nose almost brushing mine.

My throat tightens.

For a moment, I forget the script. Forget the lie. I'm too caught in the weight of his gaze—how much he sees. How little he lets me hide.

"You're dangerous," he murmurs. "Way more than I thought."

I try to look away again, but he reaches up, fingers catching my chin and forcing me to meet his eyes.

"Why did you really do it?" he asks.

His voice is different now. Less accusation. More curiosity. More... something else.

I could lie again.

I should lie again.

If he was anyone else?

I would lie again.

But instead, I settle into the edge of truth—the part I can give.

"I didn't want to see Dain catch you," I admit quietly. "Because if he caught you... that would've been the end of it. Of you. Of them."

I let him think I'm just talking about their lives. Not their rebellion. Definitely not my revolution.

His brows furrow. "Why would you care?"

"I don't," I say instantly—too quickly.

His lips twitch. "Now that's a lie."

I push against his chest—finally finding the willpower to break the moment. He lets me, taking a step back, giving me space. I take a steadying breath, grateful for the cold air that replaces him.

But even with distance between us, I still feel it.

That tension. That spark. That unspoken thing we've both been pretending isn't there.

We stand there for a moment, saying nothing.

Then he murmurs, "You're not what I expected."

I roll my shoulders, lifting my chin. "Good."

He turns to leave. But pauses.

"You should be careful," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. "You're playing a dangerous game."

I meet his eyes. "So are you."

And then he's gone.

Leaving me in the hallway, heart still hammering, the echo of his body against mine burned into my skin.

Fuck.

This is getting complicated.

BODHI DURRAN

I've been on patrol for the last couple of hours and I'm counting down the minutes until it's over.

And then I see her.

She's walking back through the courtyard, head down, steps dragging. Shoulders hunched like she's carrying too much and trying to pretend she isn't.

And she's alone.

For someone like Ava Melgren, that's rare.

Even rarer is the exhaustion bleeding off her like smoke. Whatever she was doing in the healer's quadrant, it's left her worn thin—frayed at the edges. Normally, she walks like a blade, like something honed and ready. But right now? She looks like she's running on fumes and stubbornness.

I move from the archway and let the shadows claim me, watching as she moves closer.

I've spent all day thinking about last night. About what she did.

She saved our lives.

With a lie so precise, so perfectly pitched, it still makes my skin crawl.

And I want to know why.

So I wait.

And just as she passes, I step out.

She doesn't even sense me until it's too late.

Her body tenses—tight, reflexive—and for a moment her hand twitches toward the knife she always has under her coat. Good. She's not as tired as she looks.

But then her eyes meet mine and I see the exact second her tension flips from alert to irritated.

Recognition flares. And then immediate, visceral annoyance.

She turns fast—too fast, like she's hoping I'll just disappear if she moves quick enough. Like this whole thing can be swept back under her perfectly composed rug of denial.

Too late for that.

I close the distance in a heartbeat.

One hand to her hip, the other braced by her head—and just like that, she's pinned.

Not hard. Not rough. But firm enough she can't mistake it for anything but what it is.

A demand for answers.

Her body locks up against mine, rigid and alert—and fuck me if it doesn't make something twist behind my ribs. Because she's warm, and solid, and tense in a way that feels less like fear and more like fighting not to lean in.

And gods help me, I get it.

I'm too close. I know I am. But I don't pull back.

Not yet.

Because her eyes are on me now, dark and wide and annoyed as hell. But she's not pushing me off. Not really. Not with the kind of force that says "I don't want this."

Which makes this more dangerous than I thought.

"What the fuck was that last night?" I ask.

It comes out sharper than I mean it to, but screw it—I'm tired of pretending I didn't see what I saw.

She blinks up at me, feigning confusion like it's her second language.

"What are you talking about?" she says coolly, wriggling half-heartedly. "Let go of me."

Cute.

I laugh, quiet and dark, and lean in closer—closer than I should. Her breath catches, just enough for me to notice.

"Don't play dumb, Ava. It doesn't suit you." I can feel her pulse under my palm. "Why did you cover for me and my friends last night?"

I see it then.

The flicker behind her eyes.

She opens her mouth—but I cut her off before she can lie again.

"Don't even try and tell me you didn't know we were there. You said Dain's like it was a fucking flare in the sky. You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Her breath hitches.

Caught.

She doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me like she's calculating which angle of the lie will hurt less to tell.

Then she drops her gaze, playing small. Timid. Her whole posture shifts—and that's when I know she's acting.

It's good. Too good.

"I, um... You guys were technically in a group larger than three, but... apart from that, you weren't doing anything wrong."

She glances up at me, soft and self-conscious, voice uncertain.

"And it's a bullshit rule," she adds. "I know my father made it. And I know how controlling he is."

That part—that I believe.

Because I've seen it. General Melgren's cruelty doesn't begin and end with the rebellion. It starts in his own house.

She hesitates again.

"You didn't deserve to die for talking."

Her voice is soft now. Wounded. And for a second, I almost fall for it.

Almost.

Because everything she's saying is technically true—but it's wrapped in the neatest, most rehearsed little package I've ever seen. The perfect lie.

And the worst part? She's using her own fear to sell it.

Guilt claws at the edge of my spine.

But suspicion is louder.

"I know what your father's like," I say after a long pause. "I've seen it."

Her silence is pointed.

But I don't let up.

"You still lied."

She tenses. "What?"

I lean in again, like I'm about to kiss her but instead whisper something far more dangerous.

"You told the perfect lie," I say, voice low. "Used just enough truth to make it believable. Used your fear. Your grief. That thing you said in the gym..."

I search her eyes.

"About your father never stopping being who he is."

She looks away.

"You don't know me."

"I'm starting to," I say. "And it's pissing me off."

Because the more I see, the more I know I should hate her—but I don't. I should walk away—but I don't want to.

I lean in.

Too close again. Her lips are right there. One breath away.

"You're dangerous," I murmur. "Way more than I thought."

She flinches. Barely. Like she wants to run but knows I'd chase her.

She turns her face, but I catch her chin. Gently.

Not rough. Not threatening. Just... curious.

"Why did you really do it?" I ask.

I see the war play out across her face. The layers. The panic. The truth.

Then she settles. Just enough.

"I didn't want to see Dain catch you," she says quietly. "Because if he caught you... that would've been the end of it. Of you. Of them."

She says it like it's nothing.

But I know better.

Because there's something in the way she says them.

Like it means more than she wants me to hear.

I narrow my eyes. "Why would you care?"

"I don't," she says too fast.

Bullshit.

I almost smile. "Now that's a lie."

She shoves at my chest—not hard, but enough to tell me the moment's over.

I let her go. Step back. Let her breathe.

Even now, the air feels too thick between us.

She doesn't move.

Neither do I.

"You're not what I expected," I say finally.

She straightens, rolls her shoulders. "Good."

I almost laugh.

Then I turn. Start to walk away. But pause at the edge of shadow and glance back.

"You should be careful," I tell her. "You're playing a dangerous game."

She doesn't flinch. "So are you."

And that's it.

I disappear into the dark, the echo of her voice still in my head.

Shit.

This is getting complicated.

Chapter Text

Marcus and Lilian have been eyeing me all day. They know me so well that they know something's up but they also know better than to ask about it in public.

So here we are in a barely used storage room after dinner. I can't wait until we get our own rooms after Threshing so we can stop holding our private meetings in random rooms all around the quadrant.

Marcus leans against the edge of a pile of stacked crates, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Lilian is pacing like she always does when she's one second from breaking something—maybe even someone— in half with her bare hands. Her braid swings behind her like a whip.

They're both waiting for me to speak.

But I'm not exactly sure how to start.

"I didn't plan it," I say finally, arms folded tight across my chest. "It just—happened."

"That's not comforting," Marcus replies dryly.

"It's not meant to be," I mutter, then glance at Lilian. "I handled it. No one's dead."

Her brows shoot up. "That's your bar now? 'No one's dead'?"

"In this line of work? Yeah, kinda."

Lilian stops pacing. "Start from the beginning."

I sigh and lean back against the cracked wall, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I had a moment, okay? In the gym. A... personal one. Bodhi was there. He saw it."

"The marked one?" Marcus asks, frowning. "Durran?"

I nod.

Lilian stiffens. "He saw you lose control?"

I hate the way that sounds. Like weakness. Like exposure. But it's true.

"Yeah," I say tightly. "He saw too much. Saw me—not the version the rest of the academy knows. I panicked. Threatened him. Told him to forget it."

"And?" Marcus asks, eyes narrowing. He's too quiet. That's never good.

"And... he didn't push. He sat with me."

Lilian tilts her head. "Sat with you."

"Like, talked to you?" Marcus clarifies.

I nod again. "More like... saw me. And that's the problem."

Marcus mutters a curse under his breath. Lilian doesn't say anything, but her hands curl into fists.

"But it gets worse," I say.

"Of course it does," Marcus says, deadpan.

"You remember I told you that the marked ones had a drop scheduled for last night? After curfew?"

They both nod.

"Well," I continue, "after I left the gym, I couldn't sleep. So I was walking. Late. And I found them—Durran, Riorson, the others—just standing around in the hallway. Talking. Like morons."

"They were talking?" Lilian asks, incredulous. "Out loud?"

"Loud enough to get caught," I confirm. "And guess who else just happened to be around? Dain Aetos.Yeah. Captain Codex himself. If he'd turned the corner, he would've seen them. Would've blown everything."

"So what did you do?" Marcus asks slowly, like he already knows but wants me to admit it.

I square my shoulders. "I cried."

Silence.

Marcus blinks. "You what?"

"Fake cried," I snap. "I distracted him. Threw myself in his path. Used the dead-mother sympathy card. Made it loud enough for the others to hear and shut up. Played him like a flute."

Marcus opens his mouth, then closes it. Lilian, however, starts laughing.

Not the nice kind.

"Oh, gods. You cried in front of Dain Aetos? In public?"

"It worked," I say flatly. "I trashed my cold-hearted legacy for those idiots. You're welcome."

"Was it worth it?" Marcus asks, serious again. "You took a risk. A big one. If Dain didn't buy it—"

"He did," I cut in. "He bought it so hard he walked me back to the barracks himself."

Lilian's smile fades. "Ava. That's... dangerous."

"I know."

Marcus rubs a hand over his jaw. "That isn't everything is it?"

I swallow. "Durran confronted me tonight. Cornered me outside the barracks."

Lilian's posture snaps rigid. "Cornered you?"

"Not like that," I say quickly. "He wanted answers. Knew I'd covered for them. Pushed. Hard."

"And you gave him...?"

"Enough," I say, voice tight. "Not the truth. But something close enough to pacify him. He thinks I did it out of pity. Or rebellion-adjacent sympathy. He doesn't know who I am. Really."

"You sure about that?" Marcus asks quietly.

I hesitate.

Then: "No."

Lilian sighs, dragging a hand down her face. "So let me get this straight. You've had two emotionally compromising interactions with Bodhi Durran in under twenty-four hours. He's seen you break. You've saved his life. You've exposed yourself to Dain. And now you're standing here asking us not to panic?"

"I'm asking you to trust me," I say simply.

They exchange a look.

Marcus is the first to cave, as always. "You should've told us sooner."

"I know."

Lilian shakes her head. "You always say that. Every time you keep a secret."

"Because I always do know," I say. "I'm just stubborn."

"You think he'll talk?" Marcus asks, more serious now. "Bodhi."

"No," I say. "Not yet. He's curious. Not stupid."

"That's not the same as loyalty."

"He's marked," I remind them. "If he wanted me dead, he's had chances."

"He wants something from you," Lilian says. "That makes him dangerous."

I meet her eyes. "So am I."

The silence that follows is heavy.

"So." Lilian leans against the wall. "Where does that leave us?"

"Us?" I ask. "Nothing's changed."

"Oh, don't be dense," she snaps. "This... whatever this is with Bodhi—it's bleeding into the mission."

"I handled it."

Marcus shakes his head. "You reacted. That's not the same thing."

My voice drops. "I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you did," Lilian says, voice surprisingly gentle. "And you chose him."

"No." I straighten up, fast. "I chose us. I chose our mission. I protected the rebellion. I protected my revolution. You think I give a shit about some pretty rebel with a tragic backstory? I don't. I can't."

She holds my gaze.

And I hate how my voice cracks when I say it.

"I can't," I repeat. Softer.

Marcus sighs. "No one's saying you're compromised. Yet."

"But we need to be clear," Lilian finishes. "If he starts sniffing around too close to what you really are, what we're doing—"

"I'll burn it down," I say. "Him included."

And I mean it. I do.

Even if something inside me winces at the idea.

Lilian watches me for a long moment. Then she nods once. "Good. Because you might be starting to feel safe. But we're not."

"I never forget that," I whisper.

Marcus steps forward, rests a hand on my shoulder. "We're not angry, Ava. We're just... watching."

"We always do," Lilian adds.

And that's when it happens.

Not something big. Not something loud. Just a shift. A slide. A crack inside me that's been threatening all night.

I freeze. Just for a second. Not enough for them to notice unless they're really looking—which, of course, they are.

A part of me braces for it. The reprimand. The sharp words. The disgust. The disappointment. A part of me waits for Marcus's hand to tighten, to shove instead of steady. For Lilian to raise her voice. For the room to tip into something colder, sharper, like home used to feel whenever I misstepped.

Because I failed, didn't I? I got too close. I let someone see me. I cried. I felt. My father would've called that weakness. Would've punished it. Did punish it.

My stomach clenches, dread curling hot and tight behind my ribs. I force myself not to flinch.

Any second now.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, Marcus just looks at me. His grip doesn't shift. Doesn't tighten. Just stays there—steady. Human.

Lilian's expression isn't cold. It's tired.

Concerned.

I realize I've been holding my breath.

Slowly, carefully, I let it out. And then another breath, rougher this time, shaky around the edges. My shoulders sag without my permission. I hate that I can't stop them.

They're not punishing me.

They're worried.

It hits me like a punch in the ribs—this gap between the world I came from and the one I'm trying to survive now. How deep the wiring runs. How even now, after everything, my first instinct is to assume that love is conditional and punishment is inevitable.

Gods, it's humiliating.

I turn my face away, scrubbing quickly at my eyes before they can see anything more.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I don't know what that was."

Marcus doesn't move. "You do," he says gently. "You just don't want to name it."

My mouth twists. "Doesn't matter."

"It does," Lilian says quietly. "Because it's still inside you. And if you don't deal with it, it'll deal with you."

I close my eyes for a second, just to steady myself. "Old ghosts," I manage. "Guess I'm still carrying more than I thought."

"We all are," Marcus says. "You're not the only one who came from fire."

"You are the only one who insists she can walk through it and come out untouched," Lilian adds, stepping closer now, arms folded—but the tension's gone from her posture. "That's the lie that's gonna kill you."

I open my mouth to argue, but I can't find the words.

Because they're right.

And for the first time in longer than I can admit, I want to believe them. I want to believe that this—this trio, this tangle of sharp edges and survival—is something real. Something that won't vanish the second I slip up.

I want to believe I don't have to burn myself down every time I make a mistake.

Marcus finally lets go of my shoulder, but not before giving it one last reassuring squeeze.

"We're not your father," he says.

Lilian meets my eyes. "We're your people."

And for the first time, I don't feel the instinct to run.

Only the ache of being seen.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I'm back in the old house. The one I haven't seen in years. The air is cold—too cold, like punishment. The walls are shadowed, every surface sharp with silence. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet. I know this place. I know what happens here.

He's waiting in the study.

My father.

I can't see his face at first—just his silhouette in the high-backed chair, the way his fingers tap once on the wood of the desk. That sound, clipped and measured, slices through me like a wire pulled tight.

"You embarrassed me," he says.

My throat dries. "I—"

"You were weak," he interrupts. "Crying. In public. What do we do with weakness?"

I try to speak, but I already know the answer. My voice comes out too quiet. "We cut it out."

He stands. The light shifts—and it's not my father anymore.

It's Marcus.

But the disappointment in his eyes is the same. That clinical, hollow sort of failure. Like I've let down something more than just a person—like I've betrayed the idea of who I was supposed to be.

"I thought you were stronger," he says. "We trusted you to lead us."

And then Lilian is there, behind him. Her arms crossed. Her mouth a hard line.

"We don't make space for liabilities," she says. "You know the rules."

"I'm not—" I try, but the words stick. My mouth won't work. My lungs feel full of glass.

Marcus steps closer.

"You picked him," he says.

And I know who he means even before the room changes again.

Now it's Bodhi in front of me.

Not gentle, not kind.

Just staring.

Dissecting me.

He's so close now I can see every detail of his face—every scar, every shadow in his eyes. But his expression is unreadable.

"You think I didn't see it?" he whispers. "You think I don't know what you are?"

I shake my head. I try to back away, but there's nowhere to go.

"I don't—" I begin.

"You lied," he says. "To me. To yourself."

He reaches out.

And suddenly his hand is wrapped around my wrist, tighter than it should be, pulling, dragging—

I gasp.

The floor falls away.

And I wake up.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I'm sitting upright in bed, drenched in sweat. My heart's pounding so hard it drowns everything else out. I press a hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound.

The room is dark. Silent apart from a few snores.

No Bodhi.

Just me.

Just memory.

My hands are shaking.

I drag in a breath. Another. I bite the inside of my cheek just to stay grounded, just to remind myself I'm here, not there.

Not with him.

Not with my father.

But the shame clings like smoke. The kind you can't scrub out of your lungs.

Even now, awake and alone, I feel it: that fear that I've already failed them. That the moment I slip, they'll turn on me too.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"I'm not my father," I whisper.

But in the dark, I'm not sure I believe it.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

I wake up feeling like I didn't sleep at all.

Not because I didn't—technically, I must've gotten a few hours—but whatever rest I managed feels hollow. Brittle. My body is tense in ways I didn't know it could be, like every muscle spent the night braced for impact. I'm exhausted, but there's too much adrenaline tangled up in my system to relax. It's like waking up in the middle of a sprint.

I sit on the edge of my cot for a long time, staring at the floor. The barracks are quiet. Most of the others are still sleeping. A couple of early risers are already out for training or patrol, but the air still holds that thin, early-morning chill that hasn't been burned off yet.

My hands are shaking again.

I clench them into fists.

It was just a dream.

But it wasn't just a dream.

It was memory wearing new faces.

And gods, that's the part that won't leave me alone—how easily my mind slid his voice into Marcus's mouth, how naturally Lilian's disapproval felt like my father's judgment, how Bodhi, of all people, stood at the end like some final verdict on who I am.

Like he knows.

I get dressed slowly, methodically. Uniform first. Boots next. Hair braided tight like armor. Everything in the right order. Ritual over chaos.

Control over collapse.

But even when I'm done, I still feel... frayed. Like the threads are showing.

I avoid the mirror. I already know what I look like—pale, puffy around the eyes, shadows carved deep beneath them. I scrub my face with cold water and pretend it helps.

Then I make the mistake of heading toward the mess hall.

It's crowded—loud. I blink too hard at the lights. The scrape of utensils on trays sounds like metal grinding in my ears. The voices around me feel too close. Every laugh, every raised voice curls in my spine like a flinch.

I keep my head down, grab something I won't eat, and scan for a quiet corner.

And then I see him.

Bodhi.

Sitting with Riorson and a few of the other marked ones, looking tired but unbothered, like last night didn't split open the ground under my feet.

He doesn't see me.

Or maybe he does and just doesn't look up.

I stand there too long. Long enough that Marcus finds me.

"Morning," he says casually, stepping up beside me. But when I glance over, his eyes are sharper than his tone. Scanning. Measuring.

Of course he notices.

"Rough night?" he asks, quieter now.

I don't answer.

He lets the silence stretch, then nudges my tray with his elbow. "Eat. You look like hell."

"I feel worse."

"Yeah, I figured." He tilts his head. "Want to train it off?"

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly.

He studies me for a second. "Want to punch something?"

I pause. Then: "Yes."

"Good." He nods. "Sparring room's empty. I'll meet you in ten."

I don't say thank you. I don't have to.

That's the thing about Marcus. He never pushes when it matters. He just shows up and hands you a target when your rage needs somewhere to go.

I skip the mess hall entirely and head straight for the empty training wing. On the way, I catch my reflection in one of the glass doors.

And for a second—just a blink—I think I see him again.

Not Bodhi.

My father.

Standing behind me in the darkened glass.

I spin, breath caught.

No one's there.

Just my own reflection, eyes too wide.

I press a hand to my chest.

Steady. You're awake. You're safe. You're not that girl anymore.

But the problem is—I'm not sure I ever stopped being her.

Not really.

Not when the past still shows up in dreams.

Not when it keeps bleeding into the present.

I set my jaw.

Then I walk into the sparring room and let Marcus teach me how to hit something until I forget what it felt like to be powerless.

At least for a while.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By midday, my knuckles are raw.

Marcus didn't go easy on me—not that I asked him to. He's always been good at reading what I don't say. He didn't ask about the nightmare. Didn't mention the bruises blooming down my spine from the fall I took last week. Just held the pads, took the hits, called me out when I got sloppy.

I didn't realize I was crying until my breath caught on the third round and I tasted salt.

Not the good kind—the kind that means you're losing control.

I'd told him I was tired.

He said, "Good. Then you'll stop holding back."

He was right.

Now I'm showered, bandaged, and dressed again. Clean slate. Or the illusion of one.

But the thing about nightmares is they don't always stay in your bed. They follow you. Curl behind your ribs. Color everything you see with the threat of what if.

And apparently, I'm not doing as good a job hiding it as I thought.

Lilian corners me after physics.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just falls into step beside me as I'm walking the back corridor toward the barracks. Her silence is pointed.

"You ever just say hi like a normal person?" I mutter.

She ignores that. "You didn't sleep."

"Who says I didn't?"

"I do." She cuts me a look. "I've known you too long to miss the signs."

"I'm fine."

"Try again."

I stop walking. "What do you want, Lil?"

"Honesty."

"About what?"

"Whatever's eating you. Whatever's making your hands shake when you think no one's looking. Whatever nightmare you woke up from this morning with your lungs half-collapsed."

I stiffen. She saw that?

"Did Marcus tell you?"

She laughs—low and cold. "Marcus didn't have to. You carry your past like it's stitched to your skin. You think none of us notice, but we do. I do."

"Then why bring it up now?"

"Because I need to know if you're going to break."

I blink.

She softens—just barely. "Not because I don't trust you. Because I need to know if you'll let us catch you if you do."

I hate how badly I want to say yes.

I hate that the instinct is still to lie instead.

But before I can figure out what version of the truth I'm brave enough to offer, we round the corner—

—and walk straight into Bodhi.

Literally.

He stumbles back a step. "Oh. Shit. Sorry—"

I stop breathing.

His eyes flick from me to Lilian, to the tension in the space between us.

"Bad time?" he says, already knowing the answer.

Lilian's expression shifts. Neutral. Wary.

She looks at me like your move.

"Durran," I say.

He nods. "Ava."

Gods, I hate the way my name sounds coming from his mouth. Too soft. Like he doesn't know he's holding something dangerous.

"I was actually looking for you," he says.

Lilian doesn't move.

I raise a brow. "Why?"

"You okay?"

I freeze.

It's not the words. It's the tone. Quiet. Unassuming. Like he's giving me space to lie—but hoping I won't.

Lilian goes very still beside me.

I don't answer.

Bodhi watches me for another beat. Then he sighs, like he's trying to decide how much of this to push.

He settles on: "If you ever want to talk—"

"I don't."

He nods. Doesn't argue.

"Right," he says. "See you around."

But as he turns to leave, his hand brushes mine.

Instinct. That's all it is. He's just reaching past me, maybe steadying himself, maybe meaning to offer a gentle pat on the arm.

But his fingers close lightly around my wrist.

And everything inside me detonates.

I'm gone.

Back in the old house.

The air turns thin. My skin goes cold.

The floor beneath me vanishes.

I smell cedar smoke and old paper. Hear the creak of wooden floors beneath bare feet. My chest tightens, lungs locking as the shadows draw closer. I see the study door. Closed. Waiting. I know what happens when it opens.

"You embarrassed me," comes the voice—low, sharp, absolute.

I can't breathe.

I blink—but it's not my father in the chair anymore. It's Marcus. Lilian behind him. Their eyes cut like blades. Their words sink deeper than knives.

"We trusted you to lead us."

"We don't make space for liabilities."

"You picked him."

And then Bodhi's there. Standing in front of me. Too close. Too knowing.

"You lied."

His hand closes around my wrist again, and this time the pressure is real. Dragging me backward into the dark, into myself—

I gasp—

—and reality shatters.

The hallway explodes back into being.

But I'm not standing anymore.

I've stumbled hard against the wall, shoulder hitting concrete. My breath comes ragged. My pulse is a roar in my ears.

Bodhi's hand is raised, palms open.

Lilian's between us in an instant, one arm extended across my chest like a shield.

I'm shaking.

I can't stop shaking.

"I'm sorry," Bodhi says, his voice soft but breaking. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't touch me," I snap. My voice is brittle, too loud in the narrow space. But my wrist still burns—not from him. From before. From the echo of that grip that never truly left.

Lilian glances at me, sharp and searching, but her voice stays calm. "Ava. You're not there. You're here."

I press the back of my hand to my mouth. I think I might be sick. I think I might scream.

I hate this.

I hate that they saw.

I hate that it shows.

"I wasn't—" I start, but my throat closes. There's no sentence that can hold this. No armor thick enough to keep it in.

"You're okay," Lilian says, softer now. "You're safe."

But I'm not.

Not when a nightmare can tear through the seams of reality like this. Not when it can pull me under without warning. Not when the people around me start to see.

Bodhi's eyes are still on me.

Not afraid. Not angry.

Just... quiet.

And this time, I do see it.

The heartbreak.

He knows.

Not everything—but enough.

And I don't know what terrifies me more: that he might walk away...

Or that he won't.

Lilian touches my elbow again, more gently this time. "Come on."

I nod, too stunned to speak. I let her lead me. One step. Then another.

But I can still feel his eyes on my back.

And I know—nothing will be the same now.

Not after this.

Chapter Text

Now after that little incident in the hallway I probably should have had some emotional moment where I confided in my friends. But I really didn't want to and unfortunately for my friends I'm also their boss. So when I lied through my teeth and said I had a last minute meeting with an informant they halted at me but ultimately let me leave. 

That's how I've found myself outside, watching a cloaked figure stumble like a newborn deer. It's obviously Violet—no one else in the quadrant is that small— but I'm proud of her for at least trying to hide her identity.

Now that I think about it Lilian did mention that Violet has been sneaking out every night since assessment day— which I've since found out ended with her arm being dislocated. Ouch.

I didn't put it high on my priorities list because let's be honest— it's Violet, she's more likely to get herself killed than kill someone else. Now though —with this fabulous opportunity to get some actual information instead of wasting tonight— I decide to walk right up to her.

I'm literally two steps behind her and she hasn't noticed me yet. Good gods how is this girl not fucking dead yet.

"Whatcha doingggggg" I say in an upbeat tone. Which after careful review might not have been the best way to announce my presence but like what was I supposed to do? Follow her in silence like some creepy stalker?

She snaps round a dagger raised—oh so she's not entirely hopeless then— I still easily grab her wrist before her dagger comes anywhere near me.

"Ava you scared me half to death." She says with wide eyes.

"Just thank the gods it's me because if I was anyone else you'd be all the way dead by now Violet" and I mean it. Because seriously, how has an assassin not taken her out yet. "Anyway I digress, where are we going"

She opened her mouth clearly to defend herself but a sharp glare from me cuts her off. She looks subtly chastised and it's a fucking gift. Too many people have forgotten how scary I am recently.

"Nowhere" she answers finally. Gods she's an awful liar. Maybe Dain's signet is actually a gift from the gods because with lying skills like that, we'd be dead the same day I told her about the revolution.

"Ah yes because people frequently break curfew to go nowhere" I snark before continuing slightly more seriously "but fine don't tell me, I'll just figure it out when we get there."

"What?! You're not coming with me!"

I roll my eyes, seriously who does she think she is bossing me about. We've been friends since childhood there's no fucking way she thought that would work.

"Violet, I could've killed you so easily, I'm coming so you don't get yourself killed. Whatever secret mission you're on? Don't worry I won't tell a soul." Well apart from Marcus and Lilian, but they're basically an extension of me so they don't really count. And even if they did I wouldn't tell her I was going to tell them.

She huffs but turns around and continues walking. Guess that means she's smart enough to know that she's not winning this fight. I follow after her silently.

Eventually we reach a tall tree with something that looks like ivy winding up it. I know it's not ivy but I can't name exactly what it is. I know that the berries will cause undesirable side effects if I eat them but if I want more information I'm going to have to ask Lilian. She's the poisons master.

I do however think I know why Violet has made this late night trip though.

She's going to poison her opponents.

Smart in the short term, but in the long term it'll bite her in the ass.

Not my problem though.

Violet is a big girl who can handle herself.

Correction.

Violet is a short girl who can handle herself.

Violet is removing her arm from its sling—I can feel my mother, who was a healer, wincing from the afterlife— and start climbing the tree.

I sigh dramatically but follow her up without a word. She shoots me a look that says 'you should've stayed down there' but I glare back clearly saying 'your not the fucking boss of me bitch'.

I don't climb as high up in the tree as Violet because I'm not the one that needs the poison berries.

I take this moment to look around the clearing under the tree and realise that in certain spots the grass is trampled.

Before I can whisper to Violet that we might be fucked she's already started climbing down and I've already noticed figures moving below us.

Fuck my entire life.

One night.

Just one night of normality.

That's all I fucking want.

Violet seems to have noticed them too because she's still above me.

The figures are wearing black cloaks, which is rude— no one told me there was a dress code.

They—stupidly— lower their hoods to reveal Xaden Riorson and Imogen Cardulo.

So basically the 'we hate Violet Sorrengail club'. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I could probably—definitely— fight them both off if I was alone, especially since I have the element of surprise but I can't guarantee that Violet won't do something stupid and get herself killed.

So hover awkwardly in a tree it is.

Just as I'm thanking the universe that at least Bodhi isn't there, the gods decide to demonstrate that I am in fact their least favourite human being and like twenty ish figures appear.

Violet—bless her— looks like she's about to have a fucking heart attack. I however am too busy cursing the gods to care. This is clearly a marked ones meeting. The fucking idiots couldn't do this sensibly.

Like oh I don't know, have two of the first years meet with a second or third year in their PRIVATE room! Where they can't be CAUGHT!

But no no no, let's hold it after curfew in an fucking field. Yay treason field trip!

"We've already lost Sutherland and Luperco," Garrick says, breaking the silence.

The tone of his voice squeezes at my heart. I think of Elliot Blackwater, who only crossed the parapet because of me. Who died because of me. I suddenly have more sympathy for Xaden. At least all of my people aren't forced into this death trap of a quadrant.

"Like it or not, we're going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation," Imogen says and I agree with her. The marked ones need to have each other's back because no one else is going to have their backs. Not here.

"And if they find out we're meeting?" a first-year girl with an olive complexion asks, her eyes darting around the circle.

I vaguely recognise her as someone that Marcus' shoulder checked so hard she fell over. Harsh— but necessary for our act.

"We've done this for two years and they've never found out," Xaden responds, folding his arms and leaning back against the limb below my right.

And yeah there's no way he doesn't know we're here. But in better news Mr Shadows hasn't killed us yet.

"They're not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I'll know." The threat is obvious in his tone. "Like Garrick said, we've already lost two first- years to their own negligence. There are only forty-one of us in the Riders Quadrant, and we don't want to lose any of you, but we will if you don't help yourselves. The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail."

Fuck.

He sounds like me.

This is devastating.

I may never recover.

But also what a cocky fuck. He's mouthing off like he doesn't know for a fact that the daughters of the two most influential generals aren't dangling right above him.

"How many of you are getting your asses handed to you in hand-to-hand?" Xaden asks.

Four hands shoot into the air, none of which belong to Liam Mairi. I still feel like a fucking asshole for how we treated him on our first day.

I know it was necessary but he was one of the few marked ones that didn't seem to want to kill us on sight.

Garrick sighs. "I'll teach them."  He sounds like a single mom. Kinda like Lilian when Marcus and I do something dumb.

Xaden shakes his head. "You're our best fighter—"

"You're our best fighter,"

Bodhi.

Fucking.

Durran.

Logically I knew he'd be here but fuck me does that guy ever spend time in his dorm? Why is he fucking everywhere?

I have to fight not to think about his pained face in the hallway. When I could barely breathe. That look of fucking pity. Like I was breakable. Like I was weak.

That's it! I'm not looking at him for the rest of the night!

"Dirtiest fighter, maybe," Imogen snarks.

Most everyone laughs, and even the first-years crack a smile.

"Fucking ruthless is more like it," Garrick adds.

There's a general consensus of nods, including one from Liam Mairi. I can't help but also agree. If I hadn't been trained by my father Xaden would definitely beat me in a fight from what I've seen in sparring. Even now it would be an interesting fight.

He—like my father—fights like he knows what your going to do next.

"Garrick is our best fighter, but Imogen is right up there with him, and she's a hell of a lot more patient," Xaden notes, I have to hold back a snort because from what I've seen and heard, Imogen is anything but patient. "So the four of you split yourselves up between the two of them for training. A group of three won't draw any unwanted attention. What else is giving you trouble?"

"I can't do this," a gangly first-year says, rolling his shoulders inward and lifting his slim fingers to his face.

I roll my eyes before reminding myself not to judge too harshly. They were forced into the quadrant after all.

"What do you mean?" Xaden asks, his voice taking on a hard edge.

Oh wait never mind! Xaden is judging so I can too.

"I can't do this!" The smaller one shakes his head. "The death. The fighting. Any of it!" The pitch of his voice rises with every statement. "A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day! I want to go home! Can you help me with that?"

Every head swings toward Xaden.

But I know what his answer is going to be before he says it. I'm thinking it too. That guy is fucked.

"No." Xaden shrugs. "You're not going to make it. Best accept it now and not take up more of my time."

Huh that was nicer than I would've been.

When I glance at Violet she looks scandalised. A clear demonstration of how differently we were raised.

The smaller guy looks stricken, and I can't help but feel bad for Xaden. The guy is fucked and no matter how hard Xaden tries, he'll blame himself for the guys death. I know because it's what I'd do too.

"That was a little harsh, cousin," the guy I'm not looking at says.

"What do you want me to say, Bodhi?" Xaden cocks his head to the side, his voice calm and even. "I can't save everyone, especially not someone who isn't willing to work to save themselves."

"Damn, Xaden." Garrick rubs the bridge of his nose. "Way to give a pep talk."

There's a reason why Lilian, Marcus and I don't bother with pep talks before fights— they're fucking pointless. If you need one desperately then you're already dead. Nice knowing you. Say hi to Malek for me.

"If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they're not flying out of the quadrant on graduation day. Let's get real. I can hold their hands and make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more valuable." He turns his head, and I can only assume he's looking at the panicked first-year. "In war, people die. It's not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It's snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There's nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur. This"—he gestures back toward the citadel—"isn't some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It's hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home...to whatever's left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant." He leans forward slightly. "So if you won't get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You're not going to make it."

Only crickets dare to break the silence.

If I wasn't trying to pretend that I didn't know that he knew I was here I'd applaud him.

He might be shit at keeping a secret but he's a good leader.

Knows when it's a lost cause.

"Now, someone give me a problem I can actually solve," Xaden orders.

"Battle Brief," a first-year says softly. "It's not that I can't keep up, but the information..." She shrugs.

Yeah, that's fair. Even Marcus and Lilian still struggle with that and they've had years of practice. My biggest advice is to keep your fucking mouth shut. You can't slip up if you don't say anything. And if you absolutely have to answer? Say the bare minimum. Better to have people think you're stupid than being dead.

Not that I follow this advice. But I've been doing private sessions with Devera since before I knew the truth.

If I didn't know exactly how much to say I'd be dead.

"That's a tough one," Imogen responds, turning to look at Xaden. She looks softer than I've observed her before. I suspect that this is closer to the real her. That she feels somewhat safe with the other marked ones.

"You learn what they teach you," Xaden says to the first-year, his voice taking a hard edge. "Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to."

So pretty much what I said then.

"Anyone else?" Xaden asks. "You'd better ask now. We don't have all night."

"When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail and Ava Melgren?" a guy toward the back asks.

Oh okay bitch. I'd like to see you fucking try. Fucking hypocritical asshole.

The murmur of assent among the group sends anger coursing through my veins. I fucking save their little rebellion and this is the thanks I get.

Fucking bitches.

"Yeah, Xaden," Imogen says sweetly, lifting her pale green eyes to him. "When do we get to finally have our revenge?"

Bitch! I literally saved your life like two nights ago! Fuck right off!

He turns just enough for me to see his profile and the scar that crosses his face as he narrows his eyes at Imogen. "I told you already, the youngest Sorrengail is mine, and I'll handle her when the time is right. And Ava Melgren is a developing situation that I don't want any of you involved with."

Ha. Take that bitch. Xaden said no shabby stabby.

"Didn't you already learn that lesson, Imogen?" He who shall not be named chides from halfway down the circle. "What I hear, Aetos has you scrubbing dinner dishes for the next month for using your powers on the mat."

I didn't actually know that.

That's fucking hilarious. Only Dain would go 'so you tried to murder my best friend and also my long standing crush, do some chores. That wasn't very nice.'

Imogen's head snaps in his direction. "Her mother is responsible for the execution of my mom and sister. I should have done more than just snap her shoulder. And Melgren was fucking worse. I can't wait until I get my hands on his daughter."

I'm like 99% sure she was in that group that I saved in the corridor so what the actual fuck.

Like girl. If you hate my father please try and kill him. If you manage it I'll marry you. But don't take that hatred out on me.

"Their parents are responsible for the capture of nearly all our parents," Garrick counters, folding his arms over his wide chest. "Not their daughters. Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not the Tyrrish."

Thank you!

Finally someone with a fucking brain cell. Garrick is my new favourite. The rest of you ungrateful fucks can piss off.

"So we get conscripted because of what our parents did years ago and shoved into this death sentence of a college—" Imogen starts.

Bitch I'm here too!

"In case you didn't notice, they're in the same death sentence of a college," Garrick retorts. "Seems like they're already suffering the same fate."

Thank you! Seriously, someone get this man a raise. He's literally the only one with a fucking  funcational brain.

"Don't forget Violet's brother was Brennan Sorrengail, and Ava's mother was Odette Melgren" Xaden adds. "They have just as much reason to hate us as we do them." He pointedly looks at Imogen and the first-year who raised the question. "And I'm not going to tell you again. Violet's mine to handle and Ava is to be left alone for now.Anyone feel like arguing?"

Silence reigns.

Iconic.

He's got that 'don't disobey me' tone down. As a fellow leader myself I know how hard that is.

"Good. Then get back to bed and go in threes." He motions with his head, and they slowly disperse, walking away in groups of threes just like he ordered.

Xaden and— the guy in totally not thinking about—are the last to leave.

Except they don't really leave.

They loop back around because as I thought earlier, Xaden definitely knows we're here.

I waited in silence for a while. Me and Violet just looking at each other awkwardly.

And okay should I maybe have told her that Xaden was still down there? Yes.

Do I live for the drama? Also yes.

So fuck it.

She starts climbing down but I stay exactly where I am wanting to see how this plays out.

I'm sure Riorson won't kill her.

Or well 99% sure at least.

Chapter Text

When Violet's feet hit the ground, Xaden—like the shadowy, antisocial fuck that he is—slams her into a tree.

With a dagger to her throat, no less.

Someone seriously needs to teach this boy social skills. Or maybe just basic manners.

He yanks back the hood of her cloak and practically growls, "Fucking Sorrengail."

"Oh, how did you know? Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn't that what always gives the heroine away in books?"

Oh for fuck's sake. Clearly no one's ever actually tried to assassinate Violet before, because here she is, casually flirting with death like this is some charming inconvenience.

Xaden scoffs, probably about to go into one of his I was forged in shadows and betrayal monologues, and that's when I see him.

Bodhi.

Of fucking course.

He's moving out of the shadows.

And just like that, I know exactly how this will go down if I don't intervene. And I'm not in the mood for another scene where I lose control.

Not again.

So I move.

But first—I shut it all off.

Just like I did this morning, when Bodhi's hand closed around my wrist without warning and pulled me under.

I didn't scream then.

Didn't sob.

Didn't ask for help.

I broke, silently, efficiently, the way I always do—splintering inwards while the world spun on. Then I stitched myself back together and pretended I was fine. Always pretending.

But now? With him here? With the echo of that flashback still clawing at my ribs?

I can't afford to pretend anymore.

So I do the only thing that's ever worked.

I disappear.

Not literally. Just everything soft. Everything human.

The Ava with panic in her chest and ghosts in her lungs? She's gone.

What's left is made of blade and instinct.

And then I drop.

Not as a girl.

Not as a friend.

Not as someone trying to hold it together.

I drop like a weapon.

And weapons don't feel.

They just hit their mark.

In the next second, Bodhi's slammed up against a trunk, my dagger at his throat.

If Xaden's allowed to play with knives, then so am I.

Of course I don't say anything at first. What is there to say?

He's looking at me the same way he did after that moment in the hallway—like he's seeing too much and still doesn't understand enough.

I ignore the look.

Turn to Violet and Xaden instead.

"Violet babes," I say coolly, "he's a shadow wielder. Of course he found you. Also, side note—if you wore perfume to sneak out, you were literally begging to get caught."

They both stare at me like I've grown a second head.

I mean, I get Xaden's confusion—one minute he's doing his whole 'I'm darkness incarnate, rawr' routine, and the next I'm dropping out of a tree and pinning his cousin like a fucked-up game of tag.

And Violet? I don't know. There's something in her eyes I can't read.

Not surprise exactly. Not fear.

Maybe... disappointment?

It hits me sideways.

She's seen me like this before. She's watched me fight, train, kill. She's watched me go blank behind the eyes and not blink when I drove a dagger into someone's throat.

So why does she look like she wants to reach for me?

Bodhi shifts slightly against the tree. My grip tightens on the dagger without even thinking.

His voice is soft. Too soft.

"You didn't have to do this."

My jaw ticks.

But I don't answer.

Because if I open my mouth right now, I won't be able to keep the edge out of my voice. The shaking out of my spine. The truth out of the air between us.

Lilian's voice echoes in my head from earlier today:

"Whatever's eating you. Whatever's making your hands shake when you think no one's looking."
"I need to know if you'll let us catch you if you break."

I didn't answer her either.

Because I can't afford to break. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

Bodhi's still watching me.

"Look," he says, carefully, like I'm something cracked and coiled. "About this afternoon—"

"Don't."

His brows pinch. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"You didn't." It's too fast. Too sharp. Too automatic.

He hears it. I see it in the flicker of guilt across his face.

But I don't give him time to wallow.

"You just touched me. That's all."

"That's not all," he says. "I saw your face, Ava. You were gone. And when you came back, you looked at me like—"

"Like you were him?" I snap. "You're not."

His expression flickers—pain, raw and unhidden.

"I know that. You know that. But my body doesn't. My brain doesn't. So maybe next time you think you're being comforting, think again."

The silence that follows is a black hole.

No one speaks. Even Xaden's unusually quiet. Violet's eyes flick between us like she's afraid if she breathes too loud we'll both shatter.

I step back. Release Bodhi. Slowly.

He stays where he is. Doesn't touch me. Smart boy.

"You're not a weapon," he says. Voice low. "Even if it's easier to pretend."

And that's when I look at him. Really look at him.

And gods help me—I wish he was cruel.

I wish he blamed me. Feared me. Called me broken.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at me like he's still trying.

Trying to understand. Trying to help. Trying to stay.

And that—that—is what makes me want to scream.

Because the more he tries, the harder it will be when I push him away for good.

So I do the only thing I can.

I turn my back.

I tighten the chains around my box of emotions until they creak under the weight. Until the lock clicks shut so hard it echoes through my ribcage. And then—calm, cold, unshakeable—I turn to Xaden.

"You already know I can keep a fucking secret, Riorson," I say, my voice low and deadly still. "So don't waste time pretending to worry. I won't say a word about your little meeting."

He tilts his head, watching me, calculating. But I don't give him room to speak.

"Handle Sorrengail. Scold her, seduce her, I don't give a shit what brand of emotional damage you two work through tonight. But if she's not at breakfast tomorrow—alive, unbruised, and breathing—I swear on every grave I've ever made I'll kill you. And then I'll kill every last person who stood in that fucking clearing with you."

I let the words hang there—sharp and heavy like a blade suspended in the air.

They're not a threat.

They're a guarantee.

I sound calm. Controlled. Detached.

But the truth?

When I'm like this—when everything is locked behind that old, battered, iron box in my mind?

I

Just

Don't

Care.

Not about the consequences. Not about the fear twisting behind Bodhi's eyes. Not about the way Violet flinches at the violence in my voice. Not about Xaden's unreadable expression or the shadows curling a little tighter around his fingers.

I don't care.

Because weapons don't care.

They just hit their mark.

I pivot without waiting for a reply—my back already turned as my words carve their place in the silence.

I wasn't debating.

I wasn't asking.

I was commanding.

And they'd be smart to fucking listen.

BODHI DURRAN

She steps back. Finally lowers the dagger.

I don't move.

Not because I'm afraid.

Because I don't want her to flinch again.

"You're not a weapon," I whisper. "Even if it's easier to pretend."

Her head snaps toward me.

And in that instant, I know I've said the one thing I shouldn't have.

Because that's not how she survives.

She doesn't want to be told she's more than a blade.

She wants to believe it—but she doesn't.

She looks at me with something like heartbreak and fury wrapped in steel.

And then... she turns her back.

Turns to Xaden, and I know the exact second the lid slams down on her emotions, because her voice changes. Her whole presence crystallizes into something lethal and cold.

Her next words are not for me.

They're for Xaden.

Cold. Measured. Deadly.

"You already know I can keep a fucking secret, Riorson," she says. "So don't waste time pretending to worry. I won't say a word about your little meeting."

I see the shift in Xaden's posture. He's watching her, but he doesn't interrupt.

Smart. He knows better.

She continues, voice flat as polished iron:

"Handle Sorrengail. Scold her, seduce her, I don't give a shit what brand of emotional damage you two work through tonight. But if she's not at breakfast tomorrow—alive, unbruised, and breathing—I swear on every grave I've ever made I'll kill you. And then I'll kill every last person who stood in that fucking clearing with you."

The air goes still.

Even the shadows hold their breath.

She doesn't shout.

She doesn't need to.

Her words are a blade. A promise.

And when she finally turns and walks away—calm, collected, done—no one follows.

Not even me.

Not at first.

But then...

I do.

I caught up to her maybe twenty paces from the river.

I don't announce myself. Just match her pace. Not too close. Not too far.

She doesn't acknowledge me.

That's fine.

Weapons don't have conversations.

But I'm not here to talk to the weapon.

I'm here to talk to her.

"You know," I murmur, "when you pulled that knife on me, I wasn't scared."

Nothing.

"You could've killed me. And I wasn't scared. You know why?"

Still nothing.

Because she's still behind that locked door.

So I take a breath.

"I wasn't scared because I've seen you fight for people. Seen you risk everything for them. For me. And you don't do that if you're just a weapon. You don't look at people the way you looked at Violet just now—like you were begging her to see you."

That gets her.

A flicker in her step. A tremor in her breath.

She doesn't stop.

But she's listening now.

So I keep going.

"You want everyone to think you don't care. That you can't care. But that's the lie, isn't it?"

She stops walking.

Just like that.

Frozen in the middle of the path.

Then—

Her voice: quiet. broken. soft.

"You think I want this?" she whispers. "To shut everything down just to survive? To feel nothing so I don't fall apart in front of everyone I love?"

I step forward, slow.

"I think you don't trust that you'll be loved if you fall apart."

Her eyes glisten—but no tears fall.

"I used to cry," she says, voice far away. "And every time I did, he made me regret it. So I stopped. And now... now I don't know how to turn it back on without setting everything inside me on fire."

My chest aches.

So I do the only thing I can.

I reach out.

Not to touch her.

Just to be there.

"I'm not asking you to burn yourself to feel," I say. "I'm just asking you not to burn alone."

She doesn't speak.

Doesn't move.

But after a long moment, her hand twitches at her side.

Not reaching for mine.

But not pushing me away either.

And for now, that's enough.

Chapter Text

I know they're coming before I see them.
It's in the shift of the air—a kind of pressure that builds behind my ears like a storm rolling in. The scrape of Marcus's chair dragging across the floor is too loud, too jagged, like it's slicing through the quiet. Lilian exhales before she even sits, like she's already bracing for impact.

I don't react.

I keep eating.

The eggs are overcooked, rubbery around the edges. The toast is cold. Crumbs break apart like ash on my tongue. I chew anyway. Mechanically. Deliberately. Bite. Swallow. Breathe. Repeat.

This isn't breakfast. It's survival. Fuel. Routine.

And I don't look up.

Marcus kicks the leg of my chair hard enough to jolt my plate. It skids half an inch to the left. My fork clinks against the ceramic edge.

Lilian doesn't kick. She just folds her arms like she's waiting for me to flinch.

I don't.

"Want to explain last night?" Marcus asks.
His tone is too casual. That fake, tight-calm he wears right before he snaps. His voice says "let's talk," but his body says "this is war."

"No," I say. I spear another piece of egg. "Not particularly."

He scoffs. "Durran was so worried about you, he came to find us."

I swallow. "He was?" The words mean nothing. I say them because silence is too much effort.

Lilian leans in, dropping her voice like we're sharing secrets. Like intimacy is a trick she thinks still works on me.

"You pulled a knife on Bodhi," she says.

"I remember."

"You disappeared on us," Marcus says, sharper now. "Again."

I tilt my head. A fraction. Not quite a shrug. "You always find me eventually."

Silence stretches between us.

That waiting kind. The kind people sit in like a net, hoping I'll fall through it. Hoping that if they hold their breath long enough, I'll crack. That I'll apologize. Cry. Surrender to some convenient little breakdown.

But I don't.

Lilian exhales again—longer this time, like she's letting go of whatever hopeful script she brought to this conversation.

"We're worried about you," she says.

"I know."

"You could've talked to us," she says. "You still can."

I set my fork down. Neatly. Wipe my mouth with the corner of the napkin like we're sitting in some polite dining hall and not three people gathered around a crumbling table, pretending this is normal.

Then I meet her eyes.

Flat. Calm. Empty.

"I don't want to," I say.

Marcus laughs. But there's no humour in it—just brittle frustration grinding between his teeth.

"Wow," he says. "That's it, then? You're just going to keep playing this cold-blooded act until it kills you?"

"It's not an act."

And it's not.

I see it in his face—that flicker of doubt. That disbelief people get when they run into something they can't fix.

Lilian doesn't doubt me, though.

I see it in the way her shoulders fold in, just slightly. A slow collapse. Recognition.
"You really don't feel anything right now," she says quietly.

"No," I say. "I don't."

The words drop into the air like stones into water. But there's no splash. No ripple.

They just sink.

And then there's the silence again. Not the expectant kind now. Just the hollow kind. The kind where even they don't know what they're waiting for anymore.

I drink my water. It's lukewarm. Tastes like metal and dust.

Marcus tries again, his voice lowered, like pity might crack whatever armor I'm wearing.

"We care about you."

"That's nice."

"You matter."

"Okay."

"You're not alone."

I glance up. Not for long. Just long enough to answer.

"I'm not anything."

I go back to eating.

Because it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Their concern is white noise. Their hope is static.

All I feel is tired.

Not tired like sleep-deprived. Not tired like overworked.

Tired like something inside me curled up in the dark a long time ago and never found the way back out.

Tired like gravity's pulling harder just for me.

Like I'm hollow in the bones.

Like I'm fading, and no one can tell because I'm still walking, still talking, still passing for human.

Lilian reaches across the table. Her hand touches mine.

It's warm.

I pull away.

Not fast. Not cruel. Just... disinterested.
It's not a rejection. It's not anything.
She stares at me like she wants to cry. Like if she spills enough emotion between us, maybe some of it will seep into me.
But I'm sealed shut.

"You're not fine," she says softly. Last-ditch effort.

"Maybe," I say. "But I'm functioning."

Marcus stands abruptly. His chair scrapes again. This time it's louder than before, harsher, like a scream trapped in wood and metal.

"Functioning?" he repeats. "You think that's the goal?"

I finally look at him.

No anger. No sadness. Just blankness.

"It's always been the goal."

He swears under his breath and storms off.
Lilian stays seated, but she's not really here anymore. She's looking at me like she's watching a house burn behind glass—like she can see it happening but has no idea how to put the fire out.

She's trying to memorize me. The real me. The one I buried somewhere behind locked doors and cold hands.

But she's too late.

Because I'm already gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Classes are even more boring when you don't care.

Every word the instructors say feels like it's being filtered through glass. Muffled. Distant. Like maybe the air between me and the rest of the world is too thick for sound to get through.

I sit in history class, blankly watching the professor scribble battle maps across the board like they're sacred geometry. Arrows. Dotted lines. Death by charcoal on parchment.

Violet tried to talk to me in history this morning. A whisper passed from her lips to mine, a tentative, hopeful thread: "Hey... are you—?"

"I'm busy," I said without looking at her. I wasn't. But it didn't matter.

She blinked like I'd slapped her. Sat back slowly. Didn't speak again.

I felt her glance at me a few times after that. Little hesitant side-eyes like she was trying to measure whether I was still human underneath the silence.

I didn't return the look.

And Lilian and Marcus? Don't even get me started.

They kept glancing at me all day. Subtle at first. Then not so subtle. Lilian kept shifting in her seat like her skin didn't fit right. Marcus looked like he wanted to throw a chair just to get a reaction out of me.

Like they were waiting for something.

Like I was going to crack in the middle of physics or some other equally pointless lecture. Just stand up and fall to pieces like a scene in one of those overwrought dramas Lilian pretends not to like.

But I didn't crack.

Because there's nothing left to crack open.
They don't stage another intervention, though. Not yet. Maybe they're regrouping. Maybe they're hoping I'll "come back to myself" or whatever the fuck they think this is.

Hope's a disease that way.

Now we're in sparring. Last class of the day.

Normally, this would be the one part that makes me feel something. The part where I get to move. Fight. Sweat. Breathe.

But even that feels like static now.

Everyone's watching me. Whispering. Like I'm something they heard about in a story once—half myth, half monster. Not a person. Just a rumor with sharp edges.

I don't care.

My opponent's taller than me. Broader. Confident.

He lasts forty-seven seconds.

It wasn't hard. A few precise strikes. One sweep of the leg. A fist to the ribs to knock the wind out. Blade against his neck before he can recover.

He yields.

The instructor calls it.

And I don't wait for applause. Or praise. Or commentary. I don't wait for the second round. Don't bother checking if he's okay.
He'll live.

I just turn.

And walk.

Out of the gym hall. Past the rows of gawking students. Past the sound of my name whispered like a warning.

I don't look back.

Because what would be the point?

I can't be bothered to pretend to care anymore.

About class.

About friends.

About anything.

It's not even anger that drives me—it's the absence of it. Like my soul stepped out of my body last night and forgot to return. Like I'm just the outline left behind. A sketch with no color. A blade with no name.

Let them stare.

Let them speculate.

Let them hope I come back.

Because hope won't bring me back.

Nothing will.

BODHI DURRAN

She doesn't see me at first.

She's already halfway down the hallway by the time I catch up—stripped of her training gear, her expression blank, jaw set, hands loose at her sides like she didn't just take down a man twice her size in under a minute.

She's walking like she didn't feel it.

Like none of it even touched her.

I hate that walk.

Because I know exactly what it means.

"Ava."

She doesn't slow.

Doesn't stop.

Just says, "Don't," like that one word is a wall, a blade, a verdict.

But I keep following.

Because I can't not.

Because after last night—after the way she looked at me when she dropped like a weapon—I can't let her walk away like that meant nothing.

"You're doing it again."

That makes her pause.

Just for a second. A breath. A hitch in her step so small no one else would notice.
But I do.

She turns slightly, only enough to glance over her shoulder. "Doing what?"

"That thing where you go cold and expect the rest of us to believe you don't care."

She raises an eyebrow. Flat. Unimpressed. "Maybe I don't."

"Bullshit."

That gets her.

She stops.

Not all the way—her shoulders still angled like she might leave—but enough that I can see the tension pulling at her spine.

"I watched you in sparring," I say, quieter now. "You weren't fighting him. You were proving something."

She turns fully now.

Eyes sharp. Voice flat. "Proving what?"

"That no one can touch you. That no one can reach you."

I step closer. Slow. Measured. Like she's a storm I'm willing to walk into.

"You think shutting it all down makes you strong, but it doesn't. It just makes you alone."

"I've always been alone," she snaps. "You don't get to waltz in now and decide that's not true."

"I'm not waltzing," I say. "I'm standing right here. Same place I've always been. The only one who keeps pushing me out is you."

She doesn't answer.

But her fists are clenched.

And she's shaking.

She thinks I can't see it. She thinks the armor holds. But it's not armor. Not really.
It's a cage.

And it's cracking.

"I get it," I say, gently now. "Last night scared you."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You disappeared, Ava. You looked at me like I was someone else. And I'm not saying you were wrong to pull the knife. I'm saying maybe it's time you stop pretending you don't care that you had to."

Her jaw tightens. "I didn't have to."

"No," I say. "But you thought you did."
She exhales through her nose. Sharp. Dangerous. But she doesn't walk away.

Progress.

"You said I'm not a weapon," she murmurs, almost to herself.

"You're not."

She looks up at me now.

And this time, I don't see the blade.

I see the girl behind it.

"I want to be," she says. "Because weapons don't break down in the middle of hallways. They don't remember hands around their wrists and forget where they are. They don't feel like they're unraveling from the inside out."

Her voice cracks.

Just a little.

It shatters something in me.

"You think that's strength," I say. "But I don't want a weapon. I want you."

Silence.

Her lips part, like she might speak, might argue, might run.

But then she does something I don't expect.

She leans back against the wall.

And slides down.

Not dramatically. Not like a novel breakdown.

Just quietly.

Like her legs don't want to hold her up anymore.

Like for once, she's not going to fight it.

I sit beside her.

Close—but not touching.

Not yet.

"I don't know how to come back from it," she says softly. "From turning everything off."

"You don't come back all at once," I say. "You come back in pieces."

She's quiet for a while.

Then: "And if the pieces don't fit anymore?"

I finally risk reaching for her hand.

She doesn't pull away.

"They don't have to," I say. "You're allowed to be something new."

She looks down at our hands.

And for the first time all day—maybe all week—she doesn't look empty.

She just looks tired.

Human.

Real.

"I'm not ready," she says.

"You don't have to be."

I squeeze her hand.

"I'll be here when you are."

And this time?

She squeezes back.

AVA MELGREN

I'm sitting there holding Bodhi's hand when I feel something run down my cheek.

I raise my free hand and—

Oh gods it's a tear.

I flinch back from Bodhi viscerally.

'Weapons don't cry Ava'
'Emotions are a weakness Ava'
'We cut out weakness Ava'

My fathers words echo in my head as I stare down at my hand. I suddenly snap back into focus. I should start apologising, that sometimes makes him go easy on the punishment.

"I-I am so so sorry. I didn't mean to— I uh" my voice is shaking and another tear rolls down my face.

BODHI DURRAN

The moment she flinches, I feel it like a blow—like someone cut a wire between us.
"Ava," I say, low, steady, "you didn't do anything wrong."

She doesn't hear me. Or maybe she does and just doesn't believe it. She's gone somewhere else now—somewhere I can't see but I know all too well. That place people go when they've been taught pain is the price of existing. Where love means control. Where vulnerability is a sin.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps repeating, breath hitching between the words like they're caught in her throat. "I'll be better—please, just don't—"

"Ava."

She won't look at me. Her body is rigid, like she's bracing for a blow I would never give.

I shift, slowly, deliberately, putting both hands in her line of sight—palms up, fingers open.

"No one's going to hurt you," I say. "Not now. Not ever again. Not while I'm here."
Another tear slides down her cheek. She wipes at it like it burns.

"I don't cry," she whispers. "I don't cry—"

"Yes, you do," I say. "Because you're not just what they made you. You're not just a weapon. You're a person. You get to cry."
She shakes her head. "He said—he always said—that crying meant you were weak. That it made you...less."

I feel anger rise in my chest, but I swallow it down. This moment isn't about him. It's about her. And what she needs isn't rage.

It's reassurance.

"Then he was wrong," I say gently. "Because you're the strongest person I've ever met, and you're crying, and it doesn't make you less. It makes you real."

She finally looks at me.

And gods—it hurts. Because for once her eyes aren't guarded, or blank, or cold.

They're terrified.

And full of pain.

And alive.

She opens her mouth like she wants to argue—but no words come out. Just a choked breath and a trembling sigh, like her body's trying to let go of something too big to name.

"I don't know how to do this," she says. "I don't know how to be anything other than what he made me."

"You don't have to know yet," I say. "You just have to try. And you don't have to do it alone."

I shift a little closer, slow and careful like she's a wounded animal—like the wrong move might send her running. But when I reach out again, she doesn't flinch this time.

She lets me wipe the tear from her cheek with the back of my fingers.

Her breath shudders.

And then—

Then she leans forward.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just... barely. The tiniest motion. Her forehead rests against my shoulder like she's testing whether the world will collapse if she stops holding it up for one second.

It doesn't.

I wrap my arms around her carefully. Not tight. Not possessive.

Just there.

And she crumples.

Softly. Quietly. Like glass melting instead of shattering.

AVA MELGREN

"I miss my mom."

The words slip out before I can stop them—quiet and cracked, like something fractured beneath my ribs finally broke the surface.

I stiffen the moment I say it.

Because I never say it.

Not out loud. Not even to myself.

But there it is. Hanging in the air between us like a ghost that never got buried properly. My mother—her laughter, her warmth, the way she used to hum under her breath when she thought no one was listening.

Gone.

Burned away in Fen Riorson's rebellion.

And suddenly I remember—

The smell of smoke.

The news delivered through clenched teeth.

My father's hand tight on my shoulder, keeping me still.

One day of tears.

That's all I was allowed.

After that, she was just... a lesson. A cautionary tale about softness. A weakness to be cut out of me.

My breath hitches, and I press my face against Bodhi's shoulder, ashamed.

Because now it's his shirt soaking through with my grief.

And his parents?

They died in the same rebellion.

Only his parents were on the other side.

The right side.

And my father killed them.

The guilt lands heavy, thick and sharp, like a blade lodged under my sternum.

"I—I'm sorry," I choke out. "That wasn't fair—I shouldn't have said that—I didn't mean to—"

My words fall apart, tumbling over sobs I can't hold back anymore. My body shakes, and no matter how hard I try to close it all back up, it keeps spilling out. All the grief I buried. All the love I was forced to forget. All the hurt I wasn't allowed to feel.

"I wasn't allowed to cry for her," I whisper. "Not after the first day. He said that was enough. He said that was enough.Like she was something I could grieve and then forget."

My voice cracks, raw and hollow. "But I never forgot. I just... locked her away. I didn't know what else to do."

And then Bodhi moves.

Just a little.

Not to speak. Not to fix.

Just to hold me tighter.

Not crushing. Not possessive.

Steady.

Like he's not afraid of what I'm saying. Like he's not keeping score. Like he doesn't hate me for the blood in my veins—even if I hate myself for it.

Like he's just here.

For me.

BODHI DURRAN

I hear her apology. I feel the guilt radiating off her like heat. Like she believes every tear she sheds is some kind of betrayal.

But it isn't.

Gods, it isn't.

So I don't let go.

I can't.

She's curled in on herself like she's bracing for impact, like saying her mother's name is a crime, like she expects me to flinch or freeze or turn away.

But I don't.

Instead, I rest my cheek lightly against the top of her head and close my eyes.

"My parents," I say quietly, "they died fighting for something they believed in. But they wouldn't want me carrying hate. They'd want me to carry truth."

I don't think about how she doesn't know the real meaning of my words. About how I carry the truth of the apostasy. She thinks her mother died fighting for what's right. And I can't take that from her.

I feel her still in my arms.

"I think your mom would want that too," I add. "Not silence. Not shame. But for someone—you—to remember her without fear."

A long breath leaves her chest—shaky, uneven, but something loosens with it.

"You don't have to be sorry, Ava," I whisper. "You get to miss her. You should miss her. That's what love means. It doesn't vanish just because someone says it's inconvenient."

I pull back slightly, just enough to see her face.

Her eyes are red. Her cheeks streaked with tears. And I've never seen anything more real.

More brave.

More beautiful.

"I know you were taught to hide it," I say. "But grief isn't weakness. It's proof you're still fighting."

She looks at me like I've said something holy.

And then she lets out a broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and leans back into me.

This time, she doesn't apologize.

She just cries.

And I hold her.

For her mother.

For mine.

For everything we lost before we ever got the chance to understand what it meant.
And when her tears finally slow, and her breathing evens, and the silence settles—not hollow, not empty, but full—

I know something shifted.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

But cracked open.

And from that crack, something soft is beginning to grow.

Not a weapon.

Not a mask.

Just Ava.

Just her.

AVA MELGREN

"Tell me about her," he whispers.

I blink. My throat tightens. "What?"

"Tell me something about her," he says gently. "Anything. A memory. Her favorite food. How she smelled. Something you're afraid you'll forget."

The air feels thin.

Too thin.

My heart stutters in my chest, because I know exactly who he means.

And I hate that I want to answer.

I hate that it hurts to.

I swallow hard, and the words drag their way out of me—small, fragile things I didn't know I still carried.

"She used to hum while she braided my hair," I say, almost too quietly. "Always the same song. I don't even know what it was, but she'd do it every night. Said it helped me sleep."

My voice starts to shake, but I don't stop.

"And sometimes she'd fall asleep next to me by accident, and I'd wake up with her arm over me, and for those few seconds, I'd feel... safe."

There's a crack in my voice. But I don't break.

I could. I want to.

But I don't.

Still, it's the closest I've come in a long time.

"I hate that I can't remember the song," I whisper.

He doesn't rush to fill the silence.

Doesn't make it smaller than it is.

He just smiles—soft and aching—and says, "Then let's hold on to what you do remember. Let's start there."

I stare at him.

Eyes stinging. Lungs burning.

Because I want to believe him.

Gods, I want to.

But everything in me screams that if I let myself lean on someone, I'll never stand on my own again.

"I don't know how to carry all of it," I admit.

And it feels like bleeding.

He doesn't flinch.

"You don't have to carry it alone," he says.
And something inside me—something I thought I'd buried so deep no one could ever touch it—moves.

And when he reaches for my hand again, I don't hesitate.

I don't pretend to be fine.

I clutch his hand like I've been drowning in silence and he's the first breath of air I've had in years.

Like maybe—for the first time—I believe someone when they say they're not leaving.

We sit there for a long time.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just two broken kids in a quiet hallway.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let someone see the pieces of me I usually keep buried.

And I don't run.

Maybe tomorrow I'll become a weapon again.

Pretend that none of this happened.

Lock it all away.

But for now?

I just feel.

Chapter Text

She's still holding my hand.

Fingers tight around mine like they're the only thing tethering her to this moment—and maybe they are. Maybe I'm the lifeline, or maybe I'm just the one who happened to be here when everything cracked open.
But either way, I don't let go.

I watch her as the silence stretches between us. Not the cold kind. Not the kind that isolates. This is the silence of breath. Of gravity. Of two people sharing something too big for words.

She looks different now.

Not weaker.

Not smaller.

Just real.

Like the storm passed and left a person standing in the wreckage—not unharmed, but still here.

Still fighting.

Still her.

I take a breath, slow and steady. "You know," I murmur, "you don't scare me."
She looks up, eyes swollen and tired. "You should."

I shake my head. "No. You scare you. You think everything inside you is dangerous, like if you let anyone close, they'll get burned."

She doesn't answer. But her hand flexes slightly in mine.

"But I'm still here," I add. "And I'm not on fire."

A faint sound escapes her—half scoff, half breath. "Give it time."

"Time's the whole point," I say. "Time to heal. Time to grieve. Time to stop surviving and start living."

She looks at me again, and this time there's something in her eyes I haven't seen before.

Not anger.

Not fear.

Not even sadness.

Just... hesitation. Fragile, cautious hope. The kind you're scared to name, in case it disappears the moment you do.

AVA MELGREN

I don't know what this is.

Not exactly.

This space between us.

This warmth in my chest that doesn't feel like fire, or fury, or fear—but something slower. Something gentler. Like the ache you get in your legs after running too long. The ache that means you moved. That you're not stuck.

My throat is raw. My head is spinning. I feel like I cried myself down to the bone.

But I'm not empty.

I'm not numb.

And for once, I'm not pretending.

It's terrifying.

And also... maybe a little okay.

Bodhi shifts beside me, careful, quiet, and something about that makes me want to say the thing I haven't let myself say in years.

"I don't know who I am without the training," I whisper. "Without the walls. Without him in my head."

He doesn't hesitate. "You're Ava."

"That's just a name."

"No," he says. "That's your name. Not his. Not something he made. Something you kept. Something that survived."

I want to tell him he's wrong.

I want to argue. To fall back into the safety of control, of shutting down.

But I can't.

Because he says it like it's already true.

Like it's something he's sure of.

And for a moment—I almost am, too.
I press my forehead to our joined hands.
"I don't want to be what he made me."

"Then don't be," he says simply.

Like it's that easy.

Like maybe it is.

Not all at once. Not clean. Not without breaking first.

But still.

A choice.

A way forward.

BODHI DURRAN

The hall is quiet now.

Dim.

The kind of quiet that happens when something ends—or begins.

I don't know which this is. Maybe both.
Ava exhales beside me, and it sounds less like a shudder, more like a release.

"I should go," she murmurs.

"You don't have to."

"I know," she says. "But I want to. Just... not to run. Just to breathe. Alone. Just for a while."

I nod, letting go of her hand—slow, gentle.
She rises, shaky but steady.

And then, just as she starts to turn away, she pauses.

Looks back.

And for the first time, she doesn't wear a mask.

Just Ava.

Not a weapon.

Not a soldier.

Not a threat.

Just a girl made of grief and scars and the stubborn, impossible hope of something more.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asks. Like she's afraid to hope. Like she's not used to plans that involve people still being there the next day.

I give her the softest smile I can manage.
"I'll be here."

"Even if I'm not? Even if I shut down again?"

"Even if," I say.

Her eyes flicker—like the words hit something buried deep. Something raw.
"I can't promise I won't," she says, voice small. Honest. "Some days I don't even see it coming. It's like I blink and everything's locked down again."

"I know," I tell her. "And I'm not here to fix you. I'm just... here."

She swallows hard, and I see it—how badly she wants to believe that could be enough.
That she doesn't have to earn her worth with obedience or perfection.

That someone could choose her on the hard days, too.

"I'm not good at this," she murmurs. "Being... human."

"You don't have to be good at it," I say. "You just have to be."

For a moment, the quiet between us turns heavier. Not bad—just full.

She nods once, like she's filing my words away for later. For the next time she forgets them. For the next time someone else's voice screams louder in her head.

Then, Ava takes a single step back.

Not a retreat.

Just space.

A breath.

She turns to go. And this time, she doesn't walk like she's running. Doesn't walk like she's empty or untouchable.

She walks like someone still learning how to carry her own weight.

Like someone still deciding where to go.

And gods—it's the bravest thing I've ever seen.

AVA MELGREN

The hall stretches ahead of me, quiet and dim.

But it doesn't feel like a tunnel anymore.

Not a trap.

Not a corridor leading to another fight I don't want to have.

It just feels like a hallway.

And that shouldn't matter.

But it does.

I don't know what happens tomorrow.

Or the day after that.

I don't know how to unlearn everything that's been carved into my bones.

But I know this:
For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm bleeding out just from being seen.

And for the first time ever—

I think I might want to be seen again.

Maybe not by the whole world.

Maybe not yet.

But by him.

By Bodhi.

And by my friends.

I don't go back to the barracks.

I don't go to the mess hall.

I don't want to be seen.

I head for the old storage room—the one with the rusted shelves and broken lights, the one where we whisper about revolution. Where we make plans and share information.

Where I'm the leader.

The door creaks as I slip inside, and I shut it behind me.

No one follows.

Not yet.

I sit down hard on the cold floor, pulling my knees to my chest. My back hits the wall. I tuck myself into the smallest shape I can make.

I try to breathe.

I can't.

It feels like there's a fist around my lungs.

I shouldn't have let that happen.

I shouldn't have cracked in front of him.

Bodhi saw too much.

I told him too much.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees.

If he puts the pieces together—if he realizes what I am, what we're doing—I've compromised everything.

The mission. The others. The Revolution.

It's my fault.

I don't know how long I sit there. I don't remember time passing.

But then—

The door opens.

I don't lift my head. I know the footsteps.

Marcus.

Lilian.

They're careful. Quiet.

I go still, throat tight.

They're afraid of me.

Of what I became earlier. Of what I didn't say.

Of how I shut down like a switch flipped.
I don't blame them. I'd be afraid of me too.

Because I'm supposed to be their leader.

And leaders don't break.

They don't fail.

They don't turn to stone and lock out the people they're supposed to protect.

But I did.

And now I can't look up. I can't look at them.

They're going to hate me.

They're going to leave.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, voice already splintering. "I'm so—so sorry."

My whole body's shaking now. My chest seizes. The words spill out like blood.
"I shouldn't have shut down like that. I shouldn't have locked you out. I didn't mean to—I just couldn't— I couldn't feel."
I start crying again. Not like before. Not clean. Not soft.

This is ugly.

Sobbing, gasping, desperate.

Because I know what comes next.

Rejection. Disappointment. Punishment.

"I didn't mean to freeze you out," I say through tears. "I just—I didn't know how to let you in. I didn't know how to handle what I was feeling and I thought if I didn't shut it off I was going to lose control completely."

No answer.

I still don't look.

I can't.

"I failed you," I whisper. "I failed both of you. And if you want someone else to lead this, I get it. I get it. Because you deserve better. Someone stronger. Someone who doesn't fall apart in the middle of the fight."

Still no answer.

It makes everything worse.

The silence coils around me like a noose.

I flinch when a shadow moves closer. My entire body jerks back, reflexive, defensive.

I don't mean to do it.

But I do.

Because I expect it.

The anger. The blow. The reprimand.

And when it doesn't come—

When it's just Lilian, crouching down slowly like I'm a wounded animal and not the girl who's supposed to be holding the line—

I shatter.

"I didn't want you to see me like that," I sob. "Not because I don't trust you. I do. I trust you more than anyone. But I thought if you saw me break, you'd realize I'm not strong enough to lead. That I'm—"

"Wrong," Marcus says gently, crouching beside me.

His voice makes it worse. It's too kind.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I wasn't made for this. I was made to follow orders, not give them. I was trained to kill, to endure, not to—feel. Every time I made a mistake, I paid for it. Every emotion was punished. I don't know how to lead with a heart. I don't know how to be human in front of you without messing everything up."

Lilian reaches out slowly. No sudden movement. No pressure. Just her hand, palm up. Waiting.

My hand hovers over hers.

Then sinks into it.

And when she closes her fingers around mine—warm, steady—I start crying harder.

Because no one's ever held my hand like this before.

Not when I was breaking.

Not when I was ashamed.

No one but Bodhi.

And now them.

"I think I told Bodhi too much," I whisper. "I think I said enough for him to figure out what we are. What I am. If he connects it—if I ruined this—"

"We'll handle it," Marcus says, and I don't know how he makes it sound so sure.

"But I broke the rule," I say. "The first rule. Don't feel. Don't trust. Don't need. And I did. I let someone see me. And now I've put all of you at risk and I deserve—"

Lilian cuts in, firm this time. "No. You don't deserve punishment. You deserve grace. You deserve a second to fall apart without the world ending."

I shake my head, but she doesn't let go of my hand.

Marcus sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder.

"We're not here to replace you," he says. "We're here to stay."

I can't respond.

Because the way they're looking at me—like I'm still theirs, like I'm still enough, even after all of this—

It guts me.

It makes the ache sharper.

But somehow it also makes it bearable.

Because they didn't walk away.

They didn't punish me.

They stayed.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—

I start to believe I might survive this.

Not just the mission.

Not just the fight.

Myself.

LILIAN HEART

The door's not locked.

That's the first sign she's not gone.

But when I push it open and see her on the floor—

Knees pulled to her chest. Shoulders trembling.

I forget how to breathe.

Ava Melgren isn't supposed to look like this.

Not broken.

Not small.

Not afraid.

But she does.

And it hurts.

We walk in slow, Marcus and I. Quiet. Careful.

Like we're stepping into the wreckage of a building that might still collapse.

And maybe we are.

Because Ava flinches the second we move closer.

Like she expects us to hit her.

Or worse—leave.

And then she starts apologizing.

And it's not just the words.

It's the way they tumble out of her like she's choking on them.

Like every one is a knife she's turning on herself.

"I'm sorry. I'm so—so sorry."

She's shaking. Hard.

"I shouldn't have locked you out. I didn't mean to—I just couldn't— I couldn't feel."

Gods.

I want to go to her, but I wait.

Because I know what that kind of fear looks like.

What it feels like.

Ava's not afraid of the enemy right now.

She's afraid of us.

Of what we'll say.

Of what we'll do.

Of who she thinks she's become.

She starts sobbing, and I swear it sounds like something inside her is breaking for good.

"I failed you."

No.

No, she didn't.

But she believes it.

And the worst part?

I know why.

She wasn't just trained to follow orders.

She was trained to suffer alone.

To punish herself before anyone else could.

So I crouch.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And I hold out my hand. Not touching. Not forcing.

Just offering.

Her flinch when I move almost undoes me.

I hate that someone made her this scared of being vulnerable.

I hate that she can't tell the difference between safety and danger when it comes from people who love her.

But I wait.

And then—

She takes my hand.

And she breaks again.

But this time, she doesn't do it alone.

MARCUS JONES

She looks like she's trying to disappear.

And Ava doesn't do small.

She does precision. Strategy. Control.

So to see her like this?

Curled into herself like she's trying to survive a war no one else can see?

It rips the floor out from under me.

She's been carrying this thing alone for too long.

And we didn't see it.

Not really. Not deeply enough.

But we do now.

And when she starts apologizing—for shutting down, for crying, for existing—I want to scream.

Because this isn't her fault.

This is what was done to her.

"I failed you."

No, Ava.

You saved us.

You made us.

"If you want someone else to lead this, I get it—"

God, I want to shake her.

Not out of anger. Out of grief.

Because how could she not know?

How could she not see what she's built?

What she is to us?

When she says she told Bodhi too much, my gut twists.

Because I get it. I really do.

She's not just afraid of exposure.

She's afraid of consequences.

Of punishment.

Of losing us.

"I don't know how to be human in front of you without messing everything up."

I sit down beside her. Close, but not crowding.

She needs to feel like she has space.

But also that she's not alone in it.

"We're not here to replace you," I tell her. "We're here to stay."

Because I need her to believe it.

Because I've never seen anyone fight like her.

Not with fists. Not with weapons.

But with everything she is.

And if she thinks she's too broken to lead—

Then maybe it's our turn to show her what she taught us.

How to stand.

How to stay.

How to hope.

How to live.

Chapter Text

The halls are quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

Just... still.

The kind of still that sinks teeth into your nerves, the kind that reminds you you're alone. That silence isn't always safety. Sometimes it's just the absence of screaming.

I should be asleep.

But after everything—after the tears that spilled out without permission, after Marcus's arms wrapped around me like I wasn't too much, after Lilian brushing my hair back and whispering that I didn't have to carry it alone—I couldn't close my eyes.

It didn't settle me.

It shook me.

Because grief like that was supposed to be punished.

Tears were weakness.

Vulnerability was a flaw.

And I broke all the rules I've lived by since I could walk.

So now, I walk.

Arms crossed tightly over my chest like I can hold the fracture lines together.

Like I can press my ribs in and keep my heart from falling out.

I move past the barracks. Past the meeting room.

Down corridors no one uses after lights-out.

No guards. No patrols. No eyes.

Good.

Because I don't want to be seen.

I just want to breathe.

But something changes.

Barely perceptible—but I've lived in threat long enough to know when it's here.

A weight in the air.

A pressure behind me.

The scent of steel and sweat and intent.

I pivot.

The blade slices through empty air just inches from my throat.

It would've killed someone else.

It doesn't kill me.

Steel clashes.

My body remembers what my mind doesn't have to think through.

Grab the wrist. Twist.

Leverage his weight.

Wall.

Impact.

He recovers. Quick. Trained.

The dagger is in his left hand now.

He lunges.

I sidestep, duck, and drive my elbow into his gut.

He stumbles but doesn't fall.

"Your father will pay for his actions," he spits.

I go still.

Oh.

So that's what this is.

Another relic from the blood-soaked wake of his empire.

Another child born into hate, into revenge, into obedience.

And I know exactly what that feels like.

"Let me guess," I say flatly, circling now. "Westmark? No—Varrow. Cenrich, maybe. Your accent gives you away."

He snarls. Lunges.

Sloppy.

I duck, twist, disarm.

My blade presses into his throat.

His chest rises fast with ragged breaths beneath me as I press my knee into his spine.

"You're not the first," I whisper. "You won't be the last."

And I sound—

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just... tired.

Because I am.

Because this has been my life since I was eight years old.

Assassins in my bedchambers.

Poison in my food.

Crossbows behind curtains.

Because being my father's daughter made me a target before I ever had the chance to be a child.

And I survived it.

Every time.

But that survival has a cost.

My grip tightens on the hilt.

I lean in to speak, to question, to find out which vengeful noble sent this one.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Too many.

My head snaps toward the end of the corridor.

And around the corner come Xaden. Garrick. Imogen. Bodhi.

They all freeze.

And so do I.

My blade is still pressed to the would-be killer's throat.

Blood streaks my forearm. My hair's damp with sweat.

My coat hangs half open. There's dirt on my knees.

I don't look like the General's daughter.

I don't even look like my mother's daughter.

I don't look like the daughter of a healer.

I look like what I actually am.

A weapon.

Their expressions flicker—confusion, concern, wariness.

And worse: recognition.

They're all in their flight leathers. Boots laced, harnesses clipped.

Like they were gearing up for something important.

They're not even trying to hide it.

Which only drives the knife deeper.

This is why they can never know.

The Revolution depends on my disguise.

If they think I'm just a spoiled brat with a last name soaked in tyranny, they'll never see me coming.

But now?

Now they've seen too much.

The assassin stirs beneath me.

I flinch back into focus.

The mask slips on as easily as armor.

"Uh uh uh," I say sweetly, voice sharp with venom. "I'm not done with you yet."

I press the blade harder.

"You and I need to have a little chat."

I don't look at the others.

I can't.

Because if I do—

If I meet Bodhi's eyes right now, and see whatever the hell is on his face—

I might break all over again.

I can't breathe.

Not the way I did in the halls earlier, when the air was too heavy. This is different.

This is practiced. This is intentional.

This is me pulling myself back into the place where nothing can touch me.

Where I don't feel.

Where I don't shake.

Where I don't cry.

I can't afford softness with eyes on me.

So I shut the door in my chest that Bodhi cracked open.

I lock it.

Seal it.

Throw away the key like I was trained to.

Because there's blood on my hands again. And people watching. And that means I don't get to be Ava.

I have to be his daughter. Not hers.

I shift my weight, pinning the assassin tighter beneath me, and pull a second blade from my boot—shorter, thinner, easier to maneuver.

He squirms, feeling the shift in pressure, but I press both knees into his spine now.

"Don't move," I say softly. "Not unless you want to see what the inside of your throat looks like from the outside."

He stills.

Good.

I lean in. Close enough that I can smell the blood and panic coming off him in waves.

"You've already failed," I murmur, voice cold enough to freeze his blood. "So the only thing you have left is usefulness. And I suggest you be very useful."

I drag the flat of the smaller blade along the side of his neck. Just a whisper of contact. Just enough to make him sweat.

"Who sent you?"

No answer.

Of course not.

They never do at first.

I sigh like I'm disappointed in him. Like I'm bored.

Then I move. Fast.

I grab his hand, bend two fingers back until one snaps.

He screams into the floor, teeth clenched, biting it down.

Behind me, I hear someone shift. A breath caught.

I don't turn around.

"I asked you a question."

"C–Cenrich," he gasps. "Lord Cenrich—he gave the order—he—"

"Which one? There are four."

"Rylan."

I nod slowly. "That tracks."

I twist the broken finger for good measure and he screams again.

Not because I need the information anymore.

But because I want him to understand what happens when you come for me in the dark.

When you think I'm the easy kill. The legacy girl. The spoiled one.

He whimpers something I don't catch. Probably begging.

I press the blade harder to his skin.

"You tried to slit my throat in the dark like a coward," I say, voice flat. "That's a death sentence."

Behind me, someone speaks. Quiet.

"Ava—"

But I cut them off with a single raised hand.

Don't look. Don't falter. Don't feel.

I lean down until my lips are next to the assassin's ear.

"You're lucky I'm too tired to get creative."

And then—

One clean motion.

No sound but the wet, horrible snap of it.

His body goes still beneath me.

I rise.

Wipe my blade on the hem of his cloak.

Slide it back into its sheath like this is just another task on a long list.

Like I didn't just kill a man in front of four people who think I'm a porcelain girl playing soldier.

I finally turn to face them.

Garrick looks furious. Imogen unreadable. Xaden like he's trying to make sense of what he just saw.

But it's Bodhi who undoes me.

His expression isn't disgust. It's not anger.

It's hurt.

Like watching me slip back into this cold version of myself took something from him, too.

But he doesn't say anything.

And neither do I.

I shove all of the emotions I feel rising back down.

I can't be the girl that cried in the hallway with him.

I was weak.

I cried.

And the Gods have decided to remind me why that's such a bad idea.

BODHI DURRAN

The second we turned the corner, my heart stopped.

She's on the floor, knees braced, a man pinned beneath her.

Blade to his throat.

Blood on her arms.

Hair damp, face still.

Not afraid. Not shaken.

Just... blank.

And that's somehow so much worse.

Because I know that look.

I know what it costs her to wear it.

And I know exactly what she had to shove down to get there.

Twelve hours ago, she shattered in my arms.

Twelve hours ago, she finally let it happen.

Let me see the grief, the guilt, the too-muchness she carries in every breath.

She let me touch the soft, broken places beneath the armor.

And now—

Gods.

Now she's buried it again so deep I don't think she even remembers what it felt like to bleed on the outside.

Her voice cuts through the corridor—too sweet, too sharp, a mockery of innocence.

"Uh uh uh. I'm not done with you yet."

I flinch.

Not because she scares me.

Because I can feel her slipping away again.

Back into the version of herself the world made.

The version that survives by disappearing.

I want to stop her.

But I don't.

Because part of me knows—I can't.

Not when her blade is steady.

Not when her hands don't tremble.

Not when she bends that man's fingers back until he screams, and she doesn't even blink.

The sound echoes in my chest.

But she doesn't react.

She's already gone somewhere I can't reach.

And I hate it.

Because I know why she went.

Because she warned me.

She told me this was what she was made for.

That softness was dangerous.

That she couldn't afford to be real with eyes on her.

And I told her I saw her anyway.

But seeing her wasn't enough.

Because now?

Now she's showing us the side she swore would ruin everything if it got out.

The side that doesn't flinch when a man begs for his life.

The side that delivers death like it's strategy, not slaughter.

And I realize—

This isn't about vengeance.

This isn't rage.

This is habit.

Reflex.

I want to speak.

Say her name.

Reach through the fog she's building around herself brick by brick.

"Ava—"

She cuts me off with just a hand.

Doesn't even turn.

And it guts me.

Because the girl from the hallway—the one who sobbed against my chest like she thought she'd be punished for feeling—she's gone.

Walled up.

Locked down.

Thrown away.

And what's left is this.

Efficient. Detached. Deadly.

She leans in close to the assassin.

Whispers something I can't hear.

And then—

One clean motion.

He's gone.

And she just rises. Wipes her blade.

Sheathes it like she didn't just kill someone. Like this is just one more box checked off on a checklist.

When she finally turns to face us, I expect something. Anything. A flicker. A crack. Even just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

But all I get is a wall.

Garrick's pissed. Xaden's calculating. Imogen's unreadable.

And me?

I'm breaking.

Because all I can think is—

I almost saved her.

I almost had her.

Almost held her together long enough for her to believe she could be soft and still survive.

But almost doesn't matter when there's blood drying on her hands and a body cooling on the floor.

She meets my eyes.

Just for a second.

And it undoes me.

Because I see it.

The flicker of guilt.

The shame.

The apology she won't give voice to because she thinks she doesn't get to anymore.

Because softness got her here.

And the Gods have reminded her exactly why she can't afford it.

And I—

Gods.

I don't know how to hold her now.

Not when she won't let herself be held.

Not when she's convinced this version of her is the only one that gets to live.

Not when she's so damn good at being a monster that it feels like a betrayal to wish she wasn't.

But I do.

I wish she wasn't this good at it.

Because I still remember the way she cried into my shoulder.

And now I have to watch her pretend she never did.

She walks like nothing happened.

Like she didn't cry in my arms this morning.

Like she didn't tell me about her mother, or press her forehead to our joined hands like it was the only way to stay standing.

Like she didn't let herself be real.

But I see it.

The way her fists curl too tight.

The way her steps hit the ground like she's punishing it.

The way her jaw locks around something she doesn't want to feel again.

She's trying to shut it all back down.

I follow.

Past the barracks. Past the war room.

She's walking fast, and not because she has somewhere to be.

She's running.

Not from me—

From her.

From everything she let surface.

But I'm not letting her disappear.

Not like this.

"Ava."

She doesn't stop.

So I move in front of her.

A risk, maybe.

But one I've taken before.

She halts. Just barely.

Not because she wants to.

Because she knows I won't let her go easy.

Her eyes meet mine—and they're different than this morning.

Colder.

Hollow.

"Don't," she says. Flat. Final. "Whatever you're about to say—don't."

I don't flinch.

"No," I say quietly. "You don't get to erase what happened. Not from me."

Something flickers in her expression—

Not weakness.

Not fear.

Grief.

But she crushes it before it can breathe.

"That wasn't real," she says.

Polished lie.

Straight from his handbook.

I exhale through my nose. "Bullshit."

Her jaw tics, and for a second I think she might bolt.

"You know it wasn't," she adds. "I broke down. I was... tired. That's all it was."

"No," I say, stepping closer. Not threatening. Just there.

"It was more than that. You let yourself feel. You let yourself be someone. Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Just you."

She looks past me, at the far wall, like she can escape through it.

"You saw what happened back there," she mutters. "You think that girl—the one crying on the floor—is the same one who can snap a man's neck without blinking?"

"I think," I say slowly, "that girl is the only one who feels what it costs her to do it."

She flinches at that. Not visibly. But I feel it.

"You're scared," I continue. "Not of me. Not even of what you did. You're scared of the part of you that still cares it was done at all."

Her silence isn't cold this time.

It's fragile.

Like she's holding her breath, hoping I'll stop before I say something that sticks.

"You told me you didn't want to be what he made you," I say. "But now you're back here, in that shell, pretending none of it happened."

"I have to be," she snaps suddenly. "You don't get it—if I let that part of me breathe, it unravels everything. It makes me weak. It makes me—"

"Human," I finish.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Swallows hard.

Then, softer: "You said you'd be there even if I shut down again."

"I did," I nod. "And I meant it."

She closes her eyes for a moment. Like she's trying to make the world stop spinning.

When Ava opens her eyes, they're flat again. Like shutters slamming down behind glass. The warmth, the ache—gone.

"I told you not to follow," she says, voice cool, calculated. "You should've listened."

I don't answer. I don't move.

She takes a step back, chin lifting like armor sliding into place. "Whatever you think happened this morning... that was weakness. I indulged it. It won't happen again."

I watch her carefully. "You think if you say it enough, you'll believe it."

"I do believe it," she snaps. "That girl you saw in the hallway? She's dead. I buried her right after I wiped my face and put the uniform back on."

"You didn't bury her," I say, steady. "You're just trying to outrun her. Again."

"I've watched you rip yourself in half every day," I go on. "Watched you bleed for a world that only wants the version of you that doesn't cry in hallways. But I want the girl who did."

She looks away, jaw clenched. Her throat moves like she's trying to swallow something too sharp.

"I don't want to need anyone," she says, barely above a whisper. "It makes me reckless. It makes me hesitate."

"No," I say. "It makes you fight for more than orders."

Her eyes flick back to mine. There's pain there—but also defiance. One last weapon she hasn't put down yet.

"I don't care what you want," she says. "Stay the hell out of my head. Out of my heart. Out of my way."

I let the words hang in the air. Let them burn.

But I don't step back.

"You're pushing because you think I'll break," I tell her. "But I'm still here. I'm not walking away because you're scared."

She stares at me. And for a heartbeat, I see it—just beneath the surface—something trembling. The part of her that doesn't want to be alone in this war she's waging with herself.

But she shoves it down hard.

Turns.

Walks away without another word.

And this time, I let her.

Not because I'm giving up.

But because I know some battles have to be chosen by the one who's bleeding.

But as she reaches the end of the corridor I call after her "I'll still be here tomorrow Ava, even if."

She falters.

Just for a second.

Then she's turned the corner and she's gone.

Chapter Text

When I wake the next morning, my emotions are still locked away.

Not buried. Not burned.

Just... sealed. Somewhere I can't touch. Like a room I slammed shut from the inside and forgot where I left the key.

There's a low hum behind my eyes, constant and dull.

Pressure. Like a storm that never breaks.

Everything feels far away—like I'm not in my body, just hovering somewhere nearby, watching through thick glass I can't break.

I go through the motions anyway.

Tray. Food. Table. Sit.

It's all muscle memory now—routine I can perform without thinking, like a ghost re-enacting its death.

I don't look up right away. I don't have to.

I can feel them across from me. Marcus's steady, assessing stare. Lilian's quieter one, more careful, like she's afraid I'll flinch.

The silence stretches out. Long and tight.

When I finally glance up, it's quick. Just a flick of my eyes.

But that's all it takes.

Marcus's face shifts—just a fraction. A twitch in his brow, a softening in his mouth. Disappointment.

Not angry. Just... let down.

Like he thought yesterday meant something. Like he thought I'd changed.

Lilian doesn't say anything. But her lips press together, and I see the thought form—sharp and unfinished. She almost speaks.

Almost.

Then, like a ripple smoothing on water, it's gone.
They both pull it together. Their expressions snap back into neutral. Normal. Friendly.

But I saw it.

And worse—they know I saw it.

My stomach clenches, tight and cold.

I drop my gaze to the tray. Pick up my spoon. Stir something bland and beige that barely counts as food.

I'm not hungry. But eating gives me something to do with my hands.

It's easier than trying to explain what's happening in my head.

That I opened the door yesterday—just a crack. Let something real slip out.

And then someone tried to kill me.

Quite literally that night.

They think I'm backsliding.

They wouldn't be wrong.

But it doesn't feel like failure.

It feels like survival.

And right now, that's the best I can do.

Then—just as the silence starts to solidify—Marcus speaks.

"Okay."

The word slices through the air like a declaration. Calm. Measured.

"I presume you have a good reason for going all ice bitch again."

He says it lightly, but not cruelly. Like it's a fact. Not a flaw.

"And that's fine. Totally fine. Me and Lilian are gonna let you be an ice bitch. Be cold. Be stoic. Do your broody-silent-staring-into-space thing. And if—when—you decide you wanna feel stuff again, that'll be okay too."

He shrugs like it's no big deal.

Then points at me with his spoon.

"But you gotta let us hang around and call you an ice bitch. That's non-negotiable. Deal?"

His eyes meet mine. No challenge there. Just... space. A small clearing in the fog. An outstretched hand I don't have to take.

It's different from yesterday.

No pushing. No speeches. No guilt.

Just this.

Permission to be where I am.

And I didn't realize how much I needed that until now.

I nod. Slow. Controlled. Like I'm agreeing to terms in a treaty.

Then Lilian chimes in, and I don't even need to look at her to hear the smirk in her voice.

"Nope. Even ice bitches need to use their words."

I roll my eyes. More on reflex than out of actual annoyance. And when I speak, it comes out more tired than sarcastic.

"Yeah. Fine. Whatever."

Lilian grins over her coffee like she just won a prize. Marcus snorts into his oatmeal.

It's stupid, but a tiny part of me relaxes.

They're not mad. Not really.

They're just here.

For a moment, that's enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It stays like that for a couple of days.

I stay shut off.

They stay.

They just... stay.

Marcus cracks jokes and pretends not to be watching every inch of my emotional landscape like it's a battlefield about to blow.

Lilian talks around things, offering stories instead of questions, giving me space without retreating.

Bodhi doesn't press, either. He just... appears.

In the halls between lectures. At the edges of training. Sometimes by the windows during meals when I'm pretending to eat.

He never says much. Just enough to make sure I know he's still there. Still waiting.

And that tiny, stupid part of me—the one that still hopes—knots a little tighter every time.

But mostly, I stay locked down.

And no one pushes harder than I can take.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦
"Keep the temperaments of each specific breed in mind when you decide which dragons to approach and which to run from at Threshing," Professor Kaori says, his tone clipped and deliberate as always, every syllable sharpened like a blade.

He's standing at the front of the lecture chamber, dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he lifts one hand and changes the conjured image hovering in the air. The Green Daggertail vanishes in a shimmer of fractured light, replaced by a towering Red Scorpiontail mid-snarl, its tail arched and dripping venom.

His signet—illusion projection—is the kind that makes your breath hitch even when you know it isn't real. The creature's wings rustle like parchment in wind, heat radiating off it in invisible waves.

It's supposed to make me care more about his class. The theatrics. The danger. The realism.

It doesn't.

I sit near the back, same seat I always take now. Close enough to hear, far enough to disappear.

I can feel Marcus a few seats to my right. Lilian just ahead of me, her stylus poised and ready, even though she hasn't actually written anything down in five minutes. Their presence is steady. Familiar. Anchoring.

But none of it touches the hollow space behind my ribs.

Kaori keeps lecturing. Talks about aggression levels, territorial behavior, which species will tolerate your presence and which will roast you on sight.

I hear the words. I just don't care.

Because none of it matters.

You don't choose the dragon.

If one picks you, you live.

If one doesn't, you die.

Simple math.

Then the image flickers again.

And I see him.

Tairn.

I don't realize I've stopped breathing until my lungs start to ache.

He's enormous in the projection. Black scales that drink the light. Wings wide enough to block out the sun. Those gold eyes, always watching. Always judging.

I feel the crack start, subtle at first.

Like pressure building behind a dam that's already seen too many storms.

I try to tune it out.

I need to be numb.
Need to be empty.
Because if I'm not—

Kaori's voice keeps going.

"Naolin's signet was siphoning."

Crack.

The name lands like a blade under my ribs.

I sit straighter.

Still. Silent.

"Badass," someone near the back mutters. A couple of heads nod.

Crack.

"He was," Kaori agrees.

Crack.

"What kills someone with that kind of signet?"

Crack.

"He attempted to use that power to revive a fallen rider—which didn't work, because there's no signet capable of resurrection—and depleted himself in the process. To use a phrase you'll become accustomed to after Threshing... he burned out. Died right next to that rider."

SLAM.

I shove the lid back on the box inside me, slamming it shut so hard I swear I feel it reverberate in my bones.

Don't feel. Don't think. Don't remember.

But the image is already there, burned into the backs of my eyes: Naolin's smile, wide and reckless. His voice—teasing, warm. The way he always acted like I was more capable than anyone else ever did. The only person who ever saw through the expectations pressed against my skin like chains.

He wasn't just a hero in the history books.

He was my cousin.

And no one here knows.

No one but me.

And the professor just stands there, saying his name like it's a bullet point in a lecture. A cautionary tale. A footnote in the history of the Riders Quadrant.

They don't know who he was.

They don't know what he meant.

They don't know what it cost me to lose him.

Or what it cost me to keep the truth quiet.

If he'd listened to me, he might still be alive.

I swallow hard, fighting to breathe evenly.

I can feel Marcus watching me now. Lilian too. Their stillness is sharp. Careful.

Like they've been waiting for this moment.

Then the image shifts again.

And there—suddenly, inevitably—is my mother's dragon.

A graceful and lethal, winged beast who guards the Vale like a queen. The symbol of power.

I'm up before I realize I've moved.

My chair scrapes against the stone floor.

Kaori barely opens his mouth before the bell rings—merciful and sharp—and I'm already out the door.

Already breaking.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I don't remember the walk.

Only the way my boots echo down the empty hallway. The way the pressure in my skull keeps building, higher and higher, until I feel like I'm going to burst.

I reach the storage room at the far end of the weapons hall and wrench open the door. Step inside. Close it behind me with more force than necessary.

Dark. Quiet. Familiar.

I drop to the floor, back against the wall, and pull my knees to my chest.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then everything does.

The box in my mind buckles.

The lid splinters.

And I'm in it.

The grief.

The guilt.

The fury.

It swallows me whole.

I don't cry.

Not like that.

The tears don't fall pretty and slow.

They crash.

Violent. Hot. Silent.

Because I can't sob. Can't make noise.

Can't be seen.

So I fold in on myself, and I shatter.

I press the heel of my palm to my mouth. Try to bite back the sound of the hurt.

But it's too big.

And all I can think is—

I should've saved him.

I should've made him stay. Should've done something, anything. Should've begged harder. Been more convincing. Because maybe if I had—

Maybe I wouldn't be alone with this now.

Maybe he'd still be alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open.

Soft. Careful.

Like whoever's stepping in already knows something fragile is about to break further.

I don't look.

Can't look.

Because in that moment—curled against cold stone, fists clenched tight around the hurt—I'm not in the storage room anymore.

I'm back in the manor.

Back in the long shadows of high ceilings and quiet rules.

Back in the echo of my father's footsteps.

The click of polished boots on marble. The quiet disappointment in his voice.

The threat never spoken, only implied.

I brace.

Every muscle locks tight, a lifetime of instinct kicking in.

Not for a blow.

But for worse.

For words. For silence. For that sharp edge of disapproval that cut deeper than anything physical ever could.

My lips part.

And the words tumble out before I can stop them.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, ragged. "I—I didn't mean to— I'll get it under control. I just— Please. Don't—"

My breath hitches like a snapped string.

"I'll be better."

The silence that follows doesn't strike.

It waits.

Not cold. Not angry. Just... still.

Like the whole room is holding its breath with me.

Then—
Not reprimand.
Not footsteps.

The quiet sound of someone kneeling down.
Weight shifting on stone.

A pause.

Then a hand—warm and steady—settles on my shoulder.

Not to push.
Not to restrain.

Just there.
Solid. Steady. Real.

"I'm not him," Marcus says, voice low. Measured. "You're safe."

My breath catches.

My whole body flinches like I've just been struck.

And I finally look up.

It's not my father.

It's Marcus.

Sitting beside me, knees bent, arm still resting on my shoulder like he's anchoring me to the present.

Behind him, in the half-shadow of the doorway, Lilian stands.

Hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes rimmed in red and glassy with unshed tears.

She doesn't come closer. Doesn't say anything yet.

She just waits.

Like she's guarding something sacred.

I blink at Marcus, everything in my chest collapsing in on itself—shame, confusion, raw disbelief.

Because in my head, it was him.

I was back there again.

Small.

Controlled.

Terrified of being anything but perfect.

But Marcus doesn't flinch.

He just stays.

Like I'm not broken.

Like he's not afraid of the mess.

"I don't know what's happening in your head," he says softly, "but you don't have to apologize for feeling it."

Something deep and brittle inside me splinters.
A fault line that's been waiting for years.

"I'm not supposed to fall apart," I whisper.

Marcus exhales through his nose. Not a laugh. Just a long, weary breath.

"Then fall apart with us here," he says. "Don't do it alone."

I look down at my hands.

They're shaking.

"I thought it was him," I say, voice hoarse. "I thought I was back there. I didn't even realize I was—"

"You were surviving," Lilian finishes softly, finally stepping inside the room.She lowers herself to the ground beside me, not touching—just close.

Close enough to feel.

"That's what you were doing," she says.

I want to believe her.

I want to believe all of it.

That falling apart doesn't mean failing.

That softness isn't weakness.

That I'm not alone in this.

That I don't have to keep locking everything away just to keep breathing.

My voice trembles when I speak again.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to shut you both out again. I really tried to be the leader you wanted me to be."

Marcus makes a soft sound, almost a laugh, but without humor.

"Ava," he says, voice low and firm. "We didn't want a leader. We wanted you."

Lilian nods beside me, her voice barely above a whisper.

"We just wanted you not to break alone."

I close my eyes.

Then open them again.

And it's not the manor. Not the past.

Just cold stone. A storage room. My friends.

And the box in my chest, the one I sealed shut days ago, fractures just a little more.

"I didn't just lose Naolin," I murmur. "He was my cousin."

The words are barely audible. Almost an afterthought.

But they land like thunder.

Marcus's eyes widen.
Lilian blinks, stunned.

I almost regret saying it—regret dragging them into this corner of grief I've kept locked for so long.

But neither of them pulls away.

"Holy shit," Marcus breathes.

Lilian leans in, her voice gentler now, reverent. "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

I shrug. Or try to. It comes out more like a shiver.

"Because I couldn't be Ava, grieving her cousin. I had to be Ava, surviving him."

The silence that follows is deep. Weighty.

Then Lilian reaches out and laces her fingers through mine.

Marcus shifts closer, shoulder to shoulder.

No speeches. No expectations.

Just presence.

Just them.

And this time, when the tears come, I let them.

I let myself fall apart.

And they stay.

Just like they promised too.

Even though I fell.

They stayed.

Not for their leader.

But for their friend.

Chapter Text

It's past curfew when I sneak out of the barracks.

The corridor is quiet. Not the usual kind of quiet—laced with whispers and movement—but a deeper, breathless kind. Like the fortress itself is holding still, waiting.

My footsteps echo, slow and even. I don't bother hiding them.

I feel... different.

Not lighter. Not better.

But real.

The grief's still there, a weight I carry in my chest like iron. But the seal's broken. I'm breathing through it now instead of around it.

And it's strange—how even broken things can feel more whole than the lie of being "fine."

The moonlight filters through the glass windows as I take the long way back toward the barracks. My fingers trail along the stone wall. Cool. Steady.

I hear him before I see him.

A soft exhale. The faint rustle of cloth. A quiet mutter of, "Dammit, where are you..."

I round the corner, and there he is.

Bodhi.

Leaning against a window alcove, hair damp from a late shower, arms crossed, gaze flicking up and down the corridor like he's expecting it to answer him.

He sees me before I speak.

His shoulders straighten—not tense, just... alert. A quiet shift.

Then he blinks.

And his entire face changes.

Like he's been staring into fog for days and finally sees something solid on the other side.

I stop a few feet away. Not hiding. Not running.

Just... there.

He pushes off the wall and takes a few steps toward me, hesitant. Searching.

Then—"You're back."

The words are quiet, but sure. No question in them.

I don't answer right away.

Because what do you say to that?

Yes, I'm back. But I never left.

I was just lost somewhere inside myself, too deep to reach. Numb enough to keep going, too numb to feel anything worth staying for.

I shrug, but this time it's not deflection—it's permission.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I think I am."

Something in his expression softens. Not relief. Not celebration. Just... acknowledgment.

Like he knows what it cost to get here.

He looks at me for a long moment, eyes tracing every inch of my face like he's trying to memorize the new lines—the grief I didn't let him see before, the cracks I finally let show.

"You scared me," he admits, voice barely louder than the wind outside. "Not just with what happened that night. With how quiet you got after."

"I know."

"I thought maybe I'd lost you. The you part of you."

I meet his gaze. And this time, I let him see me.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough.

"You didn't," I whisper. "I was just... somewhere else."

He doesn't press. Doesn't ask for details I'm not ready to give.

Instead, he steps closer.

Not too close.

Just enough that I could reach for him if I wanted.

"I kept showing up," he says. "In case you needed reminding."

"I noticed."

He gives a soft, lopsided smile. "Didn't think you did."

"I did," I say, quiet but steady. "It helped."

His jaw shifts slightly, like he's working through a thousand things he could say and choosing none of them.

Then, "So what now?"

I tilt my head back slightly, staring at the ceiling, the carved stone arches lit faintly by moonlight.

"I don't know," I admit.

It should feel like failure. But it doesn't.

It feels honest.

"I'm still figuring it out."

Bodhi nods, slow and understanding.

Then, after a beat, he says, "Let me know if you need company while you figure it out."

I glance at him. "You volunteering?"

He smiles again. Softer this time.

"Always."

And there's something in that word.

Not flirtation. Not pressure.

Just presence. A thread that says you don't have to do this alone anymore.

Not unless you want to.

I don't say anything else. Just step forward and lean against the window beside him, shoulder brushing his for half a second before I settle into the silence beside him.

We stand there together.

Quiet.

Unhurried.

Moonlight filtering in. Shadows soft.

And for the first time in what feels like days—

I'm not watching from the outside anymore.

I'm here.

I'm still grieving.

Still healing.

Still broken in some places.

But I'm here.

And so is he.

BODHI DURRAN

She's quieter than I've ever seen her.

Not the kind of quiet that means closed off, like before. Not numb. Not gone.

This is different.

Still heavy. Still grieving.

But she's here now.

Not miles away behind that glass wall I couldn't get through no matter how many times I tried.

She leans beside me at the window alcove, arms loosely folded across her chest, eyes turned to the stained glass bathed in moonlight. The edges of her silhouette glow soft silver. Like even the castle knows she's survived something.

I don't say anything.

She's not talking either.

But she isn't leaving.

And that's enough.

The silence stretches between us—not awkward, not strained. Just full. Like a breath neither of us has to hold anymore.

I sneak a glance at her.

She's not crying.

She's not shaking.

She's not curled in on herself trying to disappear.

She's just still—but not frozen. Like her body's finally remembering how to just be.

I'm about to say something light—some half-baked comment about moonlight making everyone look ten percent more mysterious—when she moves.

Slow.

Deliberate.

She tilts slightly, shifting her weight until—

Her head touches my shoulder.

And stays there.

My breath catches like I just got punched somewhere soft.

Because this? This is new.

She's touched me before—when she was falling apart, when the world was crumbling inside her and she needed somewhere to land.

But this... this is different.

This is calm. Intentional.

No panic. No storm.

Just her. Choosing closeness.

Choosing me.

My whole body goes still. Not in panic. Not in fear of messing it up.

Just... reverent.

I don't move. Don't speak. Don't dare breathe too hard in case I break whatever fragile thread of trust just tightened between us.

She sighs, barely audible. Just a breath against fabric.

And in that sound, I hear all of it.

I'm tired.
I'm trying.
I don't want to be alone right now.

So I stay exactly where I am.

I angle my shoulder just slightly, so she doesn't have to hold any tension in her neck. So she knows I'm here. Holding the moment for her, even if I never get another like it again.

I glance down at the top of her head, her hair brushing the edge of my collarbone.

And all I can think is—

She came back.

And this time, she let me be there when she did.

Not as a savior.

Not as a soldier.

Just as someone who never stopped waiting.

The moonlight catches in the curve of her jaw, the soft shadows under her eyes.

And for a moment, I don't feel like I have to fill the space with words.

Because this—her head on my shoulder, the weight of her being here—this says more than anything I could've hoped for.

I let my eyes close for a second.

Just one.

And let the moment sink in.

Because I know her.

She might pull away.

She might pretend tomorrow that it didn't happen.

She might return to armor and sharp edges and cool indifference.

But tonight?

She leaned on me.

Not because she was breaking.

But because she didn't want to be alone.

And gods, I'll carry that.

For as long as she'll let me.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

She doesn't move.

And neither do I.

Her head still rests against my shoulder, warm and solid and real. And I can't help thinking how much it must've cost her to give this. This small gesture, this quiet act of trust.

I've known Ava long enough to know she doesn't lean lightly.

I breathe in slow, let the silence stretch. Let her keep what control she has left.

And then—

"Is it bad," I say quietly, "that I don't want this to end?"

I feel her body shift—not a flinch, not pulling away. Just a small lift of her head. Not even enough to break contact.

Her voice is soft. "What do you mean?"

I swallow.

Then say it.

Not all of it. But more than I usually let out.

"This," I murmur. "You. Being here. Letting me be here too."

I wait for the weight of it to scare her off. To remind her how messy I can be under the calm.

But she doesn't run.

She just breathes.

Then, so quiet I almost miss it, she says, "It's not bad."

That simple.

That hard.

My throat tightens, and I tip my head slightly so it rests against hers.

It's nothing. And it's everything.

"I used to think..." I stop. The words catch before they leave me, the instinct to fold them away still stronger than I want to admit.

She doesn't speak.

She waits.

So I try again.

"I used to think that if I wanted something too much, the universe would find a way to take it from me."

Her breath hitches.

Just a little.

So I keep going. Quiet. Honest.

"My parents both died in the apostasy and then me and Xaden were separated. Even though we are technically cousins we grew up like siblings. And he was just gone from my life. And when I finally got him back—he'd changed. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders."

I feel her fingers curl a little, just above her elbow where her arms are crossed.

Still not pulling away.

Still here.

"I don't trust easily," I admit. "But you..." I stop again, because the ache in my chest is real now. A burn instead of a weight.

"You scare the hell out of me, Ava," I say, breath unsteady. "Because you're the first person I've let in this far. And I'm terrified you'll figure that out and run."

A beat.

Then another.

And then—

She uncrosses one arm.

And slides it slowly—carefully—around my ribs.

Not tight. Not clinging.

Just there.

Like an answer.

"I'm not running," she says, voice low. "Not tonight."

The knot in my chest pulls tighter.

But it hurts less.

Because she didn't flinch.

Didn't disappear.

She let me bleed out some of the things I never say, and she stayed.

For once, it doesn't feel like I'm hanging off a cliff hoping someone will catch me.

For once, someone did.

I let my hand brush against hers at my side. Not grabbing, not pressing.

Just meeting her there.

"I'm still scared," I admit.

"Me too," she whispers.

We sit there like that. Quiet. Real. The kind of silence that feels less like absence and more like presence.

Two broken pieces trying to learn how to fit without shattering each other.

And I don't know what tomorrow will look like.

I don't know what she'll do with any of this when the sun comes up.

But I know this—

Tonight, she leaned on me.

And I let myself need her back.

That has to mean something.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

She shifts just a little, barely enough to notice. But I feel it—the way her fingers press slightly into my side, like maybe part of her still doesn't believe I'm real.

Or maybe she doesn't trust the moment to last.

I know the feeling.

"I keep waiting," I say quietly, "for something to break this."

Her head doesn't move from my shoulder, but I feel her attention slide toward me. A breath of stillness, like she's listening with more than just ears.

"I keep thinking," I go on, "someone's going to turn a corner or come crashing down the hall or start yelling from a tower window, and this'll all fall apart. Like we imagined it."

She doesn't laugh. Doesn't say you're being dramatic, even though I am.

Instead, her voice is quiet. Intentional.

"Then let it be real while it lasts."

My chest goes tight again, but not in fear.

It's something gentler. Raw. Like she just handed me a piece of herself without asking for anything back.

"Okay," I say.

Just that.

Because it's enough.

We stay like that for what could be minutes or an hour—time feels weird here, suspended in this strange, breathless stillness between everything we've said and everything we haven't.

Then I feel her start to shift again.

Slow. Subtle.

Pulling away.

She's careful about it. Like she doesn't want to undo the moment, just... move through it.

Her head lifts. Her arm drops gently from around me. Not rejection. Not retreat. Just change.

But even that tiny movement feels louder than it should.

She takes half a step back, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time in a long time, I don't have to guess what's going on behind them.

She's tired.

She's scared.

She's healing.

And she's trying.

I push off the wall slowly, careful not to crowd her, and straighten.

"I should walk you back," I say, not asking.

She nods once. "Okay."

We don't speak as we move down the corridor, side by side. Close, but not touching. Not now. The contact we shared still lingers like a warmth under my skin, and I don't want to smother it.

I glance at her once as we pass beneath a shaft of moonlight. The pale glow catches the soft curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, and I know I'll remember the way she looked tonight for the rest of my life.

Not because she was beautiful—though, gods, she is.

But because she was real.

When we reach the door to the barracks, she pauses, hand resting on the latch. She doesn't look at me right away.

Just stares at the wood, like it's the final gate between her and the part of herself she's still trying to reconcile.

Then, softly, she says, "You said you were scared I'd run."

My breath hitches.

"Yeah."

She turns her head, finally meeting my gaze again. And what I see there—gods, it floors me.

It's not resolution.

It's not promise.

But it's willingness.

And for her, that's everything.

"I still might," she says. "On accident. Out of habit. When it gets too hard."

My throat tightens.

But then she adds, voice almost a whisper: "But I'll come back."

And I don't know if she understands what that does to me.

What that means.

She opens the door, then pauses halfway through, looking back.

"Don't wait up," she says.

It's a joke. Soft. Barely there.

But it is a joke.

Which is its own kind of miracle.

I nod once. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Another pause.

Then a faint, barely-there smile. "Yeah. Even if."

And then she's gone, door clicking quietly shut behind her.

I stand there for a few seconds longer, listening to the silence. Letting it settle.

And then I turn and head back down the corridor, not smiling, not exactly—

But lighter.

Because she came back.

Because she let me be part of it.

Because 'even if', she said.

And tomorrow feels like something I can wait for now.

AVA MELGREN

The sky is wide and gold.

Not the sharp, blinding kind. This light is softer—like honey warmed in the sun, poured slow across the horizon. It's quiet. Still. The wind brushes against my skin like it knows me. Like it's glad I stayed.

I blink into the light.

There's no war. No weapons. No rebellion. To revolution.  No weight clawing at my chest like a second ribcage.

Just grass.

And flowers.

Thousands of them.

They stretch in every direction—soft and wild and untamed. The kind that don't grow in gardens or cities. Just here. Freely.

I'm lying in the middle of it all. On my back. Eyes open to the sky, body relaxed in a way that feels foreign but familiar. Like I used to know how, before I forgot.

The sun's warm on my face.

There's something in my hand.

Fingers.

Someone's fingers.

I turn my head.

Bodhi's there.

His eyes are closed. Mouth soft. Face tipped toward the sky like he trusts it not to fall.

He's barefoot. His boots are in a pile a few feet away, next to mine. His shirt's rumpled like he tugged it over his head in a hurry and never bothered fixing it. He looks younger here. Lighter.

Happy.

I watch the way his chest rises and falls. Slow. Easy.

Like there's no war.

No fear.

No curfews or loss or secrets we haven't said out loud yet.

Just this.

Just him.

He opens his eyes.

Not surprised. Not startled.

Like he knew I was looking.

His smile is small, lazy. "You're staring."

"You like it."

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes half-lidded. "Maybe."

I glance away, just for a second. The field rustles with soft movement. A few petals blow past my face. Lavender and white and deep crimson.

"It's quiet," I say.

"Too quiet?" he asks.

"No." I look back at him. "Just... quiet."

He nods, like he understands something I didn't say. His thumb brushes once against my knuckles, a slow arc. A question and an answer all at once.

I close my eyes again, just for a moment.

Just to feel.

The way the breeze carries the scent of something sweet and wild.

The way the grass shifts beneath my back like it's breathing too.

The way his fingers stay tangled with mine, no pressure—just presence.

I could stay here forever.

I think the thought before I realize it.

I could stay here.

With him.

Where there's no weight in my chest. No ache in my spine. No fear in my throat.

Just air.

And warmth.

And someone who knows me even when I don't say a word.

He shifts beside me, turning onto his side. I feel his gaze like a sunbeam, warm and waiting.

I open my eyes.

He's closer now.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

It's a question he's asked before, but not like this.

Not without expecting me to lie.

I should say yes.

I should nod and smile and pretend.

But I don't.

I just whisper, "I don't know."

And instead of stepping back, instead of changing the subject, he reaches up, fingers brushing a curl behind my ear. His hand lingers for a second at my jaw, thumb light against my cheekbone.

"I'll be here," he says softly. "Even when you don't know."

I believe him.

Here, I do.

Here, I can.

I turn into him, forehead brushing against his. He exhales, and I feel the breath between us like a promise.

My chest doesn't hurt.

My throat doesn't burn.

There's no noise. No shadow. No memory pressing its claws into my back.

Just him.

Just me.

Just this.

A field of wildflowers.

An open sky.

His hand holding mine like it always has.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't wake up gasping—

Not until the dream ends.

Not until the light fades.

Not until my fingers curl in the empty space of my real bed, searching for warmth that isn't there.

Not until I remember it wasn't real.

But gods—

It felt like it was.

Chapter Text

The rest of the school sleeps above us.

Stone walls thick with silence.

Old stones and older secrets pressing in from every side.

Down here, the air tastes like dust and old metal.

Like stories no one dared write down.

We're tucked into a storage room behind the kitchens, where the ceiling is low and the air stale, where sacks of barley lean like drunkards in the dark and the floor smells faintly of spilled oil and something vaguely herbal. Maybe rosemary. Maybe rot. I don't ask.

Marcus is sprawled across a broken stool with one leg flung over a crate, tapping his quill against his lip like it owes him money. Lilian sits on the floor near the wall, braid over her shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbows as she lines up a fresh set of encoded messages like a gambler laying out her hand.

I sit cross-legged with parchment scattered around me like fallen feathers. There's a smear of ink on my wrist, another at the edge of my jaw, and the stub of a candle burning down too fast between us.

Our only light.

My code name is Wrath.

But no one here needs reminding.

"Southern ridge weapon drop, they definitely need to keep half because they're running low and they can pass the other half off to gryphons," I say, flicking my eyes across a rough map sketch. "We mark it with the crescent. Three slashes in the bark this time. Not two. Not four. Not a damn asterisk."

Marcus groans. "But Ember loves a little flourish."

"You are Ember," Lilian points out, without looking up.

"And you should hear yourself in third person," I add. "It's deeply unsettling."

"Fine, fine." He sighs dramatically, writing it down. "Three slashes. No curlicues. Got it. But when our people show up to retrieve a box of daggers and find it guarded by two cranky goats again, I'm blaming you."

"That was your fault," Lilian mutters, squinting down at her cipher. "You gave the wrong coordinates. Twice."

"I was distracted. Flame-related emergencies."

"You set the barn on fire."

"It was a controlled burn."

"It scared the horses."

I cut in, not even looking up from my parchment. "It also melted the latch off the hayloft. And singed half your eyebrow."

Marcus rubs the offending eyebrow and shrugs. "Innovation's messy."

"So's treason," I say flatly. "Now keep writing."

He gives me a mock salute. "Yes, General Wrath."

Lilian snorts. "Keep that up and she's going to stab you with that quill."

"Why waste a quill," I say mildly, "when I've got a perfectly good dagger in my boot?"

That earns a low laugh from both of them.

Not loud. Not careless.

Just real.

The kind of laugh you earn when you've stood beside someone in blood-soaked silence and seen them keep standing. The kind of laugh you keep close in a world like ours.

I lean back, rolling my shoulders, eyes scanning the stack of parchment we've already worked through. Dozens of messages—coded, folded, sealed with the mark.

A snake, coiled and rising from flame.

The symbol of the revolution.

Ours.

"Alright," I say. "West Sector's orders are done. Lil, you're distributing to the older years who will then send them forward. Ember, I want planning the transport route. You'll coordinate with Bryn this time they just got put in charge of guarding the luminary."

Marcus grimaces. "Bryn and I don't exactly—"

"—have to like each other," I finish. "Just get it done."

He raises both hands in mock surrender. "Understood. Ember will play nice."

"She'll smack you if you don't," Lilian says, lips twitching.

"Remind me to ask what Viper's hiding in those coat sleeves next time we spar," Marcus mutters.

Lilian gives him a shark-toothed smile. "You won't like the answer."

I cut them both off with a look. The Wrath kind.

Not anger. Just sharpness honed to an edge.

They both settle. Almost.

Lilian leans her head against the wall and glances over at me. "You know, if the others saw Wrath down here—cross-legged in a flour-stained storeroom with ink on her face and a dagger in her boot—they'd riot."

"There's ink on my face?" I ask.

She gestures vaguely at my cheek. "Adds to the mystique."

I swipe at it absently with the back of my hand. "Mystique's overrated. Clarity gets things done."

Marcus snorts. "You say that like someone who didn't name herself after the sharpest emotion."

"I didn't pick it," I say, smirking. "It picked me."

He gestures between us. "You gave me Ember, though."

"You light things on fire."

"Accidentally!"

"Is it?" Lilian says, deadpan.

He glares at both of us. "You're lucky I like you."

"No," I say. "We're lucky you're useful."

That gets a full laugh from Lilian, and even Marcus cracks a grin.

It's easy, for a moment.

The three of us. A stack of paper. A single flame.

Ink-stained hands writing the war beneath the floorboards of a kingdom that still thinks we're loyal.

They'll learn.

"I know you didn't sign up for this," I say after a moment. "Storage rooms. Code sheets. Late nights where your spine feels like it's folding in half."

They glance at me.

"I know it's not the glory people imagine. No marches. No grand speeches. Just parchment and blood and small decisions that stack into something sharp enough to kill a regime."

I look down at the letter in my hands. One of dozens we've encoded tonight.

I sign it with the mark.

The snake rising from fire.

"This is how we win," I say quietly. "Right here. In the silence."

Lilian bumps her boot against mine. "You make a damn good Wrath, you know."

I lift an eyebrow. "That's because I am Wrath."

Marcus raises his parchment like a toast. "To Wrath."

I smirk, matching his raised hand. "To Ember and Viper, the greatest second in commands."

And around us, the school keeps sleeping.

For now.

But we're still here.

Writing orders by candlelight.

Drawing lines between hope and defiance.

Planning the fire to come.

Three rebels in the dark.

One breath at a time.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The stone corridors are colder than they should be.

Night sits heavy on the castle's shoulders, and every step echoes louder than I want it to.

Lilian walks just ahead, whistling under her breath like she hasn't spent the last three hours committing treason with a quill and a dagger tucked into her boot. Marcus trails behind, spinning his empty ink bottle between his fingers, too smug for someone who spelled "deployment" wrong twice.

We're halfway to the barracks.

One right turn, two stairs down, and we're home free.

Then—

"Out late, aren't you?"

Bodhi's voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

I stop.

My heart does something sharp and inconvenient.

He's leaning against a column at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, hair still damp from patrol.

He looks too casual to be a threat and too focused not to be. His eyes flick from me to Marcus to Lilian, and back to me. Locking. Holding.

"We were just—" I start, already calculating. I can lie. I'm good at it. Something believable. Something boring.

Marcus blurts, "We were having a threesome."

Silence.

It slams into us like a collapsing tunnel.

I turn to stare at him.

Lilian freezes mid-step.

Even Bodhi blinks.

"I—what," I say flatly.

Marcus looks weirdly proud of himself. "Yeah. You know. One of those kinds of nights."

Lilian pinches the bridge of her nose. "Oh my gods."

Bodhi's expression shifts so fast it nearly knocks me over—confusion, surprise, then a spark of something tight and ugly and jealous that he tries to blink away.

I want the floor to swallow me whole.

"I'm sorry," Bodhi says, tone too casual now. "Am I interrupting... something sacred?"

"Oh for—no," I snap. "You're not interrupting anything. Because that's not what we were doing."

Marcus is still talking. "You don't have to be embarrassed, Ava. This is a no judgment zone."

"You're gay," I hiss.

Marcus shrugs. "Doesn't mean I can't support the narrative."

"And Lilian's a lesbian!"

Lilian raises a hand. "Hi."

"And I'm—" I pause. "Not involved with either of you like that. You're both basically my emotionally unstable siblings."

Bodhi's brow furrows. "So... not a threesome?"

"No," I say, exasperated. "We were just—"

Lilian cuts in smoothly, bless her. "We snuck out to steal cookies from the east pantry. Technically still against curfew. Embarrassing enough without Marcus's improvisational theater."

Marcus sighs. "Honestly, I panicked."

"You created panic."

"I thought it'd be a good distraction!"

"It was a horrible distraction!"

Bodhi's watching me again. Not them. Me. That same unreadable look behind his eyes. But it's softer now. Quieter.

"Right," he says slowly. "Cookies. Sure."

"Why are you out?" I shoot back.

He shrugs, still watching me. "I couldn't sleep. Night patrol. Caught a whisper. Figured I'd check the halls. Didn't expect to run into—" he gestures vaguely, "whatever this is."

Lilian snorts.

Marcus mouths you're welcome at me.

I shoot him a look that promises violence.

Bodhi steps closer, lowering his voice as the others drift ahead. "You sure everything's alright?"

And suddenly the real lie is heavier than the fake one.

I nod. "Just cookies. Just curfew. Just dumb."

He looks at me a moment longer, then nods too.

"Next time," he says quietly, "bring me some. I like the honey ones."

Then he turns and walks away.

The second he's out of earshot, I spin on Marcus.
"You absolute idiot."

He grins, unrepentant. "You're welcome."

"I could kill you."

"You won't."

Lilian just mutters, "Next time, I'm the one who gets to lie."

I exhale.

Keep walking.

Because this?

This is the easy part.

Cookies. Threesomes. Cover stories that make me want to set myself on fire.

The real danger is outside the wards.

And it's coming fast.

BODHI DURRAN

I don't know what I'm doing.

I should've gone back to the barracks over an hour ago. Should've showered, passed out, let my body reset the way it always does after long patrols.

That's the system. That's how I stay sane.

But instead I'm pacing these godsdamned halls like some restless ghost, like if I keep moving, I won't have to sit with the part of me that still feels like it's burning.

It was a joke.

A stupid, ridiculous, half-panicked Marcus joke.

"We were having a threesome."

And the second he said it, the second the words hit the air, I felt something in my chest snap tight. Like I'd been punched in the sternum by something I didn't even see coming.

It made no sense.

Not because it wasn't true—I mean, obviously, it wasn't. Marcus is gay. Lilian's into women. Ava's straight and looks at them both like they're her siblings who never learned how to shut up.

But because some part of me—some ugly, territorial part—reacted like it could've been.

Like she could've chosen them.

Like it would've killed me if she had.

And I hate that. I hate everything about that.

Because this is Ava fucking Melgren.

Daughter of the man who signed the order that got my parents killed during the Apostasy.

The man who made me watch, as they were burned.

The man who would've happily killed me and every other child along with our parents.

Daughter of the man who left me and Xaden orphans. Who burned half a generation of us into ash and called it loyalty. Who turned Ava into the girl who learned to stay silent just to survive his house.

And yeah, she's not him.

I know that.

Gods, do I know that.

But it doesn't change the blood in her veins.

It doesn't change the war my family died in—all because her father wants to keep secrets.

And it sure as hell doesn't change the fact that I'm now part of a rebellion that she can never know about.

She's not ready.

She's not in it.

She can't be.

Even if she is staying up late, sneaking off with Marcus and Lilian, doing gods-know-what behind locked doors. Even if part of me wonders, just for a second, if they're hiding things too.

Even if I keep thinking about the way her head rested against my shoulder like she was choosing to need me.

Even if I want her.

I close my eyes, jaw clenched.

Because there it is. The thing I haven't said out loud, even in my own head. The thing I can't let myself feel.

I want her.

Not in some light, passing, harmless way.

I want her the way you want something dangerous. Something that might undo you if you let it get too close.

And it's not fair.

It's not fair that she gets to be in my head like this. That I'm carrying all these secrets—dead parents, a hidden rebellion, a storm of guilt and loyalty and everything I've never said—and she just walks into a hallway after curfew, and suddenly I'm unraveling.

Because I can't want her.

Because if she ever finds out what I'm a part of—what we're planning—what everyones been keeping from her—

It could break her.

Or worse, make her choose.

And I don't want to be the reason she has to do that.

So I take another lap around the corridor, fists tight at my sides, the weight of it all pressing down on me like wet stone.

She can't know.

She can't.

About the rebellion. About my parents. About how much of me is still standing on a battlefield I never actually stepped foot on.

She's got her own secrets, her own shadows.

But gods help me, if I see her laughing with Marcus like that again, whispering behind closed doors, like I was never even part of the equation—

I think I might actually lose it.

And I don't even know if that makes me cruel, or stupid, or just broken.

I just know this:

I don't want to feel this way.

But I do.

And I have no idea what the fuck to do about it.

Chapter Text

By midmorning, I'm convinced something's wrong with Bodhi.

Not catastrophically wrong—he's still breathing, still present at morning formation, still issuing clipped commands like it's his job (because, well, it is). But he's... different.

Not different like angry. Not even distant, exactly.
Just—off.

Like someone rewired him overnight and forgot to calibrate the personality settings.

He didn't speak up once in battle brief.

Didn't find me in the hallways between lectures.

Not once.

I tripped just to see if he'd react.

Nothing.

I looked like an idiot for nothing.

And I tell myself it's fine.

That I don't care.

But there's this cold weight settling under my ribs now. One I know too well.

The kind that used to stretch over days of silence, back when my father would act like I didn't exist.

It wasn't rage that punished me—it was nothing.

He would look through me. Around me. Past me.

It didn't matter if I shouted or cried or got perfect marks or bled.

I simply... vanished.

So when Bodhi walks right past me after lunch—eyes blank, voice gone, like I'm no one—it doesn't just sting.

It echoes.

He gives me a flicker of eye contact. A nod. That's it.

Usually, he's got something to say. A half-smile. A smartass quip. A look like he's got me figured out even when I don't want to be.

But today?

Today I get polite.

I get nothing.

And it shouldn't bother me.

It shouldn't.

But gods, it's like an itch under my skin. Like a fuse already half-burned.

Because it was just last night we stood in the corridor—me, Marcus, Lilian—and had to bullshit our way out of getting caught after curfew. And Marcus, in a moment of pure chaos, blurted "We were having a threesome," like that was somehow the safest lie.

And Bodhi...

He froze.

Not shocked. Not disgusted.

Jealous.

I saw it. The flicker. The tightening of his jaw. The way his eyes cut straight to mine like he was trying to solve a puzzle and hating the answer.

And now?

Now I'm nothing again.

I slam my practice blade against the target dummy harder than necessary.

"What did that dummy ever do to you?" Marcus asks from a few feet away, stretching his shoulders with exaggerated flair.

I grunt in response.

Lilian tosses a water canteen toward me. "Still thinking about last night?"

I catch it without looking. "Not really."

"Because it wasn't a terrible lie," Marcus offers, mock-defensive. "I panicked. Would you have preferred 'we were making shadow puppets with stolen documents'?"

"Literally anything else," I mutter.

Marcus smirks, then glances toward Bodhi across the hall. "He still being weird?"

"Like someone replaced him with a ghost," I say under my breath.

Lilian, thoughtful as ever, frowns. "You think he believed it?"

"No," I say quickly.

Then, slower: "Maybe."

Which is stupid.

He knows Marcus is gay. He knows Lilian's never looked twice at a man in her life. And I—

I'm not even interested in dating anyone, let alone forming some chaos-romance triumvirate in a supply closet.

So if he did believe it?

That's on him. Not me.

Right?

Except—

I steal another glance across the hall.

Bodhi's pacing now, hands behind his back, gaze focused too hard on the pair sparring in front of him.

His mouth is set in a thin line, jaw tight.

Like something's gnawing at him from the inside out.

And I don't get it.

I don't get him.

Not today.

Not after last night.

Not after the way he held me like I mattered.

Like I existed.

And now I don't.

Not again.

That familiar crawl of self-doubt claws up the back of my throat. I know it's not rational. I know I'm being hypocritical—gods, I've turned off before, I've shut him out, locked my heart down like a vault and swallowed the key.

But this silence?

This quiet?

It's not blank. It's loaded.

And it's driving me mad.

I toss the canteen back to Lilian and mutter, "I'm talking to him tonight."

Marcus lifts an eyebrow. "What's the plan? Lure him into a hallway and emotionally corner him like a feral cat?"

"If it works, it works."

Lilian smirks. "You're scarily good at emotional warfare."

I crack my neck, eyes never leaving Bodhi.

"He started it."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The corridor outside the barracks is quiet.

Too quiet.

No flickering lanterns. No shuffle of patrol boots. Just the far-off whistle of wind slipping through stone cracks and the echo of my own heartbeat rattling in my throat.

I find him near the stairwell. Alone. Half in shadow, hood up, leaning against the wall like he's part of it. Like he's trying not to be seen, not to exist.

He doesn't look up when I approach.

Just shifts his weight. Stares straight ahead.

Like I'm not here.

Like I don't matter.

And something in me snaps.

Because I know that silence. I lived in that silence. I survived it.

And I swore I'd never beg for someone's attention again.

But here I am.

Heart thudding like it's got nowhere else to go.

I stop a few feet from him. Wait.

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to. "Are you going to ignore me all night, or just until I stop trying?"

Bodhi doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak.

I clench my jaw. "Okay. Fine."

I take a shaky breath and fold my arms tight across my chest, like maybe that'll keep everything in.

It doesn't.

"I—I can't do the silence, Bodhi."

That gets his eyes—just barely. A flicker, turned toward me.

And now that I've started, I can't stop.

"I know I'm the last person who should say that. I know I've shut you out. Turned it off. Locked you out more than once without a word and left you standing there. And I hate that I did that. I hate that I'm that kind of person. But this—"

I gesture between us, the empty air.

"This is worse."

His expression doesn't shift, but something in his shoulders tenses. I press on, voice roughening.

"If you're mad, I get it. If I said something, did something—if that idiotic thing Marcus said made you think I'm—"

I break off, trying to breathe.

"Just hit me. Or yell. Or anything but this. Don't disappear into your head and pretend I'm not here like I don't exist. Please."

Silence.

Then—quietly, but not gently—he says, "You didn't do anything wrong."

It's like being punched in the chest.

I blink at him, stunned. "Then why are you—"

"I don't know," he cuts in, voice low, strained. "I don't know, Ava."

His jaw tightens. He shoves his hood back and stares at me like I'm a problem he doesn't know how to solve. His hair's a mess. His eyes are bloodshot. And for the first time, he looks as wrecked as I feel.

"I don't know why it got to me," he mutters. "I don't know why that stupid lie—gods, I knew it wasn't true, but it felt—"

He bites off the end of the sentence. Runs a hand over his face. "It felt like I was losing something. And I don't even have it."

My stomach turns. "Bodhi..."

"And I hate that it messed with my head, because I don't—" he stops, breath hitches, "I'm not supposed to care."

My throat tightens. "You do."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Apparently I do."

The hallway feels smaller. Like the walls are pressing in.

I step closer, heart in my mouth. "I thought I'd done something. All day it felt like my father again. Like I'd said the wrong thing, been the wrong kind of person, and now you were just going to not look at me until I shrank small enough to vanish."

Bodhi flinches. Looks at me sharp.

"I didn't know that," he says. "I didn't know that's what it felt like for you."

"I didn't mean for it to," he adds, quieter.

"I know," I whisper. "I just... I don't do well with disappearing. Not when someone I—" I falter. "Not when it's you."

His expression breaks. Just a fraction.

And I see it.

The fear. The guilt. The ache.

He reaches out.

His fingers brush my arm—light, hesitant, like he's not sure if he has the right to touch me.

I flinch.

Can't help it.

Reflex.

Years of punishment taught my body to move before thinking. Taught me that hands meant pain or power or both.

But his hand doesn't grab, doesn't tighten. Just hovers.

Warm.

Waiting.

And my body remembers something else.

Remembers him.

The way he sat with me the first time I shut down completely, not asking questions, just... there.

My breath shudders. And then—

I crash into him.

All the fight drops. All the armor. All the sharp edges I hold in like knives.

Gone.

I bury my face in his neck. I don't even think, just fold. My hands fist in the fabric of his jacket like they'll hold me together if I squeeze tight enough.

His arms wrap around me.

Not perfectly. Not cleanly.

But completely.

And that's worse somehow.

That's the part that makes the tears burn behind my eyes. Because I won't cry. I won't. I've trained too long, swallowed too much, stitched up too many wounds with spit and grit to fall apart now.

Weapons don't cry.

Weapons don't need.

But I do.

Gods help me—I do.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. Again. And again. And again.

I don't even know what I'm apologizing for.

Existing? Feeling too much? Needing him to look at me like I mattered?

He holds me tighter. His breath is ragged in my hair.

"Ava," he says—so softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

And something cracks under my skin.

Because I know he didn't. But that doesn't change what it did.

That doesn't erase the hours I spent pacing the back halls like a ghost in my own body, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Trying to earn his voice again.

It's sick, how fast I came undone. How desperate I was to be seen.

He tilts his head, presses his cheek to my temple, voice barely above a breath. "I didn't know it would hit you like that. I was... I was in my head. And I didn't think."

"It's not your job to think about my triggers," I mutter, swallowing hard. "I just—I couldn't breathe, Bodhi."

"I know," he says quietly.

And the guilt in his voice makes me hate how safe I feel right now. Because I shouldn't feel safe here.

Not with him.

Not with anyone.

Especially not with the boy whose rebellion I'm not supposed to know about. The one whose parents my father slaughtered.

But here I am. Curled into him like the world narrowed down to this one touch. This one truth.

I exist again.

And that shouldn't matter this much.

But it does.

Gods, it does.

BODHI DURRAN

Her breath changes.

It's so small I almost miss it—just the tiniest shift in rhythm against my neck, softer, slower, deeper.

And then her weight settles.

Not collapsing. Not breaking.

Just... resting.

It takes me a second to understand what's happened.

She's asleep.

Still standing. Still wrapped in my arms. Still clutching the edge of my jacket like letting go would mean waking up into something worse.

And gods—

Gods, it hits me like a blade to the ribs.

Because this isn't a battlefield. There's no blood. No screaming. No grand act of defiance or last-second save.

This is just a hallway.

And this—this—is the most intimate thing I've ever been trusted with.

She's asleep. With me.

On me.

Like I'm something solid. Like I'm safety.

And she never does that. Not when she's calm. Not when she's clear. Not unless she's shattered.

But she's not shattered now.

She's just... tired. And letting me hold that weight.

I breathe in through my nose. Slow. Careful. Like if I move too fast I'll undo the entire moment.

Her forehead's pressed just below my jaw. Her arms are still half around me, her fingers caught in the folds of my coat. Her body's warm, and real, and trusting.

No one's ever chosen me like this.

Not since my parents died.

Not since everything else got complicated and cold and coded.

Especially not her.

Because her father is the reason they are gone.

Because she's on the wrong side of a war I can't tell her about.

Because I've spent weeks pretending I don't feel the way I feel. That she's just a friend. Just a girl I'm trying to keep alive.

But right now?

Right now she's asleep in my arms and the truth is loud in my chest.

I want this.

I ache with it.

And I don't deserve it.

Because I pushed her away.

Because my silence earlier today did this. Made her spiral. Made her beg. And she shouldn't have had to.

I swallow hard, my throat tight with shame and something that feels too much like grief.

She muttered apologies like she was the one who did something wrong.

She flinched when I reached for her—then crashed into me like the absence of me had been cutting her open all day.

And now she's asleep. Because I made her feel safe again.

And that should feel like something good.

But all I can think is: I hurt her.

I hurt her by doing exactly what I swore I wouldn't.

And still—still—she's here.

Her breath warm against my neck. Her body trusting mine to hold her up. Her armor cracked wide open in my arms.

I let my eyes close. Just for a moment.

Then I press my cheek against the top of her head, so gently it might as well be a prayer.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair. "I'm so fucking sorry."

She doesn't stir.

She's deep under now. Somewhere soft. Somewhere safe.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt—

If I ever lose this again, if I ever lose her—

It will wreck me.

Because this moment? Her asleep on me, not out of exhaustion but out of trust—

It's not just a big deal.

It's everything.

She shifts.

Just a little—barely enough to jostle the fold of my jacket under her cheek. Her fingers twitch like they're chasing something, then curl tighter against me.

And then, so quiet it could almost be breath, she murmurs,

"Bodhi..."

My heart stutters.

For a second—just a second—I think she's woken. That I've held her too long, breathed too loud, shattered the fragile stillness between us.

But she doesn't move again.

Her weight stays slack, her breath still slow and even, her head still nestled beneath my chin like it belongs there.

She's not awake.

She's dreaming.

Dreaming of me.

I don't move. I can't.

Her voice—my name—echoes in my head like she said it out loud in a field, in a storm, in some sacred place I shouldn't be allowed to stand in.

She dreams of me.

Not her father.

Not ghosts or fire or guilt or pain.

Me.

And I wish—gods, I wish—that didn't undo me the way it does.

Because she's not mine.

Not like this.

Because there's a war between us and she doesn't even know it.

Because I've been lying to her every day we've stood side by side.

And still, in her sleep, she calls for me like I'm some tether her mind won't let go of.

I press my lips together, close my eyes again, and let the silence stretch. Not the punishing kind. Not the weapon her father wielded like a blade.

Just quiet. Safe. Steady.

A silence she can sleep inside.

A silence I'll hold until she wakes—

And after.

Even if it breaks me.

Because she dreamed about me.

And gods help me...

I think I’m in love with her.

Chapter Text

"Yeah," I say, soft. "You did."

"I didn't mean to." Her voice is quiet but sharp around the edges, brittle with something that might be shame. "I—gods. I didn't even know I was tired. I didn't know I was—"

"Safe?" I offer.

That's what she's trying not to say.

She flinches just slightly.

Then: "I'm sorry. That shouldn't have... happened. I didn't mean to—"

"Ava."

She finally meets my eyes.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Like she wants to argue but doesn't have the words.

And maybe that's okay.

Because if she saw the look on her face the moment she said my name in her sleep...
If she felt the way she collapsed into me like I was gravity...

She'd know this wasn't just exhaustion.

It was trust.

And that matters more than whatever wall she's scrambling to rebuild now.

Still, I add, gentler: "You can fall asleep on me. It's okay."

She exhales like she's been holding her breath since she woke. Then she looks away again, rubbing the back of her neck, eyes flicking down the corridor like she's checking if anyone saw.

Like vulnerability is a crime she'll be caught for.

"...Thanks," she mutters.

I nod once, quiet. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," she lies, tiredly. "Just... can we not talk about it?"

The words are rushed, clipped at the end. Like she's trying to shove them between us like a shield. Her eyes drop again, away from mine—toward the wall, the floor, anywhere but me. Her arms cross tight across her stomach like she's trying to fold herself down to nothing.

I watch her for a second. Let the quiet settle.

Then I speak, soft. Careful.

"Ava."

She doesn't look up.

I take a breath, then again—gently.

"Look at me."

Still, nothing.

Her jaw's locked tight. Shoulders stiff. Like if she just holds herself still enough, long enough, the whole moment will pass without her having to feel it.

So I step in. Just slightly. Just enough to be close.

Then I reach out.

Not to grab, not to force—just fingers, warm and steady, brushing the edge of her chin. I pause there, giving her a breath, a beat, a choice.

She could pull back.

She doesn't.

So I tilt her face toward me.

Slowly. Lightly. Like the whole world is made of glass.

And she lets it happen.

Her eyes find mine. Wide. Guarded. But open.

And gods, it wrecks me—because she's letting herself be seen.

Not the soldier or the strategist or the girl built of sharp corners and stubborn silence.

Just Ava.

Sleep-rumpled and flushed and trying so hard not to fall apart over something as small—and as enormous—as this.

"You didn't do anything wrong," I say again, low and steady. "You don't have to apologize for trusting me."

Something flickers behind her eyes. Some small, splintered emotion she doesn't have a name for yet.

She doesn't answer.

But she doesn't pull away either.

And that's enough.

AVA MELGREN

His fingers are still on my chin.

Light. Barely there. Like if he pressed any harder I'd break.

And I swear—swear—I've taken punches that landed softer than this.

My skin feels hot where he's touching me. Not burning. Not stinging. Just... awake. In a way I don't know how to handle.

I should pull back.

I should.

But I don't.

Because his eyes are on mine—steady and unflinching—and it's not a command or a demand. It's not even a question.

It's permission.

To stay here. In this weird, quiet space between panic and peace.

And gods help me, I want to.

My jaw aches from holding tension all day. My spine hurts from trying to be steel. And now here he is, holding me like I'm not some wild thing that might bite him if he gets too close.

It feels so foreign it's almost wrong.

Not because it is.

But because I was never taught how to be held like this.

Touch, for me, has always meant consequence. A blow. A shove. A cold, dismissive hand under my chin when Father wanted me to look him in the eye for a lecture I wasn't allowed to speak through.

But this?

This is gentle.

And that alone makes my pulse riot.

I'm trying so hard not to lean into it. Into him. Every instinct screams that if I do, I'll fall so far in I won't remember how to get back out.

So I go still.

Not frozen. Not frightened.

Just unsure.

Because I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. Don't know the rules of this kind of moment. There's no script. No code. No strategic advantage to analyze.

Just... me. Him. And the soft, unbearable quiet of almost.

I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the empty corridor. "I, um..." My voice catches. I don't even know what I was going to say.

He drops his hand.

Not fast. Not like he regrets it.

Just like he knows I need the space back before I ask for it.

But my skin still tingles where he touched me.

And the place where his fingers had been feels colder than it should.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, pretending it matters. Pretending I'm not standing here with my armor halfway cracked open and my heart doing backflips over a boy who shouldn't matter this much.

"I should, uh..." I gesture vaguely behind me, like I have somewhere to be. I don't.

He doesn't stop me.

But he doesn't move either.

We're both just standing here. In the stillness after the storm. Close enough to touch. Far enough to feel the ache of not doing it again.

And for the first time in what feels like years, I don't know how to walk away.

His eyes haven't left me.

I can feel them—steady, quiet, waiting.

Not pushing.

Just present.

And that might be worse.

Because there's no pressure here. No trap. No expectation.

Just... him.

And me.

And the aftermath of something I don't know how to name.

I try again. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

My voice is steadier than I feel. But only just.

He tilts his head, a small crease forming between his brows. "I know."

I wrap my arms around myself. "I'm not usually— I don't—" My throat closes up, traitorous. I force it open. "I don't fall apart like that."

"I know that too," he says, softly.

And it should make me feel better. I think.

But it doesn't.

Not really.

Because it means he saw it. The cracking. The unraveling. The way I reached for him like a drowning thing. And gods, I hate that.

Not because I don't trust him.

But because I don't trust me.

"I just..." I look down at the floor, the cold stone blurring under my lashes. "You went quiet. And I know I do that sometimes. I know I shut down. But it—today, it got in my head. Made me feel like I did something wrong. Like I didn't exist again."

The last part comes out smaller than I meant. Like the words have to crawl over broken glass to leave my mouth.

There's a pause.

Then: "Ava."

I look up. I don't mean to.

But I do.

And he's still watching me with that look—like I'm something fragile he knows better than to treat like glass. Like he sees me sharp and soft, weapon and wreckage, and wants all of it anyway.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he says. "That was me."

I shake my head, even though I don't know why. "Doesn't matter. I still— I still felt like I did."

He exhales, steps closer.

Not too close.

But close enough.

"I was angry," he admits. "And confused. And jealous. And none of that is your fault. But I didn't know what to do with it. So I shut down. I shouldn't have."

There's something brittle behind his voice. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

"I'm sorry," he adds, and it's not casual. It's not filler.

It's real.

The kind of sorry that doesn't come easy.

I nod, slowly. "Okay."

We stand like that for a breath. Two.

Then three.

And the quiet's still here, but it's changed.

It doesn't feel like a blade now. Or a punishment.

It just is.

Safe. Steady. The kind of silence that asks, instead of demands.

I glance up at him again, almost shy. "You make it really hard to stay mad at you."

A flicker of a smile breaks across his face. Not wide. Not smug.

Just warm.

And something deep in my chest shifts, like a gear finally clicking into place.

"I'll try not to make a habit of it," he says.

"You better not," I mutter, but it's soft.

Almost teasing.

His smile grows a fraction, eyes still on mine. "Do you want to go back? Or... stay?"

I look toward the hallway, then back at him.

"I should go" I say but I still don't move.

A smirk grows on his lips "that wasn't the question. I asked what you wanted. Not what you should do"

I hate that he says it like that.

Like the truth is simple.

Like want is something I'm allowed to have.

My throat goes tight again. Not like before—not the kind of tight that comes with panic or shame. This is worse.

This is the kind that comes with hope.

"I..." I start, but it dies there, like the rest of the sentence got caught on the edge of my teeth.

He doesn't press me.

Just watches. Quiet. Patient. Unmoving.

Waiting, like he's willing to stand here all night if it means I get there on my own.

I shift my weight, arms still folded across my chest like they're the only thing keeping me upright. I glance toward the hallway again. It's dark. Empty. And still somehow feels safer than this.

Because this is too close. Too easy.

And too terrifying to want.

But gods, I do.

Not the whole night. Not the whole mess. Not the softness I don't know how to survive.

Just this.

This moment. This breath. This person.

I force myself to look back up at him.

"Wanting something and letting myself have it aren't exactly the same thing," I murmur.

His expression doesn't change. But something in his eyes softens. Like he gets it. Like he knows.

"That's okay," he says. "You don't have to choose it. I just want you to know it's there."

That stops me cold.

Not because he's letting me go.

But because he means it.

There's no manipulation. No pull. No guilt. Just a door, left open.

A space he's made, and refused to fill without me.

My heart twists.

I don't know what to do with that kind of kindness. I don't know how to hold it without flinching.

But I want to try.

I take a small step forward—barely enough to register. But I see the way his body stills. Like he noticed. Like it matters.

My voice is quieter now. "If I stayed... I wouldn't know how to be."

He tilts his head slightly. "You don't have to be anything."

I almost laugh. Bitter and dry.

But the sound doesn't make it out of my throat.

I look at him. Really look.

And it hits me—he isn't asking me to collapse. He isn't asking me to bleed emotions all over him or hand him every unhealed thing I've got locked up under my skin.

He's just there.

And maybe that's the scariest part.

Because I think I could actually rest there.

Even if only for a little while.

I wet my lips. "Just for a minute."

His smile—small, grateful, a little surprised—blooms slow and genuine.

"Just a minute," he echoes.

And when he opens his arms, I step back into them like I never left.

Chapter Text

The space between us disappears like it was never there.

One step. That's all it takes.

And then his arms are around me again—warm and steady and familiar in a way that shouldn't be possible. Not for someone like me. Not after everything.

I don't collapse. I don't fall apart.

I sink.

Slow. Careful. Like I'm testing the water with every breath.

His chest rises beneath my cheek. Calm. Unhurried. Like he's not waiting for me to explain anything. Or apologize. Or do anything but be.

Gods.

I didn't know I could miss something I've never had.

But this? This stillness—this quiet with a person who isn't looking to use it against me later?

It feels like breathing for the first time in days.

I feel his hand slide up, fingertips grazing the back of my shoulder. Not possessive. Not heavy. Just... there.

Grounding.

And the strangest thing is—I don't tense. I don't flinch. I don't armor up the way I usually do when someone gets too close.

Instead, I let my forehead rest against his collarbone, and I feel my body start to uncoil in pieces. Like I've been holding a bowstring drawn for so long I forgot what it felt like to release it.

"I don't know what this is," I admit, the words muffled into his shirt.

I don't mean us.

I mean this. This warmth. This ache. This terrifying, fragile thing that makes me feel like I've stepped into a world that doesn't expect me to fight my way through it.

His hand rubs a small circle between my shoulder blades. "You don't have to know."

I close my eyes.

And gods, I wish I didn't care how gentle that answer is. I wish it didn't make something in my chest go soft in a way that feels dangerous.

But it does.

Because I've never had this. Not from anyone. Not without strings. Not without a countdown ticking in the background, waiting to turn closeness into a weapon.

And somehow, with him... there's no timer. No trap.

Just quiet.

And warmth.

And the sound of his heartbeat, steady and real, just beneath my ear.

It's stupid, how much I want to stay here.

How much I want this minute to stretch into two. Into ten. Into whatever comes next, if he keeps looking at me like he sees me.

I breathe in, slow.

Then, without thinking, I murmur, "You're really warm."

It's dumb. So dumb. But I feel the breath of a laugh rumble through his chest, and somehow that makes it worse.

Or better.

I don't know anymore.

"Good," he says. "You're freezing."

"I'm not—" I start to protest, but he shifts slightly, pulling me a little closer, and I forget how to finish the sentence.

Because his chin brushes the top of my head.

Because I let it happen.

And because every part of me that's ever been starved for something like this just—aches.

"I don't usually let people hold me," I say, and it comes out lower than I meant. Not a warning. Not a confession.

Just truth.

"I know," he says, just as quiet.

And still—he doesn't let go.

He holds me like it's not something that needs earning. Like it's not conditional. Like I'm not going to vanish the second he blinks.

I've never hated and needed something so much at the same time.

"I'm not good at this," I whisper.

"I don't need you to be good," he murmurs back. "I just need you to be here."

And gods help me, I think I might break.

But if I do—

It won't be sharp. Or violent. Or loud.

It'll be this.

This warm, quiet unraveling in someone else's arms.

And for once, I think I might let it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We're still close — too close — when it happens.

His breath is brushing my temple.

My hands are still warm from touching his.

My heart is still thrumming with the aftershock of being seen.

But the air changes.

Like a held breath behind a closed door.

Like the memory of every time I've let my guard down and paid for it.

I freeze.

Bodhi feels it instantly — the way my spine straightens, the way my body tenses like a blade pulled taut.

Then—

A sound.

Too soft for most.

Not for me.

I move just in time.

A blade whistles through the space where my neck used to be.

It sings against air, not flesh.

Bodhi jerks back as I twist and draw my dagger in the same motion, sliding between him and the intruder.

Steel meets steel. The impact vibrates through my bones.

He's fast.

But not fast enough.

Because I've been waiting for this.

Because part of me never stopped.

Because grief didn't kill the instinct — it just buried it in softer clothes.

Now it's back.

Snapping to the surface like a wound splitting open.

He strikes again. I parry, twist, drive my heel into his thigh.

He staggers, but his recovery is clean.

His mask slips.

He's young.

Too young to be this dangerous.

But that's the thing about hate — it trains children before they even know how to spell vengeance.

I know that story.

I am that story.

He lunges again. I knock his arm wide, slam him into the wall, and disarm him with a twist of his wrist.

The dagger hits the floor with a clang.

But he doesn't stop.

"You're her," he snarls. "The butcher's daughter."

I still.

Not because it shocks me.

But because it always comes back to him.

I don't flinch.

"You're going to need to be more specific."

"Your father," he spits. "It doesn't matter who sent me, your father has made a lot of enemies. And they all want your blood."

Of course they do.

Because monsters don't just die.

They breed.

They leave daughters with names like landmines.

I pin him harder. Pull the second blade from my boot. Light. Clean. Familiar.

Behind me, I feel Bodhi shift.

He doesn't speak.

Not yet.

He knows what this is.

Because he's seen it.

Because this has happened before.

I press the blade to the boy's throat. His pulse thuds beneath it.

He should be afraid.

But he's not.

Not of me.

He thinks I won't do it.

That the girl who fell asleep against someone's chest isn't the same one who ends lives.

He's wrong.

Because I buried that girl.

Again and again.

And every time I tried to let her live, someone reminded me why she can't.

"Tell me," I say, voice ice-edged. "Who gave the order?"

Silence.

He thinks he's being brave.

But I see the terror creeping in.

I press harder. Just enough to draw a line of blood.

And behind me, Bodhi finally speaks.

"Ava."

Soft.

Not afraid.

Just... pleading.

And that breaks something worse.

Because I remember the last time he said my name like that — when my hands were bloody and my chest was hollow and I was trying not to feel how much it cost me to stay alive.

He's trying to pull me out again.

But he doesn't understand—

That girl is the reason I almost died.

This one is the reason I didn't.

So I don't look at him.

I don't give him the chance.

I give the assassin one more breath.

Then I end it.

Quick. Efficient. Cold.

His body slumps.

My hand doesn't shake.

I rise.

Wipe the blade.

Slide it away.

Bodhi doesn't move.

Neither do I.

The silence wraps around us again — not peaceful.

Just... still.

But this time it's worse.

Because I know what he sees when he looks at me now.

Not the girl who feel asleep against him.

Not the girl who cried and didn't get punished for it.

He sees this.

The weapon. The executioner. The legacy that keeps repeating itself no matter how far I run.

I brace for it.

The fear. The judgment. The disappointment.

But when I turn to face him, what I see guts me.

Because it's none of those things.

It's sorrow.

And something quieter.

Something like, Please don't do this again.

He takes a step toward me.

"Ava..."

"Don't," I say, too fast.

He stops.

"Don't say it."

"I wasn't going to—"

"You were."

Because I can hear it.

In his voice.

In the way he's trying not to look at the body at my feet.

In the way he's trying to look at me instead.

Like I'm still worth holding onto.

But I can't take that from him.

Not again.

So I back away.

Step into the stillness that once felt like safety.

Let it wrap around me like armor.

And when he says, "You don't have to shut down this time,"

I feel the pressure of tears filling my eyes and I look to the ceiling to stop them from falling.

"Don't I? I'm a monster Bodhi. Why am I pretending to be anything more."

His jaw tightens. Just slightly. But enough.

"You're not a monster."

"Don't lie to me," I whisper, and gods, it comes out broken.

"I'm not."

"You saw what I did."

"I see what you did," he says, stepping closer, voice firm now, steady like stone beneath water. "And I've seen what you didn't."

He's close enough that I can smell the trace of cedar on his clothes. Close enough that I could reach for him.

I don't.

Because if I do—I'll shatter.

So instead I cross my arms, nails biting into my skin, and say nothing.

He keeps going. "You gave him a chance to speak. You didn't have to. You didn't enjoy it. You didn't take more than you had to. And you only acted when there was no other choice."

I laugh. It's not a happy sound. "That's what people always say to justify the worst things they've done. 'I had no choice.'"

"It's not justification," he says softly. "It's truth."

His voice dips—low, like a secret.

"You didn't kill him because you wanted to. You killed him because he would've killed you."

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. They'll keep coming. Every time I think I've outrun it, it finds me. The name. The blood. The history. It doesn't stop."

He doesn't argue. He doesn't offer platitudes.

He just says, "Then we don't run."

I blink.

It hits me like a blade between the ribs.

We.

Two letters. One impossible promise.

"I don't know how to let anyone stay," I whisper. "I don't know how to let someone see all of this and not chase them away with it."

Bodhi's eyes soften. "You don't chase me away."

"You should."

"But I won't."

Something inside me falters. My hands drop to my sides.

"I'm tired," I admit. "So tired of being this. Of being what they made me. Of pretending I'm not angry and scared and just—exhausted."

He steps closer again, until there's barely a breath between us.

And when he speaks, his voice isn't soft anymore. It's sure.

"Then rest. With me. Just for tonight. You don't have to be the blade. Not here."

My throat tightens. The silence between us swells again—but this time, it's not cold. Not dead. It's full of every word I can't say.

So I reach.

Fingers trembling, I press my hand to his chest—right over the heartbeat that's steadied me more times than I want to admit.

He covers it with his own.

Not forcing. Not holding. Just there.

And for the first time in a long time, I let someone else carry the weight.

Even if it's just for a moment.

Even if I break.

Because maybe... maybe breaking isn't the worst thing.

Maybe it's what has to happen before you can build something new.

Bodhi's hand tightens just a little over mine. Not to trap it—just to make sure I feel it. That he's here. That he's not going anywhere.

Then his voice breaks through the silence. Gentle. Unshakable.

"Ava," he says. "Let it out."

I shake my head, throat clenching. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"It's not that easy."

"I didn't say it would be easy. I said you can."

The tears are still there. Caught behind my eyes like a dam ready to split wide open. But I've held them for so long they've started to feel like part of me. Like bones. Like breath.

"I don't know how to cry without coming apart," I whisper.

And gods, it's the truth. I don't know how to cry without unraveling all the threads I've knotted up just to keep standing.

His voice drops lower, quieter, but it doesn't waver.

"Then come apart."

I look up, startled.

And he's right there. Looking at me like I'm not made of wreckage. Like the pieces don't scare him. Like maybe—maybe—he'd hold them if I asked.

"You don't have to be strong right now," he says. "You don't have to hold it in for me. Or for anyone. Just let it out, Ava. Let yourself feel it."

And that does it.

Not the words.

The way he says them.

Like it's not a demand. Like it's an offering.

My chest caves, just a little. A shuddering breath escapes me, and I feel it—the first crack.

It's small. But real.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Bodhi—" I try. But the name breaks in my mouth.

And then the dam breaks too.

The tears come fast—hot, sudden, violent in their silence. No sobs. No screams. Just wet, shaking breaths as everything I've been holding in for years tears free from the cage I built around it.

He doesn't speak.

He doesn't flinch.

He just pulls me in.

Wraps his arms around me like the world isn't crumbling, like I'm not crumbling. His hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading gently into my hair. Holding me together without trying to stop the flood.

And I cry.

Gods, I cry like I haven't in years. For the people I've lost. For the person I've become. For the girl I used to be—the one who thought she had to earn love by surviving everything alone.

"I didn't want to be this," I choke out.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, Ava."

"I tried to be good."

"You are good."

I shake my head against his shoulder. "No, I'm not. I kill. I lie. I don't trust anyone—"

"You trusted me."

He says it so softly I almost don't hear it.

But I do.

And it guts me.

Because it's true.

Because I let him in, even when every part of me screamed not to. Even when I knew it would cost something.

And now, here—he's still holding me.

He's still here.

And I'm still lying to him.

There's a whole other half of me that I never intend to tell him about.

The tears slow. Bit by bit. Until I'm just breathing again, raw and empty, but somehow... lighter.

Bodhi doesn't let go.

He holds me like I'm something worth protecting. Like I'm allowed to be broken. Like maybe—just maybe—he sees me beneath all the blood and armor.

And for the first time in what feels like forever...

I believe him.

Chapter Text

Her hands are jammed in the pockets of her coat, fingers twitching like they're unsure what to do now that the blade is sheathed and the tears are gone.

He doesn't fill the silence with words.

Just stays beside her—one step behind, then in sync, matching her stride without ever making it obvious. Like he's done this before. Like he knows what it is to walk someone back from the edge without forcing them to look down.

The barracks aren't far.

But the walk stretches long.

Heavy with everything that was said. And everything that wasn't.

Ava can still feel the warmth of his arms around her, the weight of his hand on her back like an anchor keeping her tethered. But now that she's upright again, she doesn't know what to do with that comfort.

It feels... dangerous. Like letting it stay might make her want it again.

Need it.

And that's the scariest thing of all.

"Thanks," she says at last, voice low, brittle around the edges.

He glances at her, brows lifting slightly. "For what?"

She shrugs, but it's not careless. Just tired. "For not trying to fix it."

Bodhi's mouth tilts in a sad sort of smile. "Didn't think you'd let me if I tried."

"I wouldn't have."

"I know."

They round the last corner, the outer wall of the barracks coming into view, glowing faintly under the lanterns bolted to the stone. There's no one else around—not this late. Just the two of them, breathing in the aftermath.

Ava stops a few steps from the door. Turns toward him, folding her arms loosely across her chest. Her voice is steadier now, but her eyes are still ringed in exhaustion.

"You didn't have to come with me."

"I know," he says again. But there's no weight to it. No guilt. Just quiet truth.

She studies him.

That familiar furrow between his brows. The faint scrape on his jaw from training yesterday. The way his shoulders are square but not defensive—just open.

Bodhi has never asked her to be anything.

And gods, she doesn't know what to do with that.

"I don't know what I am when I'm not fighting," she admits, a little too fast. Like the words want out before she changes her mind.

He doesn't look away.

"Then don't fight right now."

Ava swallows. "You say that like it's easy."

"I say that like I'll stay. Even if it's not."

Her chest pulls tight.

Because it shouldn't matter.

Because nothing in her life has taught her to believe people mean it when they say things like that.

But he does.

She can see it in his eyes—calm and unflinching, even now. Even after what she did. What she became in front of him.

And the worst part is... she believes him.

"You should go," she says softly, nodding toward the other wing of the barracks.

Bodhi doesn't move.

"I will. Once you're inside."

"I can make it on my own."

"I know," he says. "That's not why I'm still here."

Ava hesitates.

Then finally, she reaches for the door.

But before she steps through, she pauses.

Turns back.

One last glance.

And then, with a voice small enough to make her wince at herself, she says, "You made it easier."

He tilts his head. "What?"

"Being held." She swallows. "You made it feel... less like weakness."

Something flickers in his expression. Not triumph. Not satisfaction.

Something softer.

Something like hurt, turned into understanding.

"I'm glad," he says, and he means it.

"See you tomorrow, even if?" She asks

"Even if." He replies softly.

She nods once.

Then slips inside.

The door closes with a soft click behind her.

Bodhi doesn't leave right away.

He waits.

Just a few more seconds.

Long enough to be sure she made it.

Long enough to give her that one last bit of quiet.

Then he turns.

And walks back into the dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

And now next day, the classroom feels colder.

Maybe it's just me.

Maybe it's the way memory clings to the corners of the room, sharper now—like it knows I cracked once and wants to try again.

I sit in the same seat as always, back row, third from the left. Near the shadows. Near the exit. But today... I don't disappear. Not really. Not when Kaori's gaze flicks my way for just a second longer than it should.

He doesn't say anything about yesterday.

But the air is tense. Like a held breath. Like something unsaid is echoing louder than anything he could teach.

The illusion is already hovering when I sit—shimmering black scales catching the conjured sunlight, wings spread with regal indifference.

My mother's dragon.

But no one knows that.

Most people don't even know that my mother was a rider.

The dragon in the illusion doesn't move.

But it doesn't have to.

She commands the space just by existing—massive and poised, wings arched like the sky itself would bend for her. Light curls along her obsidian scales in flickers, like fire trapped beneath the surface. Her eyes—gold and impossible to forget—stare straight ahead.

Unseeing.

But I feel them on me anyway.

Forlámhaí.

I'm not supposed to know her full name.

The name burns against the inside of my chest, but I keep my expression blank. My posture calm. My fingers curled loosely on top of my notes so they don't betray the tremor building in my hands.

Because no one knows. Not really.

They know of her, of course. Everyone does. The archives say she's one of the oldest living dragons, even older than Codagh. A legend. An anomaly.

A mystery.

No known bonded rider. No listed lineage. Just gaps in the records and speculation wrapped in reverence. Some assume her rider died in the early border wars. Others whisper about a failed rebellion, a rider exiled or executed. There's even a theory that she never bonded at all, that she's unclaimed and simply... waits.

But I know the truth.

She was bonded. Once.

To my mother.

Odette Melgren.

Rider.

Healer.

Forgotten.

Because that's what happens when your father is powerful enough to rewrite history.

When he decides that a disgraced rider—an amputee, a liability, an embarrassment—isn't worth the ink it would take to remember her.

So he had her name pulled from the pairing logs.

Paid scribes to scrub it clean.

And when I was born, he made sure the story stayed buried even deeper. A child born of war-broken blood didn't fit the future he wanted.

So he made her invisible.

Even in death.

Only I remember now.

And Forlámhaí.

But the dragon in the illusion isn't looking at me. She's just a trick of Kaori's magic—an echo of something that used to be real. She doesn't see me.

Not yet.

Kaori's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Observe the curvature of the wing joints here—most dragons at this wingspan lose mobility over time. This dragons, however, maintains full articulation."

He speaks clinically. Detached. Like he's explaining a mechanism, not a legacy.

I keep my head down. Let the curtain fall behind my eyes.

Because if I look too long, I'll remember too much.

The way my mother's voice would go soft whenever she said Forlámhaí's name. The way her hand would tighten on mine during storms, whispering that dragons always hear when you need them.

The way she died—quiet and small, far from the sky.

An utter mystery that dispite all the secrets I have uncovered I still don't know.

And how Forlámhaí must not have come.

Not for her.

Not for me.

Kaori moves on, flicking the projection away with a sharp motion. The illusion shimmers out like smoke on the wind.

Gone.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Lilian nudges her quill against my elbow but doesn't look at me. A silent question.

I don't answer.

Because I can't.

Because how do you explain something like this?

That the most powerful dragon in the Vale once belonged to a woman the archives won't even name. That your mother died a ghost in the eyes of the quadrant. That your father erased her from history like she was nothing but a shameful footnote.

That the dragon everyone worships as a legend was once yours to ride on your mother's lap before you could walk.

That you are the secret.

The daughter of a forgotten bond.

Of flame and silence.

I sit back in my chair. Eyes forward. Spine straight.

The class moves on around me.

But a whisper curls low in my chest, sharp as smoke, quiet as breath.

Let them forget her.

Let them worship Forlámhaí like a myth.

I know the truth.

And I will not be erased.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hallway between the lecture halls and the mess is too quiet for this time of day.

Ava's boots slow on the stone floor, soundless now. The hum of conversation from the mess hall doesn't reach this far. No footsteps but their own. No movement. Just stillness, heavy and wrong.

Marcus picks up on it first. "Too quiet," he murmurs.

Lilian's already scanning. "Something's off."

Then it comes—sharp voices cutting through the air like blades.

"Where's your rebellion now, Mari?"
"Dead, like it should be."

Ava rounds the corner before either of them can stop her.

Liam Mari stands surrounded. Four older cadets, all bulk and bravado, closing in like hyenas. Their uniforms are rumpled, knuckles bloodied, expressions smug with the false confidence of people who believe their cruelty is justified. Ava clocks the tension in Liam's shoulders, the discoloration blooming along his jaw. He hasn't gone down easy—but he's outnumbered, and they know it.

He doesn't see her yet.

"Wow," Ava says, voice cutting through the tension like a dagger laced in sugar. "This what passes for bravery these days? Four-on-one? What happened, you run out of puppies to kick?"

All four of them spin toward her. Eyes narrow. Postures shift.

Liam's gaze darts to her, confused. He blinks. She swears he almost frowns.

Brenner—shoulders like a brick wall, brain like a sack of wet flour—sneers. "Keep walking, Melgren. This doesn't concern you."

She tilts her head, smiling like a blade unsheathing. "Oh, but it does. Because I was under the impression we trained soldiers here, not emotionally-stunted toddlers throwing tantrums because mommy didn't love them enough."

One of them mutters something under his breath—too quiet to catch—but it earns a low laugh from the others.

Brenner steps forward, fists tightening. "You really want to get involved in this?"

"I really want my lunch," Ava says sweetly. "But then I saw this amateur reenactment of cowardice and figured I'd step in before someone wrote a ballad about how deeply embarrassing you all are."

Lilian flanks her left, quill still tucked behind her ear like she might throw it at someone's jugular.

Marcus drifts to her right, casual as hell, but his hand's twitching near the dagger at his hip.

"You do know he's one of them, right?" another cadet spits. "A marked one. A traitor by blood."

"Yeah," Marcus says, voice flat and bored. "And I guess you're what? Proof that evolution isn't guaranteed?"

Ava chokes on a laugh.

The circle tightens again. The air pulses, charged.

And then—

Footsteps.

Two pairs.

Slow. Measured. Confident.

The sound echoes off the walls, each impact like a warning.

"Gentlemen," Bodhi's voice is deceptively calm as he and Xaden Riorson round the corner, all sharp lines and lethal stillness. "This little post-lunch performance piece got a name, or are we just assaulting first-years for sport now?"

Xaden walks like someone who never doubts his right to take up space. His gaze slices across the hallway, cold and deliberate. When his eyes land on Liam, something shifts in his jaw—a quiet tension, not anger, but something close.

"Step back," he says. Quiet. Inevitable.

The four cadets hesitate.

Ava steps forward instead, grin widening. "Unless you'd like to explain to Riorson why you thought jumping his foster brother was a bright idea."

One of them goes pale.

Brenner's mouth opens. Closes. "It wasn't like that."

"Funny," Bodhi says, arms folding across his chest. "Because it really looked like that."

"Go," Xaden says. His tone sharpens like drawn steel. "Before I start asking questions you don't want to answer."

They break.

No posture, no pride—just pure retreat.

But Ava stops Brenner before he can slither off. Her hand wraps around his arm, and she leans in, smile all ice and teeth.

"If you ever stand against me again," she whispers, just for him, "I'll tell everyone about the girl you got pregnant before you joined the quadrant. And how she disappeared."

His eyes go wide. Blood drains from his face.

She lets him go.

He stumbles back like her touch burned.

Silence hangs for a breath longer, heavy with shock and something unspoken.

Then Liam exhales. Slow. Measured. Like he's trying to decide if he's annoyed, relieved, or impressed. "You didn't have to do that."

Ava shrugs. "No. But watching you punch someone stupid might make my day."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Thought I wasn't worth your time."

Her smile sharpens. "Still aren't. But my bar was low today."

"She's lucky that kid didn't cry," Lilian mutters. "I don't have the emotional bandwidth to handle another breakdown before lunch."

Bodhi finally speaks again, voice low and warm and far too amused. "I leave you alone for one day and you try to start a brawl with half a squad."

Ava turns toward him slowly. Her breath catches.

He's watching her the same way he did the night she fell asleep against his side—before the assassin's blade sliced the darkness open. Before the blood. Before he'd held her through the shaking aftermath like he hadn't even thought about it.

"You have a weird definition of alone," she says, tone dry, but quieter now.

Bodhi tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You okay?"

She nods. "You?"

He nods back. Simple. Solid.

Xaden's gaze lingers on her, dark and assessing. He's cataloging something. Recalculating.

Let him.

She doesn't flinch.

No pretending. No deflecting. No apologizing.

Let him wonder.

Let them all wonder.

Chapter Text

When I get back to the barracks, it's empty.

Too quiet.

Everyone else must still be at dinner or out on training rotations, but after three nights of drills so late I couldn't see straight, I told myself I was turning in early. Just a quick break. Just an hour to lie down and pretend my spine wasn't held together by tension and caffeine.

But as soon as I step inside, I feel it.

Wrong.

The air feels too still. Like it's watching me.

Then I see it.

My bed.

And on my pillow—

An envelope.

White. Folded. Unsealed.

Plain, but not innocent.

I freeze.

My mouth goes dry. My stomach turns cold.

It shouldn't be there. I shouldn't be getting anything. First years aren't allowed personal mail—not even from blood relatives. Every letter is screened, logged, tracked. But when your father is the Commanding General of the country, rules don't apply to him.

They never have.

It's not even the envelope that scares me.

It's the way it's placed. Centered perfectly. Like a signature. Like a message.

It's just paper.

But it feels like a knife against my throat.

No return mark. No name on the outside. But I know exactly who it's from.

I can feel it in my spine before my fingers even move.

My father doesn't send casual messages. He doesn't ask how you're doing. He doesn't care if you're tired or bleeding or breaking.

If he sends a letter, it means one thing: control.

He wants something.

Or worse—he knows something.

My pulse thuds in my ears. I can't move. I just stand there, staring at it, every part of me screaming not to touch it, not to wake it up.

Because what if it's about the revolution?

What if he found something?

No. No, he couldn't have. If he knew—really knew—I wouldn't be getting a letter. I'd be dragged from my bed in the middle of the night and executed in front of the country before sunrise. No trial. No warning. Just a public reminder of what happens to traitors.

So this—this is something else.

A warning. A crack of lightning before the real strike.

But it still makes my skin crawl.

My hands are shaking before I even reach for it. I try to breathe through my nose, but it feels like there's a weight sitting on my chest. A heavy, invisible pressure. The kind I used to feel standing in front of him as a child, forced to explain why I wasn't good enough.

I pinch the letter between two fingers like it might burn me.

It's too light.

Too quiet.

I don't even open it.

I just stare at it in my hand, heart pounding, until I don't even know how long I've been standing there.

Then—

The door opens.

Voices. Boots. Laughter.

The others are back.

I jolt like I've been shocked. Panic slams through me, irrational and blinding. I can't let anyone see me like this. I can't let them ask questions, can't let them see the way I'm barely breathing.

I shove past them without making eye contact.

Someone calls my name, but I don't look back.

I'm already gone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I don't know where I'm going.

I just keep walking. Down past the barracks. Past the edge of the main training square. Through the south gate and toward the river trail that barely anyone uses after dark.

I need air.

I need space.

I'm outside before I even realize I've left the compound. The air's cold and sharp, biting at the edges of my lungs. The wind rattles the tall reeds along the riverbank, and for a second I think about letting the letter go. Letting it fall into the water. Letting it vanish.

But I don't.

I can't.

I stare down at it in my hand, fingers still clenched too tight.

It's pathetic, how scared I am of him. I hate it. Hate how just the shape of his presence turns me into that frightened, trembling child again. Hate that he still owns parts of me I thought I buried when I chose to fight back.

But I can't shake the feeling that he's already inside my head. That somehow, he knew I'd break just like this. That he counted on it.

I sit down at the edge of the river, the envelope still unopened in my lap.

I don't cry.

But I want to.

I stare at the pale slip of paper like it might blink or breathe or speak.

It doesn't.

It just waits.

And that's almost worse.

Then—

Footsteps.

Light. Steady. Familiar.

My head turns before I even register the sound.

Bodhi.

Of course.

I'm starting to think he has some kind of sixth sense for when I'm about to mentally self-destruct.

He doesn't say anything right away. Just walks over, slow and careful, like he knows something's wrong and doesn't want to scare me off.

I don't move. I don't look at him.

I just say, flatly, "I shouldn't have come out here."

"You needed to breathe," he says. Like it's the simplest truth in the world.

I don't answer.

I keep my eyes on the river, the current pulling steadily beneath the surface. Like it knows what it's doing. Like it knows where it's going.

Unlike me.

Bodhi sits beside me, not touching, not crowding. Just near.

Close enough to remind me I'm not alone.

I hold the letter in both hands now, like it might steady me.

"I don't know what it says," I whisper. "I haven't opened it."

"Then don't," he says gently. "Not yet."

"I have to. If it's about... anything, I need to know."

He doesn't ask what I mean by anything.

I don't say the word revolution, but it sits heavy in my throat anyway.

Because if my father knows... if he even suspects...

Everything I've built in the dark could collapse.

And everyone I've dragged into it—Marcus, Lilian and countless others—would go down with me.

"I'm not ready," I admit.

Bodhi's voice is quiet when he answers. "You don't have to be."

I don't know what scares me more: the letter, or the way he keeps looking at me like I'm worth protecting.

Like I'm someone good.

Someone strong.

Like I'm not still just a terrified daughter waiting to see what kind of monster her father's sent this time.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I don't know how long we sit there in silence.

The river moves. The wind shifts. The letter stays.

I hold it in my lap like it's something alive. Like it might bite. Or whisper. Or explode.

My chest's too tight to breathe right. My heartbeat won't slow. I try to make my hands stop shaking, but they don't listen. They haven't been listening since the moment I saw my name in his handwriting.

I should be stronger than this.

I've lied to commanding officers. Stolen weapons. Built a network of whispers right under the commands' nose. I'm fighting a war in secret—and I've been winning.

But one letter from him, and I'm back to being ten years old with a split lip and no voice.

I feel the weight of Bodhi watching me. Not pressing. Just there.

Grounding.

He doesn't ask what I'm thinking. He doesn't push.

He just says, softly, "You want me to read it?"

I flinch. "No—I... I don't know."

His voice doesn't change. "You don't have to decide right this second."

I stare down at the envelope.

My name's still visible through the wrinkle where I've crushed it in my palm. It looks wrong. Like it doesn't belong here, out in the open, with the water and the wind and the boy beside me who doesn't flinch when I fall apart.

"He's not supposed to be able to reach me," I murmur. "Letters to first years are blocked. Everything's filtered through command. But—"

"He is command," Bodhi finishes, voice edged now. "He doesn't go through rules. He makes them."

I nod once. Miserable.

"It's not just a letter," I say. "It's a message. A threat. He doesn't need to yell. He just wants me to feel him watching."

Bodhi doesn't answer right away.

Then, quiet and certain: "That's what abusers do."

I look away. "He's not—"

He raises an eyebrow.

I sigh. "He's worse."

Silence again.

The envelope's still in my lap. Heavy with everything I don't want to know.

If this is about Bodhi—about us—it's already dangerous.

But if it's about the revolution?

If he's found the wrong conversation, the wrong list, a name misspoken?

Everything I've built could come down in a heartbeat.

"I have to read it," I say, barely above a whisper. "If he knows anything—anything—about what I'm doing..."

"You'll know," Bodhi says. "But you don't have to carry it alone."

I look at him.

He holds out his hand.

Steady. Calm. No pressure.

Just a choice.

"I'll read it," he says again. "If you want."

I hesitate.

It feels wrong. Like betrayal. Like I'm handing over something too raw, too ugly.

But I can't open it. Not yet. Not without falling apart. And I can't fall apart. Not when everything's so close to breaking.

So I nod.

And I give it to him.

He takes it gently. Like it's not just paper, but something that matters. Something dangerous.

Because it is.

He turns it over once in his hand, then carefully breaks the fold.

My breath catches.

I don't look at it. I look at him.

His eyes move quickly at first—scanning.

Then slower.

Focused.

His jaw clenches.

That's how I know.

Whatever's in there—it isn't neutral.

It isn't harmless.

When he finally lowers the page, he exhales through his nose. Controlled. Sharp.

"What does it say?" I ask. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.

He meets my gaze.

And I already know before he opens his mouth.

"It's about me," he says.

My stomach drops.

"He doesn't say my name," Bodhi goes on, "but he knows. He refers to your 'questionable associations.' Says they're a threat to the quadrant's stability. That you're being observed."

I feel the blood drain from my face.

"He says if you 'don't correct course,' your future in the officer ranks will be... reconsidered."

I swallow. Hard.

And then he adds, low and slow, "He called me 'the son of a traitor.' Said I'm not a fitting companion for the daughter of command."

My heart twists so hard I can barely speak.

Of course.

Of course he would make it about bloodlines. About legacy. About ownership.

I curl my fingers into fists. "He thinks he still gets to decide who I am."

"He's wrong," Bodhi says.

"He thinks I belong to him."

"He's wrong, Ava."

But part of me still shakes.

Because this was never just about hurting me.

It's about isolation. About removing the people who see me for what I really am—not a soldier, not a daughter of power, but a girl with fire in her hands and rebellion in her spine.

He's warning me.

He's watching.

He's saying: I see what you're building. And I can burn it down.

Bodhi folds the letter and places it gently beside us on the stone.

I stare at it like it might jump back into my hands.

Then I whisper, "What if he's already gotten close? What if someone's cracked? What if I'm endangering everyone just by breathing near them?"

Bodhi's voice is quiet. Fierce. "You're not."

"You don't know that."

"I know you," he says.

And I believe him.

But I'm still scared.

Not just for me—for the movement. For the cadets who've risked everything on the promise of change. For the secret I've buried in every corner of this academy, trusting it could grow in the dark.

"What if I ruin this?" I whisper. "What if I ruin you?"

Bodhi leans in just enough for our shoulders to touch.

"You've had every chance to run," he says. "To keep me out."

"I still could."

"But you won't."

I blink at him, eyes stinging.

"How can you be sure?"

He looks at me—steady, unshaken. "Because you handed me the letter."

And just like that, something cracks.

Not loud.

Not breaking.

But open.

I lean into him. Just a little.

He doesn't move away.

He just stays.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

My breath catches.

As an awful thought surfaces.

My father might know I cried.

He trained that out of me. Beat it out of me. Sharpened me down until I was steel—cold, obedient, perfect. Or close enough to pass.

Any tear, any softness, any flicker of feeling he didn't authorize was met with swift correction. Cold water. Isolation. Or worse—his voice. Disappointed. Disgusted. Telling me that emotion was the mark of failure. That girls like me didn't get to feel—we got to survive.

And if he saw...

If he knows...

The shame hits first. Then the panic.

It tears through me like lightning, fast and vicious. My throat clamps shut. My hands curl in my lap. I try to breathe but I can't—there's no room. My lungs are locked. My heart is slamming against my ribs like it wants out.

I press my palm hard against my sternum, like I can hold everything in.

Bodhi must sense the shift because he goes still.

"Ava?" he asks, gently.

I shake my head. I can't speak. Can't think.

I'm slipping.

I can feel it—like falling into ice. Every thought freezes solid. Every instinct recoils. My body remembers too well what it means to be seen by him when I'm not in control.

I have to lock it down. Shut it off.

Feel nothing.

That's how I survived.

I reach for the mask he carved into me. The one with the blank eyes and the still hands and the voice that never cracks.

But it doesn't fit right anymore.

It's warped. Splintered.

Too much of me has changed.

Too much of me wants.

Wants freedom. Wants rebellion. Wants connection.

Wants Bodhi.

And that's the part he'll crush first.

My eyes sting, but I blink fast, hard, like I can force the tears back into my skull where they belong.

No.

Not now.

Not again.

I grit my teeth and stare at the ground like it's my enemy. I try to breathe slow, deep—just like he taught me. Cold air in, lock it down, shut it away.

"What's happening?" Bodhi says. He's still close, still calm, but I can feel the tension in him now.

I can't answer.

If I open my mouth, it'll all come spilling out.

So I go still.

Emotionless.

Like he taught me.

Like he wants.

"Don't," Bodhi says suddenly. Not angry. Just—quiet. Devastated. "Don't disappear like that. Not here. Not with me."

I flinch.

My voice scrapes out. "He trained me to hide."

"I know."

"He punished me when I didn't."

"I know, Ava."

"And if he saw—if he knows I cried—"

"Then let him," Bodhi says.

The words hit me like a slap.

I look at him, eyes wide.

He's staring right at me now. Not with pity. Not with fear.

With fury. With loyalty. With something brighter than either.

"Let him see that you're human," Bodhi says. "Let him choke on it."

I swallow. "You don't get it—he owns everything. The ranks, the systems, the surveillance. He sees everything."

"Then he can see this, too," Bodhi says. "That you're not his anymore."

I don't respond.

I can't.

My breath's still ragged. My hands still ache from how tightly I'm gripping my knees. But something in me stirs. The smallest flicker of fire under the ice.

"You've already broken his rules," Bodhi says, softer now. "So don't break yourself trying to put the mask back on."

I look down.

And I hate that he's right.

The mask never fit.

It was only ever a prison.

And now it's cracking.

Piece by piece.

And maybe, just maybe, I want it to.

I don't even realize I've moved until I'm on my feet—hands shaking, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. Bodhi's voice stills me, but only barely.

Then the war inside me unravels.

I'm in his arms before I know what's happening—leaning in, collapsing against him like I've been unspooling for days and he's the only thing holding me together. My cheek buries itself in the crook of his shoulder. My fingers clutch his shirt like life-lines.

I try to swallow back the sob that's already ripping out of me, but it's too late.

A single tear slips free. And then another. And then I'm crying so hard I can't even choke out the gasps. My entire body shakes—half from the cold air, half from the flood of everything I've buried.

He doesn't pull back. He doesn't say a word. He just wraps me tighter, his arms folding around me with a steadiness I've only known from him. His cheek rests against the crown of my head, and I press into him, letting his warmth anchor me.

"I'm sorry," I gasp, voice raw. "I'm so sorry..."

His hand strokes the back of my hair. "Shh," he murmurs. "It's okay."

But it doesn't feel okay. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. Not after everything I've done to survive him—after the walls I built so carefully he still found a way inside.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my face into his collar like if I can't see the world, maybe the world will stop demanding things of me. Maybe the letters, the rules, the revolution, the fear—they'll all wash away if I just let myself break.

He holds me. Doesn't shove me off. Doesn't lecture. Just holds me.

And it feels like permission.

Finally, my sobs slow into hard, shaking breaths. My fists unclench. My shoulders start to unclinch.

I lift my head enough to see his profile—jaw set, eyes soft and dark and full of something like grief.

Like he's holding this pain for me now, too.

"I..." I try again. But my voice catches. "I'm so tired."

He nods, barely. "I know."

"I—" My tears have dried on my cheeks, but my voice is still brittle. "I thought... if I could just be strong enough, I wouldn't have to feel it."

"You don't have to stop feeling," he says gently. "You just have to know you don't have to face it alone."

I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in. "Thank you," I whisper. "For staying."

He presses his lips to the top of my head. "Even if Ava I meant it. Even if you wake up tomorrow and shut down anyway I'll still be here."

And in that moment—armored in his quiet strength—I let myself believe that maybe I can survive this. Not by erasing what I feel, but by feeling it with someone who won't let go.

But then the truth settles like a stone in my chest. I'm falling for him. Bodhi. Not just as a friend, not just as a refuge. Something deeper, scarier.

And it's terrifying.

Because this could ruin everything. The revolution I'm fighting for, the secret I'm desperate to protect. How do I keep fighting when the one person I trust most could become the greatest risk of all?

I won't say it out loud. Not yet. But it's there. Quiet. Heavy. And impossible to ignore.

I think I'm in love with him.

Chapter Text

A couple weeks have passed since my father's threat, and things have been... chaotic, to say the least.

In that time, two more assassins have tried to kill me—one in my sleep, one mid-training, both failed spectacularly. I smacked Marcus twelve times, mostly because he deserves it, and Lilian has rolled her eyes at me at least a million. She's probably sprained a muscle from sheer judgmental exhaustion.

And I've only panicked about the fact that I'm falling in love with Bodhi... twice.

A minute.

Every time he walks into a room, I have to forcibly remember that this thing between us can't become a thing. Because I'm hiding a revolution from him. Because I'm going to get us both killed. Because I can't afford to fall for anyone—least of all someone who sees me better than I want to be seen.

Me and Violet haven't really spoken since the day after we spied on the Marked Ones' meeting. I was a complete bitch—because panic, guilt, and betrayal cocktail nicely into a shut-everyone-out breakdown—and she gave me space.

But I've still been watching her.

And good gods, she's been so fucking obvious about poisoning her opponents.

I don't care that she's doing it—there are no rules in war, and fewer in Basgiath—but if you're going to poison people, at least be subtle. This isn't her personal stage play. I've seen toddlers sneak food with more finesse.

After every challenge, I'm treated to Lilian's running commentary. Which would be annoying, except she is a poison master, and the critiques are brutal enough to be entertaining.

"Oh my gods," she mutters beside me now as we line up along the sparring mats. "She used walwyn fruit peels. They reek. Might as well staple a note to her chest that says 'I did it.'"

I glance at her. "Seriously?"

She nods. "Amateur hour."

That's confirmed when Professor Emetterio calls Violet's name, and her opponent doesn't step forward.

"Sorry, Violet," he says, scratching his beard. "You were supposed to challenge Rayma, but she's been taken to the healers. Apparently she can't walk in a straight line."

I can feel Marcus practically vibrating with anticipation beside me.

Violet blinks. "Oh. That's too bad. Should I just...?"

"She's going to blow this so badly," Marcus whispers, leaning into me. "She's worse than me."

"She really is," I mutter.

And that's saying something. Marcus "we were having a threesome" Jones has never met a lie he couldn't butcher.

Then—like the dramatic bastard he is—Xaden lifts his chin and says, "I'm happy to step in."

Lilian lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a cackle. "Oh, this is going to be delicious."

She's not wrong. I've watched Xaden fight these past two weeks, and it's... terrifying. He doesn't just anticipate movement—he calculates it, manipulates it. He moves like someone trained to end people, not win points. It's the kind of skill you can't teach. You either survive it or die under it.

It's exactly how my father fights.

Which makes sense, considering Xaden's probably a mind reader. I'm 99% sure after what happened on the parapet. Between that and his expressionless, kill-you-with-a-glance vibe, he might as well wear a sign that says 'I know your secrets and I've already weaponized them.'

And yet... I'm not afraid of him. I know I could beat him. Not easily—but I've spent my life fighting my father. I know how to face that kind of predator.

But Violet?

She's about to get her ass handed to her.

Professor Emetterio claps his hands. "You're all in for a treat. Xaden's one of the best fighters we have. Watch and learn."

"Oh my gods," Marcus groans. "Do they meet weekly to fluff this guy's ego? It's gotten so big his dragon's going to develop back problems."

I snort and have to bite down hard on my lip to keep from laughing. Lilian chuckles beside me, watching the mat like it's her favorite romance novel.

Dain, ever the overprotective golden retriever, decides this is the moment to chime in.

"He's out of her league," he says, arms crossed like a disapproving parent.

"No one asked you to think, squad leader," Xaden fires back, and it's almost worth the impending massacre just to watch Dain's jaw lock like that.

Imogen steps forward to take Xaden's weapons. There are so many of them. The man is a walking armory. Marcus leans over. "Do you think he bathes in knives?"

"Probably sleeps with one under his pillow," Lilian adds.

"Probably is one," I say, eyes locked on the mat.

The fight begins, and it's somehow both a brutal spar and the most sexually charged thing I've seen all year. Violet holds her own—for a minute—but Xaden plays with her. Not cruelly. Just enough to push her, to make her stronger. To make her see herself.

And the whole time, Marcus provides color commentary that would get us all expelled if anyone important was listening.

"Do you think they're going to make out or murder each other?"

"Little from column A, little from column B," Lilian murmurs.

Dain is practically vibrating with rage. "I think she's been taught enough for the day," he barks.

Gods, if he could bubble wrap her, he would.

And that's it. That's the last straw. I cannot deal with his savior complex anymore.

Especially not when I know exactly how limited his skill set really is.

"Aetos," Xaden calls across the mat.

Dain's head snaps up.

"She could use a little less protection and a little more instruction."

I smirk.

Oh, hell yes.

Before Professor Emetterio can call the next challenge, I step forward, letting my arms fall loosely to my sides. "Hey Aetos," I say sweetly, "wanna spar? You know—for old times' sake?"

He blinks.

I see the exact moment his pride kicks in. He knows he shouldn't. He knows this is a trap. But he can't help himself.

Marcus lets out a low whistle behind me. "Ohhh, this is going to be good."

Lilian leans over, grinning. "You going to crush him quickly, or drag it out?"

"I haven't decided yet," I reply.

Truthfully? I'm still angry. About everything. About Dain treating Violet like she'll break. About my father breathing down my neck. About this revolution I'm dragging behind me like a shadow I can't share.

And maybe—just maybe—about the fact that I've been in love with someone who's part of such a badly planned rebellion that I can't even tell him about my revolution.

Dain steps onto the mat, eyes narrowed.

Good.

Let him bring everything he has.

Because this isn't just for Violet.

It's for me.

And I'm going to win.

Dain steps onto the mat, rolling his shoulders like he's preparing for something noble.

Cute.

I take a few paces to the center, cracking my neck slowly, deliberately, letting the motion speak before I do. No more smiles. No more soft edges. That part of me gets people killed.

Professor Emetterio steps forward, raising a hand. "You both know the rules."

"There aren't any," I remind him flatly.

He grins. "Exactly."

Then he drops his hand.

I don't move right away. Neither does Dain.

We circle each other—him tense, calculated, textbook clean. Me? I let my arms hang loose and lazy, keeping my stance open. Inviting.

"Still smug, huh?" he mutters.

"Still predictable, huh?" I shoot back.

And then he lunges.

He's fast. I'll give him that. His form is sharp, his strikes practiced. He's using the style taught at the academy—efficient, clean, honorable.

And that's exactly why I know every move before he makes it.

I duck his first swing, pivot around his left flank, and jab him in the ribs with my elbow. Not hard. Just enough to sting. I want him irritated.

"You've gotten slow," I say conversationally.

He spins to face me, eyes narrowing. "I'm not here to hurt you."

I laugh. "Then you've already lost."

He lunges again, and this time he aims higher, sweeping toward my neck with an open-palm strike meant to throw me off balance.

I drop to one knee, sweep his leg, and pop up behind him before he can recover. My boot presses lightly to the back of his thigh.

"If I were your enemy, you'd be on the ground bleeding already."

"You're not my enemy," he grits out.

I pause.

Right. He still thinks we're on the same side.

He still thinks I'm someone who plays fair.

I back off before Emetterio can intervene. "Try again, Aetos."

He rushes me this time, angry now, and it's better. Wilder. But still too pure. Too concerned with optics. Even his anger has edges filed down by morals and father-shaped fear.

Just like mine used to.

I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist, using his own momentum to send him sprawling to the mat. He rolls back up with a grunt.

Lilian whistles from the sidelines. "Textbook fail."

Marcus adds, "She's playing with him. You can tell by the smirk."

And I am smirking. I can't help it.

Because this isn't about Dain anymore. Not really.

This is about our fathers.

His—General Aetos—is just as calculating, just as twisted as mine. A different brand of manipulation, sure, but the same outcome: children raised to perform. To be symbols. To be weapons. Dain doesn't even realize how deep his programming runs. He thinks honor is strength. He thinks goodness will protect him.

It won't.

Not here.

Not in this war.

He throws a punch, but it's off-balance. Sloppy from frustration.

I catch his arm mid-swing, spin him around, and trap him in a hold that pins his back to my chest.

"Too slow," I whisper in his ear.

His muscles tense. "Fight fair."

"There's no such thing."

I shove him forward and let him stumble back into a fighting stance. He's breathing hard now, and there's sweat forming along his temple.

Then, movement behind the crowd catches my eye.

Bodhi.

Leaning against the stone wall by the doorway, arms crossed. Watching me.

And not with judgment.

With clarity.

Like he sees every move, every motivation, every crack in me I've tried to hide.

Shit.

I falter—just for a second.

Dain seizes the moment and goes low, sweeping my legs out from under me. I hit the mat hard and roll, coming back to my feet fast, but my pulse is off-rhythm now.

Because Bodhi saw it. All of it.

The violence. The cruelty.

The fact that I enjoyed it.

I steel myself and surge forward before Dain can take the offensive again. No more playing.

I fake left, then slam the side of my fist into his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. He doubles over instinctively, and I hook my arm around his neck in a loose chokehold. Not enough to knock him out.

Just enough to scare him.

"Still want to spar?" I murmur.

He wheezes, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Everything. And nothing.

But I don't say it.

Instead, I release him with a hard shove, and he stumbles backward across the mat. His pride is bruised. His sense of justice even more so.

I step back and raise my arms in mock surrender. "You done?"

He doesn't answer.

Professor Emetterio calls the match, voice echoing. "Winner: Cadet Melgren."

There's scattered applause, but it's muffled under the weight of what just happened. A first year just beat a squad leader.

I slide a dagger out of a sheath on his arm. It's pretty, mine now.

Dain storms off the mat without looking at me.

Marcus is the first to speak. "Well, that was horrifying and hot. Ten out of ten."

Lilian claps once. "Would've ended it two minutes earlier, personally. But points for flair."

But I don't laugh.

Because I can feel Bodhi still watching me.

And I know what he must be thinking.

That the girl he thinks he sees—the one who cried in his arms not long ago—is just as ruthless, just as cold, as the men she claims to hate.

He'd be right.

Because no matter how hard I try, I'm still my father's daughter.

And if Bodhi ever finds out what I'm planning... what I've already done for the revolution he knows nothing about...

It won't matter how many times he holds me when I fall apart.

It won't matter how fast my heart stutters when he says my name.

Because I'm in love with him.

And that is the most dangerous truth of all.

BODHI DURRAN

I wasn't supposed to be here.

I'd told myself I was just cutting through the training hall to get to the mess hall early, maybe avoid the dinner rush. That's what I said out loud, at least.

But I stopped moving the second I saw Ava on the mat.

And now I can't tear my eyes away.

She moves like fire. Controlled, precise, but always on the edge of something untamed. Like she's holding back because if she didn't, Dain would already be unconscious, bleeding on the floor.

And gods, it's hot.

Not just in the I-want-to-run-my-hands-through-her-hair-while-she-presses-me-against-a-wall way — though, let's be honest, it's definitely that too — but in the fuck, I'm completely in over my head with this girl kind of way.

Because she's not just good.

She's lethal.

And watching her fight makes something deep in my chest tighten — this aching, wordless thing that started a while ago and just keeps getting louder every time she walks into a room, every time she smirks, or flips someone off, or says something snarky with that sharp gleam in her eye.

She's brilliant. Ruthless. Terrifying.

And I'm so gone for her it's pathetic.

Marcus is on the sidelines narrating like it's a spectator sport. I barely hear him. Lilian says something about how she would've ended the fight faster — because of course she does — but I'm barely paying attention.

All I can see is Ava.

Every time she dodges a blow with that lazy, almost mocking grace, I feel my jaw clench.

Every time she lands a hit and smiles — just a flicker of teeth and challenge — I swear my brain short-circuits.

And then she traps Dain in a chokehold and leans in, murmuring something I can't hear but feel — and Dain looks like he's rethinking every life choice he's ever made.

I don't blame him.

I've seen Ava fight before. I know what she's capable of. But watching her now, watching her do it publicly, unapologetically — no masks, no emotion held back — it does something to me.

Something permanent.

She's not the girl crying in my arms by the river anymore.

She's the one who survives, who burns, who chooses to keep going even when everything in her past tells her not to.

And I love her.

I know it now. I've probably known it longer than I want to admit.

I'm in love with Ava Melgren.

Even though she'd probably throw a knife at my head if I said it out loud. Even though she keeps part of herself locked behind a wall I'm not allowed to touch. Even though every time I think I understand her, she does something like this and reminds me how little of her I actually know.

I love her anyway.

Even the parts that scare me.

Especially those.

She lets Dain go with a shove that's more insult than violence. And when the match is called, she doesn't raise her arms in triumph or look smug.

She just stands there.

Still. Quiet. Coiled.

Like she's holding something inside that no one else can see.

Except maybe me.

And when her eyes flick toward the crowd and land on me — just for a second — it's like everything in me locks into place.

I want to walk over and tell her.

I want to say that I see her. All of her.

But I don't.

Because I'm not sure she wants to be seen right now.

Not by me.

Not by anyone.

So I stay leaning against the wall, arms crossed, pretending I'm just another cadet watching the match.

And try to ignore the very inconvenient fact that I'm already hers.

Whether she knows it or not.

Chapter Text

The second my boots hit the edge of the mat, the applause dies out.

Even the gossip is quiet.

People part like they're not quite sure I'm done fighting yet — and maybe I'm not. My pulse is still hammering in my throat, my hands are still loose and ready, and there's a thin sheen of sweat down my spine that feels more like armor than exhaustion.

I clock Marcus and Lilian first — Marcus with that shit-eating grin like he's just witnessed his favorite kind of chaos, Lilian smirking like she knew how it would end before it began.

But I'm not looking for them.

I'm looking for her.

Violet.

She's standing at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, chin tilted in that very specific Violet Sorrengail way — not quite judgmental, not quite impressed.

But absolutely watching me.

I meet her eyes, and I can't tell if she's sizing me up like an enemy or a threat.

Maybe both.

She doesn't speak until I'm a few feet away.

"Remind me not to piss you off," she says finally, her voice low and even.

I shrug, wiping a streak of sweat from my cheek with the back of my hand. "You've already pissed me off."

"Right," she says, and there's the faintest edge of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Guess I should be grateful I'm still breathing."

I snort. "That was restraint."

She arches an eyebrow. "That was restraint?"

"I could've knocked him out three minutes in," I murmur, keeping my tone light, even though my knuckles are still itching. "Figured I'd give the crowd a show."

Violet's smile doesn't grow, but it does linger. That same careful, amused expression she wore when she first figured out how to get under Xaden's skin. She flicks her gaze over my shoulder, toward where Dain is still sulking like someone took his moral compass and lit it on fire.

"Pretty sure you just made yourself his arch-nemesis."

I shrug again. "I'm not interested in the title."

"Doesn't matter," she says. "You took his pride and a pressure point to the ribs. That's a blood feud now."

"Then he shouldn't have stepped onto the mat," I mutter.

There's a pause. Heavy. Quiet.

And then Violet shifts her weight, arms still crossed. "You're not scared of him."

It's not a question.

"No."

Her gaze narrows slightly. "You fought him like you've fought someone worse."

I meet her stare, and for a second, something passes between us — something wordless, heavy, scarred. She knows. Not the details. But she knows.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I have."

She doesn't push. Doesn't need to.

We're more alike than either of us wants to admit.

Another moment passes, and then she nods toward where Bodhi's still leaning against the far wall. Watching. Unmoving.

"You should talk to him."

My throat tightens.

"I'm fine," I lie.

She doesn't roll her eyes. Doesn't mock me.

She just says, "Doesn't mean you have to be alone."

And then she walks off.

No dramatic exit. No parting quip. Just quiet, clean honesty and a retreating figure I suddenly feel guilty for avoiding these last two weeks.

I exhale, long and sharp.

Because now I've got two things clawing under my skin:

The fact that I beat Dain Aetos in front of half the quadrant.

And the fact that Bodhi Durran hasn't looked away once since the match started.

Both of those truths should make me feel powerful.

But all I feel is exposed.

Like someone's finally peeled the armor back just enough to see what's underneath.

And I don't know how much longer I can survive being seen.

LILIAN HEART

The storage room smells like old leather and burnt sage—probably from one of Marcus's ill-advised "cleansing" attempts—and I'm sitting cross-legged on a crate, watching Ava pace like a caged animal.

She's been ranting for the last twenty minutes, and honestly? I'm not sure if it's about Dain or everything that's not Dain, all tangled up in one exhausting ball of fury.

"Gods, he's so insufferable," Ava says again, tossing her jacket over a stack of crates. "All golden-boy honor and perfect squad leader bullshit. Like, who raised him? Some knight from an old legend?"

Marcus snorts from the corner, polishing a dagger. "Sounds about right."

I shift my weight, suddenly tired of the endless cycle. Because here's the thing—

Ava doesn't get it.

Not really.

Not why Dain gets under her skin as much as he does.

She's smart—too smart to miss the surface-level annoyances. But she hasn't cracked the deeper code.

So I stop her mid-rant.

"Do you even know why he annoys you so much?" I ask, voice low.

She stops pacing, blinking at me like I just insulted her fighting skills.

"Because he's a pompous ass with a stick shoved somewhere unpleasant," she says, folding her arms.

I sigh. "No. That's the effect."

"The cause is what matters."

Ava's eyes narrow, curiosity flickering.

I lean forward, voice dropping into something heavier.

"Dain is exactly what we all would've become if we hadn't broken into your father's office."

The words hang in the stale air like a punch.

She blinks. "What the fuck does that mean?"

I want to scream it at her. Want to throw every ugly truth on the table and make her see.

"So many of us—me, Marcus, even you—grew up knowing we'd never really own our own stories. Just pawns in some sick game, carrying our families' legacies on our backs."

I shake my head, voice breaking just a little. "But you? You broke in. You stole their secrets and tore down the curtain. You chose to fight, to tear apart everything they built so we could build something new."

"And Dain?" I say, voice sharp. "He's still trapped in the same cage you escaped. Same code of honor, same need to protect a system that doesn't protect him."

I watch her face carefully now.

There's something else under the rage—a flicker of fear.

"...You're scared of him," I say softly.

Her jaw tightens.

"Not because he's strong. Not because he's your enemy."

"But because you know how close you came to being him."

Her eyes flash, and I see the truth she'd rather keep buried.

"That tiny, awful part of you that still wants your father's approval," I say, voice gentle but firm. "That part that almost convinced you to play by his rules."

She looks away, ashamed.

"And that's what makes Dain so dangerous," I continue. "Because he's not just fighting you—he's fighting the part of you that still doubts, that still feels trapped."

"And that," I say, voice dropping to a whisper, "is why he's so maddening. Because he's a warning."

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face.

"Guess I never thought about it like that."

I nod, softer now. "Most people don't. But if we want this revolution to survive, we have to understand the enemy inside the walls as much as the one outside."

Marcus grins, breaking the tension. "Wow. Who knew Lilian could be so deep?"

I smirk, standing up. "Don't get used to it."

Ava shakes her head, half-smiling despite herself. "Thanks. I think."

And for the first time since the fight, I see a spark in her—less anger, more purpose.

Maybe we're not completely screwed yet.

AVA MELGREN

I press my back harder against the cold, rough wall, trying to steady the sudden rush of panic that Lilian's words have dragged up from somewhere deep inside me. Exactly what we all would've become if we hadn't broken into my father's office... She doesn't just say it; she throws it out like a challenge, like a warning. And somehow, it lands right where I'm most vulnerable.

Because she's right. The part of me that's scared of Dain isn't just about him—it's about me. How close I came to being him. How easily I could have been the soldier who followed orders blindly, who swallowed everything my father demanded and let it harden me into something unrecognizable.

I close my eyes for a second and swallow the bitter taste of shame. There's this tiny, ugly part of me that still craves his approval—still wants to hear that I'm good enough, that I'm worthy. I hate it. I'm ashamed of it. But it's there, like a shadow I can't quite shake.

And beyond that, there's always been this heavy guilt — the weight of pulling Marcus and Lilian into all of this. Into my fight. Into my father's enemies. I've carried it like a chain, thinking I was dragging them into danger, into chaos they didn't sign up for.

When I open my eyes again, Lilian and Marcus are looking at me—not with judgment, but something softer. More understanding.

"You know," Marcus starts, his voice low and honest, "if you hadn't pulled us into that mess—breaking into your father's office, stirring up the revolution—we'd probably be just like Dain."

I blink, taken aback by the weight in his words. Like they're not just talking about me, but about themselves too.

Lilian folds her arms, her gaze steady. "Yeah. We all had our reasons for following the easy path. But you... you dared to rip the mask off. You made us see what was possible."

Marcus lets out a humorless laugh. "I was a mess before you showed up. If I'd stayed under the same roof, playing it safe, I'd be just another cog in the machine. Just like Dain."

Lilian shoots Marcus a smirk, but her voice is softer now. "Speak for yourself. But yeah, Ava, you pulled us all out of that shadow."

Their words feel like a lifeline, and despite the guilt twisting in my chest, I realize I'm not alone in this. Not really.

And when I hear the gratitude in their voices, it's a relief so sharp it almost knocks the breath out of me. For so long, I've been bracing for blame or resentment. But instead, they're thankful. Thankful that I dragged them into this mess. That I made them fight for something real.

Marcus shrugs, looking more vulnerable than usual. "You gave us the chance to fight for something real. Not just rules or loyalty or daddy's approval. You gave us a revolution."

"And more than that," Lilian adds quietly, "you gave us each other."

I swallow hard, the walls I've built around myself trembling in the warmth of their trust. Maybe I don't have to be afraid of Dain—or my father's legacy. Maybe I don't have to carry this weight alone.

Their words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath out of me. All the guilt—the heavy, suffocating weight I've been carrying about pulling Marcus and Lilian into this chaos—rises up, raw and unfiltered. It claws at my throat, choking me.

I've spent so long locking every scrap of feeling away, stuffing down the parts that might make me weak. My father drilled it into me: Don't feel. Don't hesitate. Don't break. So I built walls, high and thick, to keep myself safe and sharp.

But right now, those walls are crumbling, cracking under the weight of their words.

My hands tremble at my sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. My heart hammers against my ribs, ragged and uneven, like it's trying to escape.

I bite my lip so hard it tastes like blood, but I can't stop the tears—hot and sudden—burning at the corners of my eyes. I want to blink them away, to hide them, to erase this moment of weakness. But I don't. I can't.

Because for once, I want to be honest. To let the truth slip out, messy and unguarded.

"Gods... I'm sorry," my voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "I never wanted this for you. For either of you. I thought I was protecting you by dragging you in—but maybe all I did was drag you into my mess." The words taste bitter, and I can feel the sting of shame flare hotter than the tears.

My breath catches, and my chest feels tight—like I'm drowning in everything I've tried to hold back.

Lilian's eyes lock onto mine—steady, fierce, unflinching. There's no judgment there. Only something like understanding. "Ava, you didn't drag us. We chose this. We chose you."

Marcus's quiet nod is solid, grounding. "We're in this—no matter what. You're not alone."

The sincerity in their voices—so simple, so honest—cuts through years of fear and isolation. It's like they're pulling me out of a dark pit I thought I'd never escape.

I take a shaky breath, and for a moment, I just let myself feel it all—the fear, the shame, the exhaustion, the relief.

I let the tears fall, unashamed, warm against my skin.

Because maybe, just maybe, I don't have to carry this weight alone anymore.

I don't even notice when Marcus slides off his crate and kneels beside me. His arm wraps around my shoulders with surprising gentleness, and I lean into the warmth before I can stop myself. His hand presses against my back, firm and steady, like he's anchoring me to something solid.

Lilian pushes forward, too, dropping beside us and looping her arm around my other side. Her cheek rests against mine, her breath soft and reassuring. I'm sandwiched between them—two people I trust more than my own shadow—and for the first time in weeks, I feel the tight coil inside me loosen.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against Marcus's shoulder and letting Lilian's hand squeeze my arm in rhythm with my ragged breathing. Their bodies are a confession: I'm not alone. And as their steady presence seeps into me, the shame and fear ease just enough that I can breathe again—real breaths, not the shallow ones I've been choking on.

When I finally look up, their faces are calm and open, no trace of pity. Just friendship. I swallow the lump in my throat. "Thank you," I whisper, voice small but honest.

Marcus gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Always."

Lilian brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. "We've got you."

Chapter Text

AVA MELGREN

I've been avoiding Bodhi all day.

Which is ridiculous. Hypocritical. Cowardly.

And entirely on-brand for someone spiraling into a full-blown emotional disaster and pretending she's "just tired."

I saw the way he looked at me yesterday—after the match.

Not afraid, exactly. Not disgusted. But something quieter.

Something worse.

He saw me.

Not the version of me I let him see—who reads poetry in shadows and pretends she's never slit a throat without blinking.

The real me. The one who smiles when someone hits the ground and doesn't get back up.

The one who knows how to kill without hesitation.

He saw that. And I swear—I swear—I felt something shift.

Not in him.

In me.

Like I'd finally pushed it too far. Let too much out. Let him see what everyone else has already figured out:

That I'm not like him.

That I'm not like any of them.

That I'm not a hero. Or a rebel. Or a victim. Or a savior.

I'm just...my father's daughter.

And if Bodhi saw that—if he believed it—then whatever this thing is between us?

It's over.

So, yes. I've been avoiding him.

I skipped breakfast. Trained early. Took the long way to class. Nearly walked straight into a sparring ring just to dodge him.

Marcus saw me do it and just started slow clapping.

"Wow," he said, deadpan. "That was subtle."

I flipped him off and kept walking.

Because the truth is—I can't face Bodhi right now.

Not when all I can think about is how much I wanted Dain to hurt.

Not when I remember the feel of power blooming in my chest, sharp and triumphant, as I wrapped my arm around his throat.

Not when I know—deep down—that I didn't have to humiliate him like that.

But I wanted to.

I keep hearing Dain's voice, wheezing, asking me what the fuck is wrong with me.

And for once, I didn't have an answer.

Because the more I think about it, the more I worry that maybe the only thing separating me from my father... is that I haven't been given the same kind of power.

Yet.

And Bodhi—sweet, terrifyingly good Bodhi—he sees everything.

So if he looked at me yesterday and saw a monster?

He's probably right.

Which is why, when I round the corner into the mess hall and see him leaning against a table—waiting—I freeze.

He spots me immediately.

Of course he does.

And the worst part?

He smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. Not something flirty and dangerous like he sometimes gives me when we're pressed too close in a hallway.

Just... a smile. Soft. Patient. Real.

Like he hasn't spent the past twenty-four hours realizing I'm a moral black hole in stylish boots.

I blink. My pulse stutters.

And then I turn on my heel and walk right back out the door.

Because if I let him look at me like that for too long, I might do something stupid.

Like believe I'm worth loving.

BODHI DURRAN

It's late.

The kind of late where the halls echo, and the torches burn low, and you start to wonder if the silence is watching you back.

I find her in the old lecture atrium, sitting on the windowsill with her knees pulled up, one boot bouncing idly like she's pretending not to be thinking too hard. The moonlight washes her in silver, and for a second, I forget how to be subtle.

But I keep walking anyway.

No armor. No anger. Just... quiet.

She doesn't look at me when I stop a few feet away. Doesn't say a word. Just keeps staring out the window like I might go away if she waits long enough.

I don't.

"Ava," I say softly.

Nothing.

So I try again. Gentler this time. "You've been dodging me."

Still nothing for a beat. Then she mutters, without looking, "I've been busy. And we can't have my father catching us again."

I huff a breath that's half a laugh. "Right. Avoiding eye contact counts as time-consuming now.And I thought we agreed, fuck your father. Who's going to tell him? The walls?"

She shifts, dragging her thumbnail across the edge of her boot like it's suddenly fascinating. "What do you want, Bodhi?"

There it is.

Flat. Defensive. Distant.

But not cold.

Never cold with me. Just... scared.

And gods, I know that fear. I've worn it too.

"I want you to stop assuming you know what I think," I say quietly.

That makes her glance over, just once. Sharp. Like she's checking for a lie.

"I do know," she says. "You saw me yesterday. You saw what I did."

"I did," I admit. "You were ruthless. Efficient. Focused."

Her jaw tightens. "So, a monster."

"No," I say firmly, taking a step closer. "I've seen monsters. You are not one."

She scoffs under her breath. "You don't get it."

"I do get it," I say, maybe too quickly. "You think you scared me. That I looked at you and saw your father."

Her silence is all the confirmation I need.

I lower my voice, stepping in until I'm close enough to touch her, but don't.

I don't get to do that. Not yet.

"I didn't see your father," I murmur. "I saw you."

She flinches. Just slightly. Like the word hurts more than any blade.

"You saw what I'm capable of," she says. "And that's the part of me that's real, Bodhi. The rest of it—whatever you think I am when I'm with you—it's not real. It's just something I learned to fake."

I nod slowly, like I'm agreeing. But I'm not.

Because I know better.

"You think the way you looked when you were crying by the river wasn't real?" I ask. "Or the way your hands shake after a fight, when you think no one's watching?"

Her eyes snap to mine, surprised. Exposed.

"Don't do that," she says, voice too tight. "Don't make this something it's not."

"I'm not," I say softly. "I'm telling you the truth."

I wait.

Let the silence settle. Let the space between us stretch and pull, tension thick enough to cut.

"I didn't come here to ask for anything," I add. "Not explanations. Not apologies. I just... wanted you to know I'm still here. That I'm not going anywhere. No matter how scary you think you are."

She swallows hard.

And when she finally speaks, it's barely a whisper.

"You should go."

I nod. Once. Because I knew she'd say that.

I turn to leave.

But then—just as I reach the door—her voice stops me.

"I don't want you to."

I freeze.

Turn back.

She's still on the windowsill, arms tight around her legs, head tilted toward the glass. But her voice is quieter now. Like she's afraid if she says it louder, it'll mean too much.

"I don't want you to go," she repeats.

My heart stutters.

But I don't move toward her. Not yet.

I just say, "Then tell me to stay."

She doesn't. Not out loud.

But when I sit down on the floor beneath the windowsill—close enough that our shadows overlap—she lets out a breath I don't think she realized she was holding.

And for now, that's enough.

AVA MELGREN

We don't speak for a while.

The room hums with silence—not awkward, not quite comfortable. Just full. Like something waiting to break.

I don't know why I said it.

I don't want you to go.

It slipped out before I could strangle it. Before I could remind myself that softness leads to weakness, and weakness gets people killed.

But Bodhi just nodded and sat on the floor beneath the window like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like being near me wasn't a risk.

Like I hadn't just reminded him that I'm very good at hurting people who don't deserve it.

The window glass is cool against my cheek, but my body's starting to ache with the stillness. Muscles I didn't know I strained during the fight are starting to complain. My spine throbs. My eyes burn.

Bodhi doesn't look up at me. Just sits cross-legged, arms resting loosely over his knees, like he could stay like that for hours if I needed him to.

I don't mean to move.

I don't.

But I slip from the window sill and sit beside him. Vowing that I won't move closer.

But the longer we sit there, the heavier everything gets. My thoughts, my guilt, the weight of pretending I didn't feel his eyes on me yesterday. The weight of not asking what he was thinking.

My body shifts on instinct, traitor that it is. Slow. Careful. Like I can sneak past the vulnerability of it.

And then I let myself lean sideways.

Just enough for my shoulder to press against his.

Not looking. Not saying anything. Just... contact.

He doesn't react at first. Doesn't stiffen or flinch or breathe too hard.

He just lets me rest there.

Like he's been waiting.

The warmth of him seeps through my jacket and into my bones. Familiar. Calming. Fucking dangerous.

Because I've only done this a couple of times. Let myself lean on him.

And now.

Now, when I know I shouldn't.

I close my eyes for half a second—just to breathe. Just to be still.

And that's a mistake.

Because sleep tries to drag me under like a current, heavy and sudden.

My body slumps harder into his.

It would be so easy.

To let go.

To trust that he won't move.

But the second I feel myself slipping, I catch myself.

I sit up fast. Eyes open. Walls back up. Breath shallow.

Stupid. Stupid.

But before I can pull away completely, Bodhi shifts behind me.

And then—gently, deliberately—he presses a hand to my back and pulls me against his chest.

Not tightly. Just enough to anchor me there.

My breath catches.

His voice is low, barely a murmur near my ear.

"You look exhausted."

I don't answer. I don't have the energy to lie.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of my head. "I'll wake you up in thirty minutes. You don't have to sleep. Just... rest."

My fists stay clenched in my lap, like letting go might mean more than I'm ready for.

But my body has other ideas.

Bit by bit, I let myself sink back against him.

The weight of his arms around me is steady. The rhythm of his breathing, even.

My eyes close.

Just for a second.

Just to rest.

And when his thumb brushes a slow, absent circle against my arm—like he doesn't even realize he's doing it—I don't stop him.

I should.

But I don't.

Because I want this.

Even if I'll pretend tomorrow that I didn't.

Even if the war I'm building in the dark will make this impossible.

Even if I'm going to break his heart.

Right now, he's holding me like I'm not broken.

And that's the kind of lie I wish I believed.

BODHI DURRAN

The second she leans back, I know exactly what's happening.

Not consciously—she doesn't move like she's asking for anything. She doesn't say a word. Just shifts slightly, enough that the space between us disappears.

And then?

Then her shoulder brushes mine.

Carefully. Casually. Calculatedly not too much.

But I know her tells now. The precise way she doesn't quite look at me when she needs something. The way her body speaks when her mouth won't.

And right now, it's saying: Don't ask. Just let me.

So I do.

I stay still. Quiet. Anchor-weighted.

Like I did the first time.

The first time she let herself fall against me, back when everything between us was still unspoken—when she pressed her shoulder to mine and closed her eyes for just a moment too long. When she caught herself before the softness could cost her anything.

Back when she still thought being held meant being weak.

She still thinks that.

But her breathing shifts.

I feel it before I hear it—before I see the slow drop of her shoulders, the gradual slouch in her spine, the way her fists in her lap lose their grip.

She's tired.

Not the kind that sleep fixes.

The kind that runs marrow-deep.

And for the second time in too short a time, she starts to fall asleep against me.

It's not deliberate. I know that.

She doesn't mean to rest here.

Just like before.

But her weight tips anyway, just slightly. Enough to press her back more fully to my chest. Enough for her head to dip, like her body can't keep holding up everything it's carrying.

And this time... I don't wait.

I shift behind her—carefully, slowly—so my chest catches more of her weight. I press my palm to her back, right between her shoulder blades, not to hold her down—

But to hold her here.

Still.

Safe.

"You look exhausted," I murmur.

She doesn't respond.

Of course she doesn't.

She's barely here now, caught between tension and surrender, body suspended in that fragile space she only allows around me. I've seen it before. The way she teeters at the edge of trust and yanks herself back just before the fall.

But tonight?

Tonight, she doesn't pull away.

She goes still. Breath hitching—once—and then leveling out.

And I can't help it.

I wrap one arm gently around her waist, the other bracing us both where we sit. I rest my chin against the top of her head, close my eyes, and let her weight sink into mine.

"I'll wake you in thirty minutes," I whisper.

Not because she needs to hear it.

Because I need to say it.

Because I want her to know—she's allowed to rest.

Even if she'll pretend tomorrow like none of this happened.

Even if I'll let her.

Her body slumps the final inch it was fighting. Her breath goes slow and deep. Her fingers twitch once on her thigh, then go still.

She's asleep.

Again.

On me.

And gods—

It undoes me.

Because she never lets herself do this.

Not even in sleep.

The last time she did, it felt like a miracle I wasn't allowed to touch. Something fragile I had to protect without holding too tightly.

But this?

This is different.

Because it's not the first time anymore.

It's the second.

And the second time means she remembers.

She knows what it means to fall asleep on me.

And she still let herself do it.

That knowledge sits heavy in my chest. Too big. Too dangerous.

Because we both know what this is. Even if we never say it.

She trusts me in a way she doesn't trust anyone else.

She needs me in ways she won't admit.

And I'm the only one she's let herself rest with.

Twice now.

That's not nothing.

That's everything.

I tilt my head, just enough to see the edge of her face—eyes closed,mouth slack in the way she never lets it be when she's awake. She looks—

Not beautiful.

Not even peaceful.

She looks free.

Like she's not holding anything. Not the weight of her father's shadow. Not the guilt. Not the fear.

Just her.

Gods, I wish I could keep this version of her safe. Wrap her up in it. Guard this stillness from the world that keeps demanding she burn to keep it warm.

But I know it won't last.

She'll wake up soon. Pretend it didn't happen. Rebuild her walls and sharpen her edges and walk back into the world like she never leaned on me at all.

And I'll let her.

Because that's the deal.

She rests. I don't mention it.

She lets herself feel. I don't call it what it is.

Even though I know what it is.

Even though I'm in love with her.

I shift just enough to keep her upright, pull her a little closer so she doesn't tip too far sideways. One hand rests lightly over her ribs—counting her breaths.

I want to press a kiss to her temple.

Gods, I want.

But I don't.

Instead, I just sit there. Breathing with her. Holding her.

Pretending I'm not completely, hopelessly hers.

Even if she never says it out loud.

Even if she never lets herself believe it.

I will.

Because she's asleep on me again.

And that means something.

Even if I'm the only one brave enough to name it.

Chapter Text

LILIAN HEART

The atrium's quiet, half-swallowed by dusk, the kind of silence that hums with secrets. I'm not trying to be loud—never am—but my boots still echo more than I'd like on the stone floor.

I've been looking for Ava for half an hour.

I woke up and she wasn't in her bed.

Again.

I swear that girl never fucking sleeps.

So here I am. Checking dark corners, because that's where she goes when she thinks too much. When she needs to break and doesn't know how to ask.

But what I don't expect—what hits me like a punch straight to the ribs—is the sight of her curled up like a sleeping blade against Bodhi Durran's chest.

They're on the floor. Not even trying to make it look casual. She's asleep. Head tilted slightly toward his collarbone, legs tucked to one side, one arm slumped limp across her lap. And Bodhi—

Gods.

He's not even pretending not to be wrecked about it.

One of his arms is around her, careful and still, like he's holding something sacred and fragile. His chin is tipped down, eyes half-lidded, and there's this look on his face—some devastating mix of protectiveness, awe, and something so soft it doesn't have a name. Not really.

I stop in the doorway like I've hit a wall. Every instinct in me screams not to move. Not to ruin this.

She's asleep. Ava. Who checks every door twice and never lets herself blink too long in public. Ava, who twitches in her sleep like she's still fighting something no one else can see. Ava, who barely trusted me for the first six months we knew each other, and I only got through because I knew how to shut up and bleed next to her.

And now here she is.

Asleep on Bodhi.

Not just near him. On him. Letting him hold her.

And the most terrifying part?

She's not tense.

Not even a little.

That girl is resting.

Which means this isn't a one-time thing.

This is trust.

Real, reckless trust.

I don't realize I've stepped forward until Bodhi's eyes flick up and land on me.

No alarm. No defensiveness. Just calm.

He lifts one finger to his lips. A quiet, urgent shhh, like I'm the only danger here. Like he's been here for a while, and it took all his goddamn patience to get her to this place—and now he won't let anything shatter it.

I freeze.

Because I know that look.

I've worn that look. When someone you care about finally—finally—lets go. And all you can do is protect the stillness.

I nod, barely.

Bodhi exhales, just a little. Shoulders relaxing again.

Ava shifts slightly in his arms. Her brow furrows for half a second, then smooths. She murmurs something too low to catch. Her hand brushes against his leg and goes still again.

Bodhi doesn't move.

Doesn't react.

Like if he breathes wrong, he might wake her.

And gods help me—

I get it.

I get all of it.

Because I've known Ava for a long time now. I've seen her half-dead and laughing, bloodied and brilliant, so sharp she cuts herself first just to keep others away. I've seen her kill without hesitation. Seen her stare down leaders and ghosts and monsters and dare them to look back.

But I've never—never—seen her rest.

Not like this.

Not with anyone.

So I step back, as quiet as I came.

Because whatever this is?

It's not my moment to break.

BODHI DURRAN

I don't hear her approach at first.

Lilian's always been good at silence—like Ava, but colder. Cleaner. She moves like a knife that doesn't want to be drawn, and tonight, that blade hesitation buys me exactly two extra seconds before I feel her presence at the edge of the room.

She stops in the doorway. Dead still.

I glance up—only my eyes—and meet hers.

And she sees.

Gods, does she see.

The weight of Ava's head against my chest, the shape of her curled beside me like she belongs there, like she trusts me enough to fall apart in the space between my arms.

Lilian doesn't speak. She doesn't have to.

Her expression shifts—sharpened shock smoothed over by something quieter, warier. Protective, maybe. Not of me. Never of me. But of Ava. And of the rare, impossible peace Ava's found in this moment.

It's not jealousy. It's not judgment.

It's reverence. Like she's walked in on something sacred and knows she shouldn't be there.

I lift one finger to my lips.

Please. Don't break this.

Lilian doesn't blink. Just nods once—tight, precise.

She gets it.

Because how could she not?

Ava's sleeping.

Not twitching. Not fake-napping like she sometimes does when she wants people to shut up and go away. Not bracing, not bristling, not calculating every noise like it's a threat.

She's asleep.

Against me.

And gods, she let herself do it.

There's a world where I don't move. Where I keep still and quiet and pretend this doesn't wreck me every time.

But then she shifts—just barely. Her brow creases for a second. Her fingers curl where they were limp a moment ago.

And then, softer than breath:

"...don't leave..."

It's barely a whisper. Barely sound. But I hear it.

Because I've been listening for her even in silence.

My chest tightens. My hand tightens, too—just slightly—against her side. Not to wake her. Just to answer.

"I won't," I whisper. Not loud enough for Lilian. Just enough for the moment. For Ava, even if she's too deep in sleep to hear it.

But maybe some part of her does.

Because her breath shudders once—then evens again.

And this time, when she settles, she leans closer. Not just resting against me.

Into me.

Like she believes me.

Like I meant it.

I glance up again. Lilian's still standing there. Still watching.

I expect her to smirk. To say something sharp and smug and a little bit cruel, like she does when she's cornered by emotions too real to name.

But she doesn't.

She just gives me a look. Quiet. Measured. The kind you reserve for things you thought were impossible until they weren't.

Then she steps back. One silent retreat.

Gone.

And the room breathes again.

I don't move.

I just let Ava sleep.

Because she asked me not to leave—even if it was only in a dream.

And if she ever asks again—awake or not?

My answer will be the same.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It starts slow.

A shift in her breathing.

A small tremor in her hand where it rests against my leg.

At first, I think she's waking—just stirring a little, caught in that half-place between sleep and not.

But then she twitches. Not a soft, sleepy adjustment. A jolt. Like something just grabbed her in the dark.

And that's when I know.

This isn't sleep anymore.

This is a nightmare.

I brace immediately, instinct humming low beneath my ribs, arms loose but ready—ready to catch, to steady, to wake her if I have to. I've never seen her like this. Not while she's asleep. Not when she's unguarded.

She lets out a sound. Quiet. Raw. Almost a word.

"...please..."

I lean in, my mouth by her temple, not touching her yet.

"Ava," I whisper. "It's okay. You're safe."

She doesn't hear me. Not really. Her jaw clenches. Her shoulders pull tight, drawing in like she's bracing for a hit.

Then:

"...don't go..."

The words are broken. Not meant for me. Or maybe they are.

"...don't—please—if you leave, you'll die—"

My breath stutters.

She's not here.

She's somewhere else. Somewhere bleeding.

Somewhere alone.

And gods, she sounds terrified.

I move then. Slowly. Carefully.

I shift one hand to her back, right between her shoulder blades, the other cradling her arm so gently she could shrug it off in a heartbeat if she woke disoriented.

"You're not alone," I murmur. "I'm here. You're safe."

She doesn't respond, not consciously, but her body jerks again—like she's trying to run and can't move fast enough.

"...can't lose you..."

Her voice cracks on it. Sharp. Desperate.

It feels like I've been stabbed.

Because I don't know who she's seeing. Who she's begging. But I know the sound of someone who's already lost too much and is watching it happen all over again.

I tighten my arms, just a little. A tether. A promise.

"I'm not leaving, Ava," I say, low and steady. "I'm right here. You're safe."

She lets out a breath then—half a sob, half an exhale—and slumps hard against my chest. Her body goes slack like it's finally given up the fight. But I can feel the tremble still in her legs. The tension coiled in her spine.

The nightmare hasn't let her go.

So I stay.

I don't wake her—not yet. I just hold her.

Firm and quiet and real.

"You don't have to fight," I whisper. "Not right now. I've got you."

Her fingers curl against my shirt. Barely there.

But it's enough.

And I don't move.

Not for anything.

Because whoever she's afraid will leave...

Whoever she thinks will die if they go...

She needs them to stay.

So I do.

AVA MELGREN

The world comes back wrong.

Too dark. Too quiet. Too close.

My pulse is already racing before I open my eyes—some deep-rooted alarm firing off in my bones, screaming dangerbefore consciousness catches up. The scent hits me next. Smoke. Leather. Steel.

And warmth.

Then—

Breath.

Right by my ear.

Too close.

I move.

Knife drawn, blade pressed flush against a throat before my vision even sharpens. My body surges forward on instinct, weight shifting fast, every nerve lit up like I've just been dropped into a battlefield.

And then—

Then I see him.

Bodhi.

Wide-eyed. Absolutely still.

Hands up, palms open.

Not flinching.

Not fighting.

Just there.

Not a threat. Just him.

My own breath goes sharp.

And for a second—I can't breathe at all.

What the fuck.

The knife shakes in my hand. Just once.

It takes me a beat—two—to realize what I've done. What I almost did.

I'm straddling his lap, blade pressed under his jaw, knees braced on either side of his thighs, and he hasn't moved.

Not even to stop me.

I blink again. His face is too close. The room is too still. And my hand—

Gods, my hand.

I tear the knife back like it burned me, the hilt slipping as my fingers unclench too fast. I scramble off him, breath ragged, heart hammering so loud I can't hear anything else for a second.

"I—" My voice cracks. I try again. "I didn't know—I thought—"

I can't even finish it.

Because what excuse is there?

What apology covers this?

I brought a knife to the throat of the only person who's ever made me feel like I don't have to sleep with one eye open.

And he's just... sitting there.

Looking at me like he's not even mad. Like he expected it.

That only makes it worse.

I stagger back, spine slamming into the edge of the window frame. My hands shake like I just came out of a fight. Or a dream.

The dream.

Shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to push the images away. But I can still hear it. My own voice, low and broken, begging him—not Bodhi—to stay. 'Don't go. You'll die.'

Gods, no.

"Say something," I whisper, breath hitching, eyes still closed. "Tell me I didn't just—"

"You were dreaming," he says softly.

That soft is what undoes me.

My eyes snap open. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Be gentle with me."

It comes out harsher than I meant it to, but I don't take it back. I can't. My chest's too tight, like there's barbed wire coiled around my ribs, pulling tighter every time I try to breathe.

"You should be furious," I spit, shaking my head, voice rising even as it cracks. "I had a knife to your throat. You should yell. Hit me. Something. Gods, anything."

He doesn't flinch. Not even at that.

I take a stumbling step toward him, arms shaking now with something I can't swallow down. "You don't get it. I didn't hesitate. I didn't think. I woke up and saw a threat and I almost hurt you. That's not okay. That's not something you just... shrug off."

His eyes stay locked on mine, steady and maddening and kind in a way I don't know how to process. I feel it rising, the panic, the guilt, the shame that's lived in my bones longer than I've known his name.

"I could've killed you," I whisper.

"But you didn't."

"I could have."

Silence.

I rake a hand through my hair, tug at the roots like that might ground me. "You don't understand. I've had people scream at me for less. I've been hit for less. I expect it. I deserve it."

That last word comes out like a curse.

Like a truth I've never said aloud.

And still—still—he doesn't move.

He just watches me with those impossible eyes, like I haven't already shattered everything.

"You think I'm going to punish you?" he says, voice quiet but clear.

I don't answer.

Because yes.

Yes, that's exactly what I think.

He takes a step forward.

I don't move.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Ava," he says, gentle and immovable. "Not for dreaming. Not for reacting. And sure as hell not for surviving the only way you've ever known how."

I shake my head, furious tears starting to blur the edges of my vision. "But I almost—"

"And I trusted you anyway," he cuts in, voice firm now. "And I'm still here."

He moves like he's ready to reach for me. But stops short, gives me the choice.

Just like always.

"People used you up, Ava. Broke you down and made you think pain was the price for being human." He says it low, like a secret. "But not with me. Not ever."

I try to swallow, but my throat's raw.

"You should hate me," I whisper.

He exhales, a soft breath through his nose. "I think you'd rather be hated than forgiven."

That hits so hard I flinch.

And for the first time in too long, I don't have a blade. No armor. No teeth.

Just silence.

Just him.

Still here.

And gods help me, I want to believe him.

I can't do this.

The words slam through me like a door kicked open in a storm. Too loud. Too real.

I press my knuckles hard into my sternum, like I can shove the panic back into place. Like I can pretend my hands aren't still shaking and my skin isn't too tight.

"I can't—" I choke on it, turn toward the hallway before I finish the thought. "I just... I can't do this right now."

I don't even know what this is.

Him, maybe.

Or the fact that he didn't yell. Didn't flinch. Didn't run.

I need distance.

Space.

Walls and doors and something I can punch if it gets too much.

I make it two steps toward the exit before his voice reaches me again.

"Let me walk you back."

I stop. Just barely.

The offer isn't pushy. No pressure in it. Just there, hovering in the dark like something solid I could hold if I wanted to.

I don't turn around. My jaw locks. My pulse won't calm down. "I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

"I've been worse."

"That's not the same as fine."

His voice is still gentle—but this time there's a quiet grit under it. A thread of insistence. Not a demand. Just... care. The kind that refuses to leave you alone in the dark if it can help it.

I swallow. Hard.

My fists clench.

Because the truth is—I don't want to walk back alone. I never do. But I've made it my default, because it's safer. Cleaner. Easier to breathe when no one's close enough to see how much it costs me to hold it all together.

I don't say yes.

I just glance over my shoulder.

And he's already there, a few steps behind, giving me space.

Not moving until I do.

Gods, how does he always know?

I nod once.

Then start walking.

I don't say thank you. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

But I let him fall into step beside me.

And for now, that's enough.

Chapter Text

I've felt off since sunrise.

Like I'm half a step out of sync with my own skin, everything too loud, too sharp, too real. Like the world won't let me forget what I did.

Every time I blink, I see the blade at his throat.

Every time I breathe, I remember how calm he looked.

Like he wasn't afraid of me.

Like he knew I'd stop in time.

Like that makes it better.

It doesn't.

I nearly killed him.

My muscles ache like I fought a war in my sleep. Like every nerve got wrung out and stitched back wrong. I tried to train this morning—burn it off, sweat it out—but the bag I was hitting didn't bleed and that somehow made me feel worse.

I've barely eaten. I've barely spoken.

Everyone else notices, I'm sure. I'm usually the sharp one, the loud one, the one who sizes up a room in seconds flat and owns it like a blade owns its edge.

But today?

I flinch when people brush past. Can't meet anyone's eyes. Can't sit still, but I also can't go to him.

Because what do I even say?

Sorry I almost opened your throat like a fucking reflex?

Sorry that I reacted like a cornered animal instead of a person?

Sorry that you were kind, and I don't know how to survive kindness without looking for the knife behind it?

Gods.

The worst part is that he hasn't said a word. Not really. No messages. No pulled punches. No cold looks. He's just... gone quiet.

Which is worse.

Because now I don't know.

I don't know what he's thinking. If he's avoiding me. If he regrets being there last night, holding me like I mattered.

If I shattered whatever that moment was.

I haven't slept. Not really. Just tossed, turned, and stared at the ceiling waiting for the dream to come back. The one where someone walks away and doesn't make it. Where I'm screaming for them to stay and my voice disappears in smoke.

I keep hearing myself beg.

I keep remembering how steady Bodhi held me, like he could anchor it.

And how I woke up with a weapon in my hand.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The punching bag didn't bleed this morning.

Maybe it will tonight.

I'm alone again, just like I planned to be. The gym's half-lit and humming with quiet, the way I like it. No one to ask questions. No one to look too closely. The weight bench is still warm from someone else, but I ignore it. I'm in the back corner — mats down, wraps tight, blade tucked just out of reach.

I've been running drills for nearly an hour. My knuckles are raw. Shoulders burning. Breath uneven. But it's not enough.

It never is.

I'm so deep in it I don't hear the door until it's closing.

Footsteps.

I turn.

Bodhi.

Of course it's Bodhi.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Still and unreadable, as always. He's in sweats and a worn shirt, barefoot like he already knew what I'd demand. His hair's damp — just out of the shower or the rain, I can't tell.

I don't stop moving.

"Don't," I say before he can open his mouth. "Don't try to talk me down."

He doesn't flinch.

"You haven't looked at me all day," he says. Soft. Almost careful.

"I didn't earn it," I mutter, spinning on my heel.

He takes a step forward. I step back. Keep distance between us. Not because I'm afraid of him.

I'm afraid of what he'll say.

"Then hit me," I tell him.

He blinks. "What?"

"You heard me." I square my stance, chin up, fists curled. "Either spar with me or get out. I'm not doing this talk-until-we-bleed thing tonight. You want something from me? Take it the old-fashioned way."

"Ava..."

"Fight me, Bodhi."

He hesitates.

I raise my voice. "Fight me."

Something shifts in his eyes — not anger, not confusion. Just... understanding. Like he knows what I'm doing now. And for whatever reason, he humors it.

He steps onto the mat.

No gloves. No warmup. Just the steady hum of tension between us as we circle.

And then — the first hit.

He holds back. I can tell.

So I let mine land harder.

I throw myself into it. Jab, cross, pivot, duck. He blocks like second nature, and the next time I slip my guard, I do it on purpose.

His fist catches my jaw.

Not hard. But enough.

Enough to snap my head to the side and send a sharp burst of pain radiating through my face.

I stumble.

Steady myself.

Breathe.

And suddenly—

It settles something.

Like I paid a debt. Like my body now matches the damage I already felt under my skin. Like something inside me finally exhaled.

I nod once. Slow.

"Again," I say, voice low. "Do it again."

Bodhi's brows furrow. "Ava—"

"I need this." I meet his eyes. "I need to feel it."

I don't tell him why.

Don't tell him I need a consequence. A punishment. That I've been choking on guilt all day and this—this—is the only thing that makes the noise stop.

He doesn't move.

So I go again.

Swinging, striking, forcing him to respond. I give him my ribs. My shoulder. An open path to bruise me. I want to break skin. I want to hurt so I can stop hating myself for what I did.

And he—

He won't.

The next time I drop my guard, he shoves me back instead of hitting.

"Stop," he says, finally. "That's not why I'm here."

I stare at him.

"You think I came here to punish you?" he says, voice thick. "You think that's what I want?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't know what else it could be.

He takes a step forward. I flinch—barely—but it's enough.

Bodhi notices.

He exhales like it hurts.

"I'm not your judge," he says. "You want to spar, I'll spar. You want to bleed, I won't help you do that."

I look away.

"You think I didn't see what happened last night?" he goes on. "You woke up out of a nightmare. You didn't see me. You reacted. That wasn't a choice. It was a wound firing off in your hands."

He's too close. Too gentle. I can't take it.

"I still did it," I snap. "I still hurt you."

"You didn't," he says.

And the way he says it—

Soft. Solid. Unshaken.

—I almost believe him.

Almost.

"Did you even stop to think that I hurt myself Bodhi?! I trusted you enough to sleep on you— something I have literally never trusted anyone else enough to do? And I still put a knife to your throat! You don't want to be my judge? I wasn't asking you to be! I already judged myself! I need this Bodhi! I need to feel that in those seconds after you hit me that I don't want to kill you! That even in anger I'm not a monster! Because if I am a monster? Then I'm just my father! I'm really trying not to shut off all my emotions again Bodhi so I need you to hit me! Please."

Bodhi just stands there.

Silent.

Watching me come undone like it's the most sacred thing he's ever witnessed.

Like I'm not breaking—I'm revealing.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

"No."

It hits harder than a punch.

"No?" I echo, stunned. Shaking.

"No," he says again, louder now. Firmer. "I'm not going to hit you, Ava. Not because I don't think you're strong enough to take it. You are. But because that's not strength right now. That's surrender. That's letting him win."

My breath catches. "You don't get to say that."

"I do," he says, stepping closer. "Because I've seen you fight every goddamn day to not become him. And this? You begging to be hurt? That's his voice in your head, not yours."

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Bodhi. Not tonight."

"I'm not." His hands are fisted at his sides. Not in anger—restraint. "I'm just refusing to be the weapon you use against yourself."

I shake my head, arms trembling from effort and rage and everything I don't know how to hold anymore.

"You think this is about pain? About punishment?" I spit. "This is about control. About proving to myself that I'm still something different than him. That I can be afraid and angry and violent and still stop."

"And you did," he says, voice rough with feeling. "You did stop. You didn't follow through. You dropped the blade, Ava. You came back to yourself."

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. "It's not enough."

"It is," he insists, and now he's right in front of me. "It's enough for me."

I look up.

His eyes—dark, unwavering—are the only steady thing in the whole fucking world right now. They don't flick away from my pain. They stay.

"You want to feel something?" he says, voice breaking open. "Feel this—me, still here. Still choosing you. You think I came here because I had to?"

I don't answer.

"You think I haven't played it over and over in my head?" he goes on. "The sound of your breath hitching right before you woke up? The way your hand didn't shake even though your whole body was? You were terrified and still—you didn't cut. You stopped. You chose not to become what he made you."

I breathe in, sharp and shallow, chest aching.

"And what if next time I don't stop?" I whisper. "What if next time it's worse?"

"Then we'll deal with it together."

My throat closes.

"I don't want to be someone you have to survive," I manage, barely audible.

"You're not." His hands finally lift—slow, patient—and hover just at my jawline, not touching. Waiting. "You're someone I stay for."

That breaks me.

My knees buckle—not from weakness, but from the weight of being seen. Of being forgiven in a way I don't know how to accept.

And Bodhi's there.

He catches me before I fall completely, arms wrapping around me like armor—not restraining, not containing—just holding.

I fold into him. Raw. Rattled. Still shaking with the urge to run or fight or scream, but I don't move.

He doesn't let go.

"I'm not asking you to be okay," he murmurs against my temple. "I'm just asking you to let this moment matter."

And I do.

Because for once, the silence doesn't feel like punishment.

It feels like grace.

And in the echo of my breath against his chest, I realize something—

This, right here?

This is what coming back to myself feels like.

Not peace. Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But presence.

His hand is warm at my back, steady. I can feel the faint thrum of his pulse where my temple rests against him—alive, human, his—and I don't know what makes me do it.

Maybe it's guilt.

Maybe it's the compulsion to face what I did head-on.

Maybe it's something softer. Something like reverence.

My hand lifts before I can stop it. Trembling fingers brushing the space just beneath his jaw—that place. The one where my blade kissed his skin.

He inhales.

Not sharply. Not loudly.

But enough.

His breath stutters.

And everything in me recoils.

I yank my hand back like I've been burned. Like I am the burn. Shame hits me with a ferocity that makes me sway.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, already stepping away. "I didn't mean—gods, I didn't mean to—"

"Ava—"

"I knew it," I whisper, voice breaking. "I knew you were scared of me."

His hand catches my wrist—not hard, not halting. Just... there. Enough to stop me from spiraling out of reach.

"I'm not," he says firmly. "That's not what that was."

I shake my head. "I felt it."

"You felt me remembering," he says, quiet but sure. "Not fearing."

I freeze.

Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers trace up to where mine had been—just under his jaw—and place them there again.

His eyes never leave mine.

"Go on," he says softly. "Feel it."

I don't move at first.

But then I do.

I let my fingertips rest there again, over the spot I threatened without meaning to. The place that reminds me of how close I came to becoming the thing I swore I'd never be.

His pulse is steady beneath my touch.

Alive. Unflinching.

Trusting.

He's letting me.

Letting me touch the site of my failure and not recoil.

And that does something to me I can't explain.

"Still not scared," he murmurs.

Tears blur my vision.

I lower my hand, breath shaking.

"Why?" I whisper. "Why aren't you?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just studies me like the question itself matters more than any reply.

And then—

"Because I saw you come back," he says. "I watched you fight your way out of the dark and choose me instead."

And I can't breathe again.

But this time, it's not because I'm drowning.

It's because, maybe—just maybe—I'm starting to surface.

Chapter Text

When I look up at the infamous Gauntlet—the one that's supposed to break us, humble us, terrify us—I'm... whelmed.

Not overwhelmed. Not underwhelmed.

Just whelmed.

It's steep, sure. Brutal, probably. And loud—ropes creaking, gears grinding, wind catching on the giant wheel at the first switchback as it begins its slow, counterclockwise rotation. The fifteen-foot log at the base of the hill spins like a blade being sharpened. Higher up, I spot the shaking pillars on the third ascent. The ramp near the top rises like a ninety-degree wall, dare-you-to-climb-it energy radiating off it like heat.

But still. I don't get what the big deal is.

I mean, they gave us ropes.

If you're falling, you've got something to catch. That's more generosity than I expected from a course specifically designed to thin our ranks.

Beside me, Marcus exhales like he's about to be executed. "We're all going to die."

"No," I say. "Only some of us."

He shoots me a glare. "You're disturbingly calm."

I shrug. "It's just another glorified ladder with extra steps."

"Extra steps?" Lilian's voice is dry. "One of the upperclassmen shattered both ankles on the second ascent last year. They still call her Crunch."

I glance at her. "That's a terrible nickname."

"She deserved better," Lilian agrees solemnly.

While everyone else stares up at the course like it's a mountain about to eat them, I take a moment to inspect our squad.

We've only lost one person so far. Which is more than I expected. Or—less, depending on how you look at it. He wasn't anyone I knew, just a name Lilian whispered with a frown and promptly filed away with the others.

Aside from Marcus, Lilian, and Liam. I don't know anyone else's name. Haven't bothered to. That's not information I concern myself with until people survive Threshing.

And let's be honest—most of them won't.

Lilian, of course, has memorized the entire squad. She probably knows their hometowns and favorite colors too.

"If I die," Marcus says, "I want my body thrown dramatically off the side of the course. Just so it's remembered."

"You'll die of embarrassment before you make it halfway up," Lilian mutters, scanning the line of cadets behind us.

"Our squad's not even that bad," Marcus insists, elbowing me. "I mean, we haven't imploded. That's gotta count for something."

"We're not close," I point out. "There's a difference."

Around us, the others bunch up in their little friend groups. No one stands with us unless they have to. Not that I blame them.

If it wasn't for our parents, most of the squad wouldn't know our names either.

We're known, sure. Recognized. Watched. But that doesn't mean we belong here.

And maybe that's fine.

Maybe belonging is just another thing designed to keep you soft.

Professor Emetterio steps forward then, voice cutting cleanly through the hum of nerves and machinery. "Every one of the five ascents on this course is designed to mimic the challenges you'll face in battle."

The crowd goes still. My squadmates crane their necks to look up again. Someone mutters a curse behind me.

"From the balance you must keep on the back of your dragon," the professor continues, "to the strength you'll need to hold your seat during maneuvers, to—" He turns, gesturing to the massive sloped ramp near the top, "—the stamina required to fight on the ground, then still mount your dragon at a second's notice."

He gives a slow, deliberate pause to let the weight of that settle.

"Cadets," he finishes, "welcome to the Gauntlet."

A hush falls.

Then Marcus breaks it with a whispered groan. "This feels like a bad time to admit I skipped leg day."

"You always skip leg day," Lilian says.

"Not true. Once I lifted Ava's ego and it almost crushed me."

I smirk, eyes still on the spinning log ahead. "That wasn't ego. That was restraint."

"Gods help us," Lilian murmurs. "She's smiling. That means someone's about to get maimed."

The course shudders again, gears shifting into motion, ropes twitching like snakes stretching awake.

The Gauntlet waits.

And for the first time all day, I feel ready.

Emetterio steps forward again, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping the line of cadets like he's already decided who's going to fail.

"Typically," he says, "we'd have a repeat cadet demonstrate the course first. Someone who's run it before. Set the pace. Prove it's survivable."

A few people glance around, hopeful. There's always one.

"But as this squad has no repeats..." His voice trails off, then sharpens. "I'll need a volunteer."

Silence.

The kind that stretches out too long. No one moves. No one breathes.

So I raise my hand.

Marcus groans audibly behind me.

"Of course she does," Lilian mutters.

Emetterio's eyes find mine, and something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. Just... confirmation.

He nods once. "Cadet Melgren. You may proceed."

I step forward.

The others part to let me through, some with reluctant respect, some with relief that it's not them. The air is cooler up front. Sharper. The ground hums beneath my boots as the machinery clicks and rotates, the course alive and waiting.

I don't hesitate.

Not because I'm fearless—but because I refuse to look like I'm not.

The moment my hands hit the first rope, everything else fades. Muscle memory takes over. Grip, swing, land. Balance, lunge, press forward. It's rhythm. It's instinct. It's not hard.

Not for me.

And gods, I wish that didn't matter.

Because as I move—fluid and unbothered—I can hear his voice in my head.

Faster, Ava. Again. Again.

You want praise? Break something.

If he were here, watching from the sidelines like the others, he wouldn't be impressed. He wouldn't nod. Wouldn't clap. Wouldn't even blink.

He'd probably order me to run it again with a broken arm. Maybe two. Just to prove I could.

That's what he calls discipline. What he calls love.

This? To him, this would be nothing more than a warmup.

I grit my teeth and launch into the next section.

I don't stumble. Don't slip. Don't even breathe hard.

And when I reach the top—when the final platform rises under my boots and the whole course stretches out below me—I pause only for a second.

Not to take in the view.

But to tell the part of me that still hears his voice—

You don't own this.

I do.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

From the top of the Gauntlet, the world looks smaller.

The ropes. The ramps. The pillars. All the obstacles that send cadets into a cold sweat from the ground look almost laughable from up here—manageable. Conquered. Distant.

I roll my shoulder once, shake out my hands, and step to the edge of the platform. I'm supposed to wait up here until the next cadet finishes, let the instructors get their time logs and injury scans, whatever. No one actually told me what to do, so I just stand there.

Watching.

Lilian's up next.

Of course she is.

She doesn't waste time psyching herself up. Just steps into motion like someone who already knows where her feet will land. Precise. Calculated. Every movement clean and minimal. If I'm fluid, she's surgical—like the course is just one big equation and she already solved it in her head.

She reaches the third ascent without missing a beat, breezes through the chimney, and launches up the final ramp with a grit I know cost her more effort than she let show. But she doesn't stumble. Doesn't falter.

At the top, she glances at me, panting slightly. "Hate to say it, but that was kind of fun."

I smirk. "You say that now. Wait until tomorrow when your arms fall off."

She snorts and leans against the railing beside me, watching the course below. "I already regret being good at it. Now they'll expect things."

Then it's Marcus.

And gods help me, I want to roll my eyes—but he's actually good. Really good.

He starts with the dramatic confidence only Marcus could pull off, calling, "Try not to miss me too much!" before he even reaches the first obstacle.

But once he hits the course, the showboating drops.

He's strong in a way that doesn't look flashy—grounded, quick, efficient. Not delicate like Lilian, or sharp like me. He's all core and momentum, like he knows exactly where his center of gravity is at every second.

By the time he hauls himself over the top ledge, he's grinning.

"Still alive," he says. "No injuries. You're welcome."

"Shocking," I mutter. "I was sure you'd get impaled."

He winks. "Me? Never. That's a you kind of injury."

I elbow him as he flops down next to Lilian, muttering something about his heroic legacy being overlooked.

And then there's Liam.

He doesn't say anything before starting—just nods once, then bolts for the first obstacle.

No flash, no flare. But every move is clean, deliberate. He's efficient in a way that makes it hard to look away. Like he's not here to prove anything. He's here to finish.

And he does.

No slips. No wasted motion.

He climbs up to the platform and exhales hard, eyes flicking to me like he's checking for judgment.

"Good run" I comment, not turning to look at him. From below? No one would be able to tell we're talking.

He nods.

He doesn't smile, but something flickers in his expression. Not pride. Not relief.

Just quiet satisfaction.

We stand there for a moment—me, Lilian, Marcus, and Liam—watching the next cadet step forward below. One of the nameless ones. Someone who'll have to make it through Threshing before I bother learning who they are.

But for now—

Our four shadows stretch long across the top of the course.

Still standing.

Still whole.

And maybe, just maybe, that means something.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The storage room smells like dust, oil, and old leather. I sit on the edge of a crate, elbows on knees, waiting.

The wait is worse than the Gauntlet. Than the presentation line. Than anything.

Because I already know what's coming. I just don't know the names.

Two of the nameless died on the Gauntlet. Just—gone. Cleared away like broken pieces on a board.

Navarre eats cadets like it's nothing. Another day, another funeral no one's invited to. Too much human life wasted for show. For fear. For control. It's idiotic. It's cruel.

It's not surprising.

Still, it barely registers anymore.

Their names don't stick in my mind. They didn't survive long enough to matter.

But mine?

Mine better have.

Lilian and Marcus are out there now, weaving through the aftermath, trying to see who from the revolution's side made it through. Quiet nods, coded glances, a hand tapped to a wrist in passing—it's all subtle, all controlled. We have to be careful. Even now.

Especially now.

I stayed back. Not because I didn't want to go.

Because I couldn't.

Because if even one of mine—one of the ones who trusted me, followed me,—if one of them is gone, it'll gut me.

I know logically that someone must have died. Odds are odds, and this place doesn't care who bleeds as long as it makes an example.

But logic doesn't touch the part of me that remembers every set of eyes locked on mine when I asked them to trust me.

To fight.

To stay hidden.

To climb.

I told them they'd make it. Promised, in that quiet, dangerous way leaders sometimes do—not because we believe it, but because we have to.

Because hope is currency, and I spent mine freely.

Now I sit here, alone, braced for the cost.

If they're gone, it's on me.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The second the door opens, I know.

I don't need to hear them say it. I don't need numbers. Their faces tell me everything.

Marcus steps in first, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he's still bracing for impact. Lilian follows, slower. Her eyes flick up to meet mine—then drop just as quickly.

Neither of them speaks.

That silence? It's not hesitation.

It's grief.

I stand up, slow. My hands curl into fists without meaning to.

"How many?" I ask.

No one answers.

"How many," I repeat, sharper now.

Marcus shifts uncomfortably. "Seven."

The word lands like a punch to the chest.

Seven.
Seven.
Seven.
Seven.
Seven.
Seven.
Seven.

My throat closes, and for a moment, all I can do is stare. Just breathe.

Then the fury hits—hot, helpless, sickening.

"Gods," I snap, voice cracking. "Fucking seven?"

The word echoes off the walls, loud in the tight, dim space. I swipe a crate off the shelf beside me—it clatters to the floor, the metal crashing, spilling useless gear across the room.

Neither of them stops me.

Because they feel it too.

Lilian crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She's gone pale, like she's trying to hold herself together molecule by molecule. "I tried to ID all of them. We lost Verik, the twins from third wing, and—" Her voice breaks off. "Three from the letter detail. Ruel, Zirell and Ashfall."

"And Harlen," Marcus says quietly.

I flinch. "No. Harlen—?"

"Fell on the spinning posts," he says. "Was gone before he hit the ground."

I press my hands to my face. Hard. Like I can shove the grief back inside through sheer pressure.

"They trusted me," I whisper. "They listened. They followed orders. They were careful. I trained them."

"You trained them well," Lilian says, her voice taut. "But we're not fighting fair. We never were."

"I told them to be patient," I say. "To wait for the right time. That if they just held on through Threshing, it'd get better. That I'd keep them safe."

Marcus rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. "We all said that."

"No, I said it," I snap. "You supported it. But it was my call."

I sink back down onto the crate, my legs suddenly too heavy to hold me. My chest feels tight—too tight—and all I can hear is their voices, their footsteps, the quiet way they used to nod when I walked by.

And I led them straight into the meat grinder.

And none of them even knew I was their leader.

None of them had high enough clearance to know that I was Wrath.

But that doesn't mean they weren't important.

Because I'll carry their deaths with me until my own.

"They didn't even die fighting," I whisper. "They died on a fucking training course."

Lilian kneels beside me. "That's exactly why we're doing this," she says softly. "To end this kind of waste. To make sure they're the last."

But I can't hear her.

Not really.

Because all I can see is the way their faces looked that morning—hopeful, tired, ready. All I can feel is the weight of their belief in me.

And the absence that's already hollowing me out.

Seven gone.

Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.

LILIAN HEART

I counted the names twice before I stepped through that door.

Tried to convince myself I'd be calm. Clinical. That I'd deliver the facts and let Ava feel what she needed to feel.

But the moment she looked at me—and I couldn't look back—I knew I was lying to myself.

I failed her.

Not because I didn't try. Not because I wasn't thorough. But because I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save them.

And for all her strength, Ava still believes she's supposed to protect everyone who follows her.

Even the ones who don't know who she is.

Especially them.

I watched her train those cadets. Quietly. Indirectly. Strategically. She never let herself get attached—not in the obvious way—but gods, she cared. Every word she gave them, every correction, every moment of tension when someone was too tired to hold a stance... it was all love disguised as leadership.

So when she hears "seven," I watch her collapse in on herself.

And I hate myself for not finding a way to make it six.

Or five.

Or none.

We're in this fight because the system chews up people like them and calls it necessary. But when it's our people—our names and faces and lives—it stops being strategy.

It becomes mourning.

And I wish I didn't feel so hollow.

I wish I didn't feel so angry.

But most of all, I wish I could tell her it'll never happen again.

Because it will.

And we both know it.

MARCUS JONES

The second I see her—really see her, standing stiff and expectant in the middle of the storage room—I wish I'd volunteered to do literally anything else.

But I'm her second. That means standing here when the worst news of the day gets delivered. That means telling her who didn't make it. That means watching her break and not looking away.

Seven.

I barely got the word out. It sat in my mouth like ash.

And when it hits her—really hits her—I feel it like a blade turned sideways in my gut.

Ava's grief is always sharp. Always loud. It comes in with teeth and claws and fire. That crash of metal when she knocks the crate off the shelf? That's not drama.

That's damage.

And I hate that I understand it.

Because I feel it too.

I keep thinking about Harlen. His boots were always coming untied. I'd warned him about that. Twice. And now he's just—gone. Nothing left but the echo of a name Ava wasn't even supposed to know. We weren't supposed to get close. Not to the faces. Not to the risk. But we did anyway.

And now Ava's carrying it like it was hers alone.

Like we weren't right beside her every step.

And maybe that's what hurts most.

Not just the loss.

Not just the guilt.

But the look in her eyes like she's alone in this. Like she thinks we wouldn't bleed for them, too.

She sinks onto the crate, and I stay standing because if I sit, I might not get back up.

I've seen her crush men with words. I've seen her smile with a knife in her hand. But this?

This version of Ava—silent, shaking, shattered under the weight of people who didn't even know her name—

This is the version I'd burn Navarre to the ground to never see again.

Chapter Text

I'm sitting with my back against the turret wall, knees drawn up, watching the fire dance in the burn pit below.

The wind's sharp tonight—knife-edged and merciless. It slides beneath my collar, sneaks into the seams of my clothes, wraps around me like something alive. It smells like ash and scorched leather and the lingering echo of lightning.

It smells like death.

I don't move. Haven't moved in hours, probably. My muscles are stiff, my spine aching where it presses into stone. But I don't feel it. Not really.

I've been coming here for two nights now.

The first night, Marcus and Lilian sat beside me, close enough for their shoulders to brush mine. They didn't speak. Neither did I. We just watched the fire chew through the sacks piled beside the pit—uniforms, boots, bundles of belongings that meant everything to someone.

Seven sacks. Seven cadets.

Seven I was supposed to protect.

Marcus had dirt on his face. Lilian kept her arms wrapped around herself so tightly her knuckles went white. But no one cried. We just sat. Together. Staring at the flames.

Last night, I didn't tell them I was coming back.

Tonight, I didn't tell anyone.

Because this isn't for closure.

It's punishment.

I don't cry. Not anymore. The tears dried up somewhere between the names on the death roll and the last time I let myself remember their faces.

Harlen with his awful jokes. The twins from Third Wing who always ate dessert first. Little Miren, who braided her hair with silver thread and sang lullabies in her sleep.

I told them to hold the line.

To wait.

To survive.

And I was supposed to get them through.

But I didn't.

They didn't even make it past the Gauntlet.

Before they ever got to fight the war we've been quietly preparing them for—before they could make a single stand—they were gone.

Swallowed whole by a system designed to weed out the weak.

Except they weren't weak.

They were mine.

And I failed them.

The guilt sits behind my ribs like a second heart. It pulses cold and sharp and constant. It doesn't fade. It doesn't change.

It just grows heavier.

I can't look Bodhi in the eye. Haven't since the Gauntlet. He keeps trying—gentle glances, soft touches, notes folded with so much care it feels like a wound just holding them—but I can't open any of it. Can't meet his kindness with anything but silence.

Because kindness hurts.

Because it reminds me of what I lost. Of who I'm turning into again.

The cold is coming. I can feel it.

That numbness I was trained to slip into like a second skin. That terrifying, beautiful emptiness where nothing touches you.

Where love and guilt and grief are just words that don't land.

I was raised to survive.

And survival means turning it off.

But now... I'm not sure.

Because when I try to shut the last doors—when I start to drown the feelings completely—I hear them.

Bodhi. Lilian. Marcus.

I hear their voices cutting through the dark.

Telling me it's okay to feel.

That I'm not alone. That I don't have to carry everything by myself. That there's something on the other side of all this pain, if I let myself believe it.

So I stop.

Not all the way.

But enough.

Enough to stay human.

Enough for them.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open behind me.

I don't move.

Just listen.

Soft, dragging footsteps. Hesitant. Weighted.

The sound of someone carrying more than just a bag.

Then comes the thud. Heavy. Final. Canvas against stone.

A pack.

The kind they use for personal effects. For what's left behind when someone doesn't make it.

I don't have to look to know.

Whoever it belonged to—they're ashes now.

And whoever brought it here? They knew them.

There's silence. A held breath.

Then—

"You shouldn't have come alone," I say, voice flat but not cruel.

Violet flinches. I hear her inhale sharply, then exhale like she's been punched in the chest.

"Shit—Ava." Her voice is hoarse. "I didn't see you."

She looks awful when I finally turn my head. Hollowed out. Sleepless. Haunted.

Her hair's half pulled back, uneven and frayed like she abandoned the effort halfway through. Her sleeves fall over clenched fists, knuckles twitching like she doesn't know what to do with her hands anymore. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her mouth trembles.

I nod toward the sack. "Someone you knew?"

She swallows. Nods. "Yeah."

Her voice breaks on the word.

I wait for a name. She doesn't give one.

She kneels beside the burn pit, not touching the bag again. Just looking at it like she expects it to breathe. Like maybe it'll unzip itself and everything will be okay again.

Her jaw is locked, eyes swimming.

I watch her shoulders quake. Watch her bite down on a sob and lose. Watch her mouth form silent words I can't hear—and maybe I'm not meant to.

My chest aches.

Not from her pain.

From the echo of mine.

From how close I came to looking like her again.

The thing is—I remember this grief. I lived it. Felt it like knives under my skin.

But now?

Now it's faded into something quieter. Something older. A ghost of the scream that used to live in my bones.

I should have turned it all off.

But I didn't.

And sitting here now, watching her unravel, I wonder why.

Why I let myself keep even this much feeling when it would be easier to go numb.

Then I remember.

Bodhi.

Marcus.

Lilian.

Their voices. Their touch. Their presence when I thought I couldn't take another step.

I love them.

Not just in the way you love people who stand beside you in war. Not just in the way you love people because you've bled on the same floors.

I love Marcus like family. I love Lilian like breath. And Bodhi—

Bodhi is something else.

Something deeper. More dangerous.

Something that terrifies me because of how real it is.

Because it asks me to stay.

To feel.

To be.

And I haven't felt real love since my mother and Naolin died.

Not love that didn't hurt.

Not love that didn't come with a price.

My father demanded it like tribute—forced the words out of my mouth like a weapon.

I love you.

Three syllables that always felt like surrender. Like lying.

But now, sitting here, watching Violet grieve—

I realize I want to feel it again.

Eventually.

Even if it costs me.

Even if I don't survive the war that's coming.

Violet wipes her face with the sleeve of her jacket. She doesn't look at me again.

She doesn't need to.

Because I know that weight.

I know what it's like to hold that sack of someone else's life and wonder why you're still breathing.

I just made a different choice.

I put it down.

And right now, that choice is the only thing keeping me alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I walk beside Violet, silent as we cross the courtyard. The stone beneath our feet is cold, the sky above us an endless bruise. Somewhere off to the right, the burn pit flickers low and dying, casting long shadows like the fingers of ghosts reaching up through ash.

She's talking. I think.

Something about the Gauntlet. About how it's designed to break people. About how she's not sure she belongs here.

I let her talk. I don't interrupt. Don't reassure. Don't offer anything. Her words bounce off the inside of my skull like marbles rattling around a hollow jar. No weight. No meaning. Not for me.

I stare straight ahead, through the thin veil of smoke from the burn pit. I can see the Gauntlet from here. It hasn't claimed anyone else from me since the seven.

But seven was still too many.

Too many names to remember, too many faces to picture. Too many families who'll never get their children back. They were mine. My people. And I lost them.

Above us, the sky shifts. I make out the silhouettes of three dragons circling in the distance. Idiots. The lot of them.

Three.

My father can't see them when they're in groups of four or more. But no—these geniuses think three is subtle. They take three cadets out at a time to smuggle weapons, then return all at once.

And they haven't been caught yet?

How?

Sloppy. So fucking sloppy.

Violet stops in the shadows, her gaze locked on the door leading toward the Gauntlet and the flight field beyond. She's frozen like prey that thinks standing still will make her invisible.

Like her "biggest enemy" isn't a shadow wielder.

For fuck's sake. I thought she was supposed to be smart.

I stop too.

Not because I care. Not because I'm invested. Purely because I have nothing better to do.

I've barely slept since that night. Since Bodhi held me—before the seven. Before everything bled out in fire and guilt and silence. Since then, the weight in my chest has been too heavy to sleep under. The only way to keep breathing has been to dull it all down. To mute on my own heart.

Just then, three familiar shapes step into the moonlight—Xaden, Garrick, and of course, Bodhi. Boots crunch against gravel as they stride past.

"There has to be something more we can do," Bodhi says, his voice low, pitched toward Xaden as they pass by us. Tension coils in his tone like a drawn bowstring.

I want to punch him.

No—worse. I want to sew his beautiful, stupid mouth shut. Because that? That is a conversation that should absolutely be happening behind closed doors, not in the middle of a godsdamned public walkway.

"We're doing everything we can," Garrick hisses, voice sharp.

Finally. At least someone in their little rebellion has a functioning brain cell.

This is why Garrick is my favourite.

Because if they do any more—if they get themselves exposed—all the weight falls to us. To my revolution. And while we could handle it. I would rather not add the extra workload onto my already enormous responsibilities.

Xaden freezes mid-stride, like something unseen just snapped into place in his mind. And of course—he's seen Violet hiding in the shadows.

Which she's still doing. Like that ever works on him.

I seriously can't believe how many idiots I'm surrounded by.

"What's wrong?" Garrick asks, scanning the opposite direction—toward the couple pressed up against a stone wall, too distracted by each other to notice curfew creeping past.

"Go on. I'll meet you inside," Xaden says, low and clipped.

"You sure?" Bodhi's forehead furrows. His gaze drags across the courtyard in a practiced sweep, too observant for his own good.

"Actually, Bodhi, you stay. Garrick, go."

Ah. So Xaden's noticed. Noticed how close I've been getting to his cousin. Noticed the looks. The silence that hums between us like tension pulled taut.

Garrick heads off, boots scuffing against the stone.

Bodhi lingers, shifting awkwardly beside Xaden like he'd rather be anywhere else. Like he half-expects the shadows themselves to rise up and strike him down.

I wait. I want to see how long it takes Xaden to break, to confront us. But of course, Violet ruins it. She steps out from the shadows like this is some kind of dramatic stage production.

"I know you know we're here. And please don't prattle on about commanding the dark. I'm not in the mood tonight."

I let out a groan that echoes across the stone. "Violet, we were having a silent off. But for the record I'm also not in the mood for your 'I am the dark' speech."

Bodhi's eyes snap to me the second I speak.

He's watching me again.

I feel it before I even look—his attention like a weight pressed gently between my shoulder blades. Heavy. Focused. Surgical.

He doesn't stare like other people do. Not with suspicion or hunger or malice. He studies me like he's trying to understand something delicate and complex. Like I'm a language he almost knows how to read.

And I wonder—god, I wonder—what he sees.

Can he tell that I didn't shut everything off this time?

That I came close—so close—but not all the way?

Can he see the fractures along my edges, the cracks I didn't quite let seal?

Is he proud of me for holding on to some scrap of feeling? Some ember of humanity still flickering in the dark?

Or is he disappointed?

Disappointed that I needed to dull it at all. That I wasn't strong enough to carry the grief without numbing myself to it.

I don't know which answer would hurt more.

Because the truth—the horrible, helpless truth—is that Bodhi's opinion matters.

It shouldn't.

But it does.

He's not my father. He doesn't get to define me. And yet... he's the only person who looks at me like I'm not some monster carved out of sharp edges and unspoken horrors. Like I'm someone worth staying for. Worth fighting beside.

Even when I shove him away.

And I hate it.

I hate how much space he's carved out in my chest. I hate that somewhere deep in my throat, beneath all the grit and steel and survival instinct, there's still a trembling question I don't want to ask:

Do you still see me the same way?

Do you still think I'm good?

Violet and Xaden are talking again. Something about curfew. About rules and orders and obligations.

Like any of that fucking matters.

People are dying.

Their words blur, background noise to the storm rising inside me.

I shift slightly. Just enough to sneak a glance at Bodhi from the corner of my eye. I pretend I'm bored. Pretend I'm just zoning out. Pretend I'm not holding my breath.

He's already watching me.

Of course he is.

His face is carved from stillness, but his eyes do that thing they do—scanning, reading, understanding. Like he can see the ghosts clinging to my ribs. Like he knows about the blood I've never quite been able to scrub from my memory. Like he sees how hard I'm fighting not to disappear into the dark again.

And maybe it's stupid, but—

I want him to know I tried.

That I didn't let go of all of it.

That I'm still here.

But I don't speak. Because if I do, it'll come out like begging. Like I need him to forgive me.

And I shouldn't need that.

But I do.

His jaw shifts like he's biting something back.

And when our eyes lock—just for a second—I think he knows.

I think he sees all of it.

And he doesn't look away.

Why the hell am I still here?

Why haven't I left already? I'm standing in a hallway, exposed, raw, bleeding invisible wounds, and I stay.

Oh, right.

If Violet gets murdered, my father might not kill me—he'd make me wish he did.

Not that I think Xaden's stupid enough to kill her.

But with the amount of idiocy surrounding me tonight, who knows.

"That's the oddest way I've ever been hit on—"

"Not my chances with you, you conceited prick!"

That snaps me back. My head whips toward them in disbelief.

Did she really—

Xaden grabs her wrist, yanking her closer like this is some kind of dramatized romance instead of a military academy.

"Chances at what?" he growls.

Gods above. How did I get stuck bearing witness to this slow-motion train wreck?

"Nothing," Violet says.

I nearly roll my eyes. She can't lie to save her life.

"Chances at what?" he repeats. "Do not make me ask three times."

Yup. They're absolutely going to hook up before the year's out.

"At living through all of this! I can't make it up the damned Gauntlet."

And there it is.

The thing that really pisses me off.

She thinks she can't do this?

She's still alive.

She's still breathing.

She's not dead.

She outlived people who trained their entire lives for this.

She outlived my people.

My fists clench.

I feel Bodhi watching me again, like he can sense the anger rising, the cracks splintering through my calm.

He knows what my father's done. He's seen the aftermath.

When Xaden suggests she disobey her mother—

I nearly snap.

The fury crashes into me, tearing open doors I'd slammed shut in my mind. It burns through me, scalding and unstoppable.

And when Violet turns to leave, I lose it.

"Violet."

Her name lashes from my mouth like a blade. She stops cold.

"You wanna leave? I'll fucking help you. I have favours I can call in that'll guarantee your mother won't find you until after Threshing. But for the love of all the gods, stop pretending that you're some hard-done-by tragic little girl. Remember Verick?"

Her face changes. Recognition.

"Tall kid, we were both stationed with him when we were eleven?"

She nods. Barely.

"He trained every day for this while you trained to be a scribe. He died on the Gauntlet, Violet. The very first day. You keep going on and on about how you can't do this—News flash! You already are. Countless legacy kids that have trained every day of their lives for this have died and you're still here. Clearly you can do this. If you really don't want to—fine. I'll get you out, keep you hidden until after Threshing. But if you're giving up because you don't think you're good enough? Well that's disrespectful to everyone who was sure they were and still died."

Silence.

Xaden looks stunned. Like he wasn't expecting me to lose it.

He's trying to read me, but he won't get far. My shields are ironclad.

Bodhi looks... curious. Not judgmental. Just quietly cataloguing this version of me. Like he's saving it.

Violet looks like I've slapped her.

"It's not that simple! Even after Threshing, my mom will still force me back here! You don't get it, Ava—"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see both Xaden and Bodhi pale.

They know.

They know what she just said.

They know how wrong she is.

I barely acknowledge it as rage crackles again in my veins.

"How dare you—" My voice drops into a hiss. Cold. Sharp. Lethal. "Violet, however harsh you think your mother is, I guarantee you my father is worse. And you know what's going to happen when she discovers you in the Scribe Quadrant after Threshing? You'll be unbonded. So she'll either have to let you stay or force you to repeat the year. So in the worst-case scenario? You get more time to train. But as I've already stated, no amount of practice will ever truly make you ready for this. So please do us all a favour and get the fuck over yourself."

I don't wait.

I turn and walk.

Hard. Fast. Done.

I hear Xaden's voice echo behind me. "She's right, you know. Maybe if you stopped sulking in your self-pity—"

But I'm already gone. Already rounding the corner.

And I hear footsteps behind me.

Bodhi.

Of course it's Bodhi.

But I don't stop.

Not yet.

Because my throat is thick. My chest is tight. My vision is starting to blur and I will not cry here.

I'm going to find a place where I can be alone.

Or maybe alone with Bodhi.

And for once—

I'm not going to shut it out.

I'm going to feel it.

All of it.

I want to feel it.

Chapter Text

I see her before Xaden even stops.

Just a flicker at first, tucked into the dark beside Violet. Still and sharp as glass. Ava.

She's standing too straight. Too still. I've seen that posture before—when she's walling herself in. Shoulders squared like armor, chin tilted just enough to say she's not afraid. But I've learned how to read her silences. And this one? This silence is dangerous.

"There has to be something more we can do," I say to Xaden, the words slipping out louder than I mean them to. I don't intend for Ava to hear. But the second her name echoes in my head, something inside me pulls taut.

I don't look at her. Not directly. Not yet.

"We're doing everything we can," Garrick cuts in, sharp and tired.

And maybe he's right.

Still. Tension crawls up my spine like cold fingers.

Xaden stops walking. Just for a second.

Then I feel it too—like the air itself is holding its breath. My cousin turns toward the shadows.

Violet. Of course.

Ava's next to her. Has been this whole time.

I don't know why that rattles me more than it should.

"Go on. I'll meet you inside," Xaden says.

"You sure?" I ask automatically, my eyes sweeping the courtyard. Always watching. Always calculating.

"Actually, Bodhi, you stay. Garrick, go."

I flinch inwardly. I don't show it.

Xaden never uses that tone without purpose.

And I know exactly what this is.

He's noticed. Noticed how close I've been getting to Ava. Noticed the looks. The silence between us that isn't just silence.

Garrick heads off. I shift my weight beside Xaden, half-expecting something awful to emerge from the dark. But it's not the shadows that strike.

It's her voice.

Dry. Cutting. Too casual to be casual.

"Violet, we were having a silent off. But for the record I'm also not in the mood for your 'I am the dark' speech."

My head snaps toward her before I can stop it.

And there she is.

Not just still. Not just quiet.

Empty.

Or trying to be.

I watch her the way I've learned to—without staring, without pressing. Just enough to see the things she won't say.

Her gaze skims past me like I'm not there. But she knows I'm watching. I can tell by the way her shoulders shift. The smallest crack in her composure.

I don't look at her face. Not at first. I look at her hands.

They're still. Too still. No twitching. No fidgeting. Like she's frozen herself solid from the inside out.

I look up, finally meeting her eyes—and for just a second, I see it.

The fracture line.

Whatever's holding her together, it's thin. Brittle. I've seen her shut down before. But this isn't that. Not exactly.

She didn't retreat all the way.

She's still feeling something. Fighting to keep it.

And gods, I don't know why that wrecks me more than seeing her completely numb.

Because it means she's hurting. And she's trying.

And I wonder if she knows how much that matters. If she knows how proud I am of her—for holding onto anything at all.

But there's something in her eyes.

Not the usual edge. Not just frustration.

Something quieter. Sadder.

I watch her look away like she's ashamed of something I haven't named.

And it hits me—she cares what I see.

That's what that look was.

She cares.

My jaw tightens. I shift again, resisting the urge to speak. To ask her what she's not saying. To tell her I see her, still. Even like this.

Especially like this.

But the conversation between Violet and Xaden pulls the focus.

I listen, silent, as Violet calls herself out. As Xaden grabs her wrist. As they spiral into that same tired debate—about survival, legacy, worth.

I tune most of it out.

Until Ava moves.

Not physically—just something in her expression. Something fierce and barely restrained.

I see it build in real time.

Her jaw tightens. Her hands twitch. Her eyes flash.

And then she speaks.

"Violet."

Just her name. Cold and sharp. Dangerous.

I flinch. Not from fear. From recognition.

I know that tone.

It's the one Ava uses when she's standing on the edge of something. Not just angry. Wounded. And furious that she still feels it.

Her words come like blades. Hard truths wrapped in fury. Grief hidden behind every syllable.

I don't know who Verick is.

I don't know why her voice catches on his name.

But I know that look.

I know what it costs her to feel anything at all. And she's choosing to feel this. Rage. Pain. Guilt.

I don't speak.

I just watch her burn.

And when Violet fires back—when she says Ava doesn't get it—my stomach turns.

Because I see the moment Ava's control splinters.

And I know how deep that wound must go.

I've never asked about her father.

But I've seen the aftermath.

The way she shuts down when certain tones hit too close to home. The way she disappears when things get too loud.

So when she hisses her next words, I don't need every piece of the puzzle.

I just listen.

Because Ava rarely lets the mask slip.

And tonight, she's bleeding.

When she turns and walks away, I move.

No hesitation.

Xaden says something to Violet—I don't catch it.

Because I'm already following.

Not fast.

Just steady.

I give her space. But not too much.

I don't know if she wants me there.

But I know this: she stayed.

In that hallway. In that moment.

And she didn't shut everything down.

She chose to feel.

And I'll follow her into that choice.

Even if she never asks me to.

Even if she never says a word.

Even if.

AVA MELGREN

I walk fast. Not because I want to lose him—Bodhi's footsteps trailing behind me are steady, deliberate—but because I need to get there first. Before the rest of me catches up.

The night folds in around me as I cut through the courtyards, across stone paths and torchlit edges, toward the tucked-away alcove near the edge of the Archives. No one comes here this late. It's too quiet. Too far from curfew checkpoints and patrol routes. Too easy to be alone.

That's what I need.

Not safety.

Solitude.

The second I slip into the space between the walls—half archway, half forgotten shelter—I exhale like I've been holding my breath for hours.

Maybe I have.

It's not much. Just a corner with a crumbling bench and an old tree root breaking through the stone. But it's enough. Enough to not be seen.

And for once, that's not because I'm ashamed.

I settle against the far wall, knees pulled in, arms loose at my sides. Not hugging myself. Not hiding. Just being. I breathe in slow. Let it rattle out steady.

It doesn't hit like it usually does.

There's no dam breaking open, no scream caught behind my ribs. No wave of panic threatening to tear me under.

Just a shift.

Like the tide coming in.

Calm. Natural. Steady.

I blink, and the first tear slips free. No sobbing. No gasp.

Just... salt.

A quiet grief. A soft kind of sadness I didn't know I was allowed to feel.

I don't wipe it away.

I let it track down my face, warm against the cool night.

Another follows.

And another.

I'm still upright. Still breathing. Nothing is shattering.

I thought if I ever let this happen—on purpose—I'd come apart completely. That I'd end up screaming or curled in a ball or begging someone to take it away.

But this?

This is mine.

This is me, not running.

Footsteps.

I don't look.

I know who it is.

He doesn't enter, not fully. Just stands in the arched doorway, like he's waiting to be let in. His silhouette catches in the flicker of light behind him, all broad shoulders and quiet stillness.

I don't tell him to go.

But I don't want him to speak either.

"If you stay," I say softly, not looking up, "you have to be quiet."

A pause.

Then a small shift—his weight easing against the stone as he leans into the threshold.

"I don't need to be talked through this one," I add. "Not like before."

My voice doesn't shake. There's no sharp edge. Just truth.

"I need to do it myself."

That's the difference.

Every time before—when I've broken, when I've fallen apart—he's been there with a hand on my back, a voice in my ear, anchoring me. And I love him for that.

But this moment isn't about needing to be saved.

It's about learning I don't need to be punished.

The tears keep coming, slow and steady.

Not because I'm weak.

Because I'm alive.

Because I miss them—the seven I lost, though he doesn't know that.

Because I feel something for once, and it doesn't make me want to crawl out of my skin.

Because I'm not afraid of myself right now.

And maybe that's the scariest part of all.

I glance at him once, just enough to see his outline. He doesn't move. Doesn't say a word. His presence isn't invasive—it's steady. Patient. Like he understands that quiet is a kind of support too.

And maybe he does.

Maybe that's why he followed me.

Not to fix it.

But to witness it.

I lean my head back against the wall, eyes closed, throat open.

The grief flows through me like water through cracks—not to break me apart, but to remind me what's still whole.

And for the first time in a long time, I let it stay.

BODHI DURRAN

She doesn't tell me to stop following her.

She doesn't tell me to leave.

So I do what I've always done.

I stay.

She moves like she's trying to outrun something—except I know better. This isn't escape. It's direction. It's intention. She's not fleeing. She's choosing. Finding a place to let something loose that's too heavy to keep dragging behind her.

And maybe, maybe... she's letting me see it.

The corner she slips into is tucked away—half-buried under ivy and stone, hidden by the shape of the building, the hour, the weight of the dark. It's not a hiding place.

It's a sanctuary.

She settles against the far wall. No dramatic collapse. No frantic pacing. She just sits. Breathes. Exists.

And then she does the most terrifying thing I've ever seen her do.

She feels.

Not with fury. Not with a scream.

With stillness.

It's like watching the tide roll in. Slow. Measured. Soft in a way I didn't think she allowed herself to be. And gods, it's so different from the other times. The rare, breaking-point collapses I've witnessed. Those moments when everything spilled out of her in a mess of rage and sorrow and silence she couldn't bear.

This isn't that.

This is a choice.

She's letting it move through her. The pain. The sadness. The grief I don't have the context for but can feel in the air like static.

And I don't dare step in.

I pause in the doorway, letting my hand brush the stone frame as if touching it might steady me. I'm not sure if I'm meant to be here. If this is mine to witness.

Then she speaks. Quiet. Firm.

"If you stay, you have to be quiet."

I almost exhale in relief.

Not because I want to say anything—but because she's giving me permission to stay at all.

"I don't need to be talked through this one," she says. "Not like before."

I press my spine lightly to the wall, fold my arms, and lean into the silence.

"I need to do it myself."

And gods, I want to tell her how proud I am. How brave this is. How much strength it takes to let yourself feel in a world that punishes you for it.

But I don't.

Because that would be about me.

And this isn't mine.

It's hers.

I watch as a tear slips down her cheek, and something inside me flinches. Not out of pity. Not fear.

Something closer to awe.

This is the strongest I've ever seen her.

She's not flinching from it.

She's not pushing it down.

She's not apologizing for hurting.

I don't know who taught her that pain was something to hide. I don't know what she's carrying—what grief is surfacing in those tears—but I know this isn't weakness.

It's freedom.

And the fact that she's letting me be here while she reclaims it?

I don't take that lightly.

I don't shift my weight. I don't move closer. I don't ask if she's okay.

I just... stay.

Because I think that's what she needs from me right now.

To hold the quiet with her.

To witness, not intervene.

To be here, and not fix her.

She doesn't need saving.

She never has.

What she needs—what she's never been allowed to have—is space.

And if I can give her that?

If standing in this doorway helps her feel like she's still in control of her own heart?

Then I'll stand here all night.

I let my eyes fall half-closed, listening to the quiet of her breath, the soft sound of tears falling without apology.

No storm. No thunderclap.

Just rain.

Gentle. Cleansing. Real.

And I think—

If this is what healing looks like for her?

Then it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Chapter Text

AVA MELGREN

The quiet's different now.

Not brittle. Not heavy.

Just... still.

The tide's receded.

I can feel it—how the ache has loosened in my chest, how my breath comes easy again. Not because I shoved anything down, not because I buried it, but because I let it be. Let it move through me without trying to control it.

And now?

Now it's passed.

Not gone, not erased.

But quiet.

I run the back of my wrist across my face, not to hide the tears, just to clear the wetness. I'm not ashamed of them. Not this time.

That's new.

I sit for another breath, then another. Let the silence settle, weightless and warm.

He's still there.

I haven't looked at him since I asked him not to speak, but I feel him—anchored in the doorway like some silent promise.

And I want—

Gods, I want him beside me.

Not to hold me up. Not to fix me. Just... close.

"I'm okay," I say, barely above a whisper. My voice is hoarse, but steady. "You can come sit."

A pause.

Then the sound of his boots scuffing quietly against the stone. A gentle shift of weight. And finally, the warmth of him at my side.

He doesn't touch me.

Doesn't crowd.

Just sits.

Close enough to feel. Far enough to breathe.

I don't look at him, not right away. I'm still adjusting to the fact that this is allowed. That I can cry and not be punished. That I can ask for closeness and not be hurt for it.

I swallow. My throat still tight—but not from grief now. From something else. Something heavier, somehow.

"I... I wasn't going to let myself feel any of it."

The words come out slow, rough around the edges.

"I had to shut it off, Bodhi. After the Gauntlet. After everything. It was the only way I could function. And I know you saw it."

I glance at him now, just barely.

"I figured you were probably disappointed."

The truth makes my stomach twist.

Because his disappointment? That would cut deeper than anything. More than my father's anger. More than my own shame.

Because Bodhi doesn't see me the way the others do.

And the idea that I might've lost that version of me in his eyes—that I might've killed it when I dulled everything down—

It hurts.

More than I want it to.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, eyes locked on the ground between us. "I didn't know how else to survive it. I didn't want to stop feeling, I just... I couldn't carry all of it. Not then."

I inhale. Exhale.

"I'm trying."

The words feel small, but they cost something. They always do.

"I'm still trying."

I don't know what I want from him. Reassurance? Forgiveness?

But mostly, I think I just want him to understand.

That I haven't given up.

That I'm still here.

That I'm still me, even when I've dulled the edges.

And that sitting here beside him now?

This is the proof.

I didn't disappear.

Not completely.

And I don't plan to again.

BODHI DURRAN

She says she's trying.

Like that's something small.

Like that's not the bravest thing I've ever heard.

I don't look at her right away. I don't want to overwhelm her with the way I'm barely holding myself together. Not because I'm breaking, but because I'm so godsdamned full of what she's just given me.

Trust.

Truth.

Not all of it. I know that. There are still doors she hasn't opened. Still ghosts I don't have names for.

But this?

This is enough.

She thinks I'm disappointed.

She thinks shutting things down—dulling it—was a failure.

But gods, she doesn't understand what I saw.

What I see.

She didn't turn everything off.

Not this time.

She didn't disappear behind those unreadable eyes like she has before. She didn't vanish into that place where nothing touches her—not joy, not sorrow, not me.

No.

She stayed.

Maybe just barely. Maybe on the edge.

But she stayed.

And now she's here, emotions still humming beneath her skin, sitting beside me in the aftermath of her own grief. Present.

Real.

Alive in a way she hasn't let herself be in a long time.

And how do I put words to that?

How do I explain the way pride swells in my chest like it might crack me open?

I turn my head toward her slowly. Let her see my expression—open, unguarded, steady.

"You didn't shut them off."

My voice is low. Careful. But certain.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine—just for a second—and I hold her there.

"You dulled them," I say gently. "That's not the same thing. You kept something. You held onto it."

I shake my head once, slowly, because it feels too big to hold inside me.

"And now... they're back on."

I say it like a truth, not a question. Because it is.

Her emotions are on. I can feel them in the air around her. Like heat after a long, cold silence.

"I don't think you understand how proud I am of you."

The words fall out of me, heavier than I expect. But still not enough.

Because proud doesn't cover it.

No word does.

Not when I think about what it must've taken for her to sit here and feel on purpose. To let it move through her without shutting it down. Without running.

To let me be here while it happened.

"I've seen you turn it all off before," I murmur. "I've seen you vanish behind your own armor."

I glance down at the space between us.

"But tonight? You let it in. You let it move through you. And you're still here."

My hand twitches, not toward hers, just slightly—like my body wants to reach out, but knows better than to push.

"I don't think I could ever be disappointed in you for surviving, Ava."

I look at her again. And this time, I don't look away.

"You didn't disappear."

My voice softens.

"You came back."

And maybe she doesn't realize it yet, but that?

That changes everything.

AVA MELGREN

I freeze.

Not physically—I'm still breathing, still upright—but inside, something just... stops.

"I don't think you understand how proud I am of you."

Proud.

He said he's proud of me.

And not for something measurable. Not for a flawless strike or a clean kill. Not for obedience. Not for being useful or efficient or strong.

He's proud of me for feeling.

For trying.

For surviving without switching everything off.

I blink, slowly. My throat tightens for an entirely different reason now. Because I can't remember the last time someone said that to me—that word, like it wasn't dangerous. Like it wasn't a trap.

Proud.

I'd learned early that pride was a currency. A leash. A weapon.

My father only ever used it to manipulate me. With him, I'm proud of you meant don't disappoint me again. It meant you owe me.

But Bodhi says it like it's a gift.

Like I don't have to earn it with blood or silence.

And it stuns me.

Not because I think I deserve it—gods, half the time I'm not sure I deserve to be here—but because he noticed. He saw the one small thing I tried to do different this time. He saw the dulling for what it was: not weakness, not failure, just survival.

Just my best.

And he doesn't think it's shameful.

He thinks it's something to be proud of.

I don't even know how to respond.

My instincts scramble to cover it up. Make a joke. Roll my eyes. Say well, don't get used to it and pretend this doesn't matter.

But it does.

So much it feels like my chest is going to cave in.

Instead, I just whisper, "That's such a stupid thing to be proud of."

But I don't say it cruelly.

I say it like I'm trying to believe he means it.

I glance at him, finally, and I think he can see it—the fracture lines I've tried to seal, the confusion behind my stubborn pride. The way this one moment—his quiet approval—shifts something tectonic inside me.

He means it.

He really does.

And I don't know what to do with that.

So I don't do anything.

I just stay.

Next to him.

In this strange, soft quiet I don't fully understand.

Letting it hold me, the way I'm still trying to learn how to hold myself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We sit in the quiet for a little while—me, him, the air between us soft and steady like a ceasefire we're both trying not to break.

My shoulder's still touching his. I haven't pulled away.

I don't want to.

And maybe that's what makes me say it.

"Do you remember that time I fake cried in front of Dain?" I ask, staring straight ahead. "About my dead mother?"

I feel him turn to look at me, just slightly.

"Yeah," he says. A little cautious. A little curious. "You were... disturbingly good at it."

I let out a short laugh—something clipped and surprised and maybe a little real. "Disturbingly?"

He lifts a shoulder in that subtle way he does when he's trying to be nonchalant, but his eyes are watching too closely for it to stick. "What can I say? I was almost convinced."

"Good," I murmur, and for a second the grin almost lingers.

Then I exhale. Slow. And pull back the sleeve of my shirt.

Just enough to show him the scar.

It's faint now—pale against my skin, clean and tight—but unmistakable. Just below my shoulder. The kind of wound that leaves something behind no matter how well it's healed.

Bodhi stiffens.

I don't explain it right away. Just trace a finger near it, not touching, but remembering.

"I used the same trick on my father once," I say, voice lower now. "Tears. Emotion. He was meeting with a few of his soldiers in the yard, and I needed to distract him. Someone I cared about was sneaking past the edge of the estate with contraband, and if he'd turned around..."

I shake my head.

"I knew if I cried, he'd lose it. That I'd pay for it. I only got one cry for my mother, and I used that up the day she died. After that, showing emotion was disobedience."

A pause.

Bodhi says nothing.

Good.

So I keep going. Just enough to let it out. To stop it from rotting inside.

"I didn't even have to force the tears. I just remembered the moment I found out that they'd burned her body without me."

My throat tightens, but I keep my voice even.

"He didn't see it as strategy. Didn't think twice about why I did it. He was too furious at the weakness. I was disobedient, I was embarrassing him, I was soft."

I flick my gaze to Bodhi for just a second, then back down.

"And then he stabbed me."

I say it like fact. Because it is. Because that's how it's always been.

"No warning. Just... blade to the shoulder. Enough to make a point."

I roll my sleeve back down with mechanical care.

"He made me train through it for a week before I was allowed to get mended. Said pain would toughen the part of me that thought crying was ever acceptable."

Silence again.

Not the kind that suffocates.

Just the kind that witnesses.

And when I speak again, it's softer.

"He never figured it out. Never realized I used his own rage to protect someone else. That the whole breakdown was calculated."

I smile, barely.

"He just thought he won."

I don't know why I tell Bodhi this. Maybe because I want someone to know. Someone who'll understand that surviving in that house took more than strength—it took strategy. It took sacrificing my own body for someone else's safety and not flinching when the price came due.

Or maybe because while I can't tell him about my revolution I can show him the real me. That I'm not merely a puppet for my father.

I look down at my hands.

"They say crying is weakness. That emotion is the thing that gets you killed. But that night? My tears saved someone."

A pause.

"And they cost me nothing I hadn't already lost."

I don't look at him yet.

But I feel him.

Quiet. Still. Anchored beside me.

And maybe that's why it doesn't hurt as much as it used to.

BODHI DURRAN

She says it so plainly.

Like it's just a piece of her history. Like it doesn't ache through every part of her.

She sits there beside me, steady, sleeve rolled back down, the air between us thick with what she didn't cry for. What she wasn't allowed to cry for.

And all I can think—over and over—is that she should've been safe. She should've had someone who fought for her, not someone she had to outmaneuver just to survive.

Her father stabbed her.

Because she cried.

Because she made a tactical decision to protect someone else, and he saw that as weakness.

Because emotion, to him, was rebellion.

And I know exactly what men like that do to rebellion.

My throat goes tight.

He had my parents executed. Labeled them traitors, burned their legacy on nothing but silence and fear. Then he buried what they fought for so deep no one would dare dig it back up. Not unless they wanted to join them in the dark.

And now his daughter is sitting beside me, showing me a scar that proves he's not just a monster in history books. He's still here. Still leaving marks on people who didn't deserve them.

I want to tell her everything.

That her father is more than cruel—he's wicked in ways she doesn't even know.

That I'm part of something that would undo him, if only she knew.

But I can't.

Not yet.

So I give her what I can.

I shift a little, just enough to face her, not so much that I crowd her space.

"You know what gets me?" I ask, quiet.

She doesn't answer, but I see her tilt her head, listening.

"He stabbed you. Punished you. Trained you through blood and pain and silence. And you still used that same trick—tears—to save someone again."

I meet her eyes.

"You used the same weapon twice. Once when you were a kid with no power. And again when it could've exposed me. You took the hit both times, without hesitation."

Her mouth moves like she wants to argue, to shrug it off, but she doesn't.

And so I go on.

"That's not weakness, Ava."

My voice tightens, but I keep going.

"That's power your father will never understand. The kind that scares men like him. Because he tried to kill the part of you that feels—that loves, that protects—and he failed."

I pause. Let her sit with that.

Then softer—

"He failed."

Her eyes search mine, and I swear—for a second—I think she knows. Not the details, not the rebellion, but the truth beneath the lies.

That I'm protecting something.

That I want to protect her.

So I reach out—slowly, so she can see me coming—and I place my hand palm-up beside hers. No pressure. No touch unless she wants it.

"I'm sorry no one protected you when they should have."

A pause.

"But I see you now. All of it. All the ways you've survived without becoming the thing that hurt you."

A breath.

"I hope one day you see it too."

AVA MELGREN

We don't speak for a long time after that.

The silence between us shifts—less like the aftermath of something broken, more like the breath between tides. Full. Gentle. Steady. I don't know how long we sit like that—shoulder to shoulder, hearts slowing back into rhythm.

I don't thank him.

I don't explain what it means that I shared that story, or what it cost me to say it out loud.

And he doesn't ask.

He just stays.

Until the quiet settles so deep in my bones that it feels like I could fall asleep here, in this sliver of safety we've carved into the night.

Eventually, though, I stand. He follows without question, not close enough to crowd, not far enough to feel distant. Just there.

We walk through the corridors, through the thinning dark. The air is cooler now. The burn pit's flames have dulled to embers, glowing faintly in the distance.

We don't talk.

We don't need to.

When we reach the barracks, I pause at the mouth of the hallway, one hand resting against the stone wall, heart still heavy in a way that feels... earned.

He stops beside me.

I look at him then. His face in the low light. His eyes steady on mine.

And I already know what he's going to say.

It's become our ritual—quiet, simple, unshakeable.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, soft.

Then—like always—his voice lowers, gentler still:

"Even if."

I nod, throat tight, but I let the words settle into the hollow spaces of my chest like they belong there.

Even if.

Even if I break again.

Even if I snap.

Even if I shut down.

Even if I can't let him in tomorrow the way I did tonight.

He'll still come back.

And that?

That means more than he'll ever know.

"Night, Bodhi," I say quietly, and turn down the hallway without looking back.

But my hand brushes the scar on my shoulder, and for the first time in years, it doesn't burn.

It just... is.

Part of me.

And tonight, I'm letting that be enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The air is soft.

Warm and low like dusk in early summer—where everything glows gold and the world feels like it's holding its breath.

I walk a few paces ahead, boots silent on a forest floor thick with moss. Trees stretch above me, tall and old, branches tangled with light. The kind of green that only exists right before night falls. The kind that hums with memory.

I don't know how I got here.

But I don't care.

There's no sound but the hush of wind through leaves and the occasional rustle of something gentle in the underbrush. My muscles aren't tense. My jaw's not clenched. There's no voice in my head calculating exits or counting weapons.

I'm just... here.

And I'm not alone.

Behind me, there's a footstep. Then another. I don't look. I don't need to.

I feel him.

Bodhi's presence settles behind me like a second heartbeat. No rush, no pressure. Just the comfort of knowing he's there.

"Where are we going?" he asks, voice low and lazy, like he's just woken from a nap.

I don't answer right away. I'm not sure I know.

But then I see it.

Up ahead, the trees break open.

A clearing.

And in the center, not flowers this time, not grass—just a smooth stone ledge overlooking a river far below. The wind rises to meet us, sweet and cool. I step onto the stone and sit, boots dangling over the edge. He joins me a moment later, dropping down beside me like we've done this a hundred times.

He hands me something. An apple. Ripe and bright red and cold in my hand like it's been sitting in water.

I take a bite. The juice runs down my fingers. I don't wipe it away.

We sit like that for a while. Not touching, not speaking. The quiet between us isn't awkward or strained. It's easy. Full.

Eventually, he leans back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. "You always bring me to the strangest places."

I glance over. "You always follow."

His smile is slow. "Yeah, well. You're hard to ignore."

I take another bite of the apple and look out over the river. The sun's starting to dip, and everything glows amber. The kind of light that makes the world feel softer. Kinder.

"I like it here," I murmur.

He hums in agreement. "Me too."

A few minutes pass like that—minutes that feel like hours. The stone warm beneath me. The air alive with the scent of green things. My mind, for once, not spiraling. Not analyzing.

I look over at him.

And he's already watching me.

Of course he is.

His eyes are darker in this light. Gold catching on brown. He looks at me like I'm not broken. Like I'm not a list of mistakes held together by willpower and spite. Like I'm just... me.

"Do you think it'll ever be like this?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't answer. Just reaches for my hand and links our fingers together.

"I think," he says, "it already is. Right now."

I breathe in.

And for the first time in... gods, maybe ever—nothing hurts.

I don't want to leave.

Not this time.

Please. Just let me stay. Just a little longer—

My eyes open.

The ceiling is stone.

The scent is smoke and old fabric and metal polish.

The bed beneath me is thin. Cold where I didn't fill it. My fingers twitch across the sheet beside me.

No one's there.

The apple is gone.

The clearing never existed.

But my hand?

It's still curled like I was holding his.

And gods—

I wish I had been.

Chapter Text

After last night's controlled release—not a breakdown—classes had felt like static. Voices droning. Pages turning. Nothing new, nothing worth holding onto. My body moved. My mind didn't.

Now, I'm ducking through the side hall behind the kitchen, heading toward the small, unmarked door near the pantry. It's low enough I have to duck slightly to enter, the familiar scent of dust and leather greeting me like an old friend.

The storage room's cramped and cluttered with crates, stacked blankets, disused gear, and tools that haven't seen a forge in years. And perched on opposite crates near the back wall?