#empyrean

Do not dwell in your grief, Shadow Wielder.

Sgaeyl’s lush tone is a caress against the back of his mind. A soothing lullaby that makes him tilt his head up to the sky.

You are grieving just as much as I am, he replies.

Yes, but unfortunately I have someone to take care of, she huffs gently, the sound non-committal, barely aggressive. Totally unlike Sgaeyl if he has to be honest, she needs me.

How is she?

She does not want to talk to anyone. Has been hiding inside the Vale ever since.

Understandable.

Yes, Sgaeyl chortles once more, but I feel like it is high time I drag her out.

It’s only been three weeks, his lips curl up slightly.

Precisely my point, Shadow Wielder.

Her presence leaves his bond like the softest shadows giving way to sunlight and Xaden lets out a soft sigh, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head up to the bright blue sky. A few dragons are flying overhead, the sight surprisingly peaceful amidst the tormented waves of his heart.

It’s been three weeks since he’s seen Violet die in his arms. And yet, he still cannot fathom it, cannot believe that it is real. He must be dreaming; wrapped up in a horrible nightmare that seems to last forever. That’s what he hopes this is anyway. But every step forward, every injury that twinges at his movement makes him realize that this, indeed, is reality.

And that he’s still alive, somehow, even despite it all. That his dragon had made it, no matter how broken she was.

“Hey, they’re ready.”

He turns to find a red-eyed Dain with his arms crossed over his chest and looking ashen grey. His lips were turned down into a firm line and even at this distance Xaden can spot the bruises under his eyes.

Dain lifts a brow, “are you coming or what?”

It takes him a moment. But Xaden finally hauls himself up from his spot, dusting off his pants as he looks at the brunette.

“So?” He asks gruffly.

Dain’s eyebrows dip into a frown, “well, I suppose that’s the best they could do for her.”

“Meaning?” Xaden prods as he strides past, not glancing back to check whether Dain is following. The crunch of his boots join him in the muddy courtyard.

“That Violet would’ve hated all the fuss.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Xaden’s lips despite it all, “you’re right,” he croaked out, “she would’ve hated it.”

It hadn't been in his plans to bury the love of his life so early on. He imagined a wedding, living in his birthplace with her to rule by his side, having a myriad of children and learning how to let his heart love again after so long, after years of hiding and painfully facing the people that have hurt him and called him a monster.

Violet was the one that had chosen him, for who he was. Not for who he had been before, not for who he will be. But for what she saw in front of her eyes.

"And he'd lost her. It's like a curse, to still be living on this earth after she's gone, like Malek is laughing his face, scolding him and scoffing at his stupidity. Like, really? Did Xaden really think that he had a chance at a happy ending?

"Hey," Dain's voice brings him back to reality. He feels a warmth of a hand landing on his shoulder and stiffens automatically.

"It'll pass," says the brunette. He sounds less certain than he ever did, and for once Xaden doesn't feel like fighting with him, "it will hurt. But it will pass."

Bullshit, is what Xaden wants to say.

Because how in the world will it pass when every step he takes, every waking moment is haunted by Violet's absence?

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

... 3 MONTHS LATER ...

"You again?"

You don't even try to mask the surprise in your voice at this point. There stands the raven-haired man with the multitude of tattoos and the dark, onyx eyes that makes you want to grab your things and make a run for your life with one mere glance.

That's probably the third time this week that he's made his appearance at the Healer's Quadrant, and fuck knows you're tired of having to patch him up only for him to go and play swords so that he could re-open them once more, wasting all of your efforts in the process.

The dark-haired Rider steps in, dark gaze flickering past the empty beds as if assessing the area, before he finally makes his way towards an empty bed. You sigh, following after him and grabbing onto one of your first-aid kits on the way as you watch him settle onto the hard mattress without so much as a sound.

A man of such strength, and yet, looks like he's been broken from the inside out.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't bother acknowledging you. You've come to terms with his rudeness, but it still irks you, that he can waltz in here and ask for your services without batting an eye.

"So," you plop the first-aid kit atop the bed table next to him and cross your arms over your chest, giving him a once-over, "show me. What is it this time?"

The dark-haired rider flicks his gaze towards your face, a brief moment of assessment passes through his eyes. He then reaches for his tunic and in one swift movement, tugs it over his head.

You gasp.

There's blood everywhere.

On his neck. Along his collarbones. Slathered down his chest that you can barely make out where the wound starts and ends. You gape at him for a full five seconds. And then, your mouth snaps shut and you shake your head incredulously.

"What--" you stop yourself. What good will it do to ask him if he barely acknowledges you? "Gods, why in the world would you do this to yourself?"

You don't wait for him to respond before getting to work on his injury, not even flinching under his dark stare. He's been doing that a lot ever since he started coming here more frequently; staring you down as if he wants to make sure you know what you're doing, silently monitoring your progress and judging your skills.

It's almost like he has a lot to say. But doesn't.

And you want to ask. Except...he's a rider.

And riders...well, they always have secrets.

Secrets that you prefer not to know.

His gash is big this time, bigger than you've ever seen it to be. It runs all the way from his right shoulder blade down to the middle of his chest, almost like someone had slashed at him with a knife. You take your time to clean it up, wiping down the blood and disinfecting the wound as best as you can with some alcohol. At some point, you have him bite down onto a towel as you start sowing the skin closed and he grits his teeth under your ministrations, grunting with every poke of needle that pierces through skin.

“Sorry,” you mutter out when he swallows up what you feel might be a groan of pain. You’re not unfamiliar with its sensation and nod your head towards the bottle of whisky on the nightstand.

He does as told, swiping up the bottle with his good arm and taking a huge gulp.

Finishing up the last of the stitches, you cut off the rest of the thread and straighten up all while trying to avoid his very naked chest. The scent of blood is almost nauseating that you have to turn away.

“Right,” you feel awkward, his dark eyes are unsettling. They cause goosebumps to rise up along your arms and you continue on in a blunder, “no training for you until the stitches are out. It’s going to take a week unless you come in for mending. But Nolon’s a bit busy at the moment.”

“What’s his earliest slot?”

Your eyes snap up in surprise.

You’ve never actually heard him and his voice takes you by surprise. Rich, gravelly. With a depth that sends a fuzzy feeling down to your stomach.

“Uhm,” you can’t help but stammer when he’s looking at you with those deep, infinite onyx eyes, “early morning, I suppose. He’s up at five.”

“Fine,” the rider straightens up, grabbing ahold of his tunic while striding towards the entrance. He calls out over hos shoulder, “tell him not to be late.”

“Wait—“ you follow after him, “I need a name.”

And that’s when he pauses by the doorway, glancing back at you over his shoulder with furrowed brows and you swear you spot the slightest curve of his lips.

“Tell him,” he says, “it’s for Xaden Riorson.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“You need to find another hobby other than getting yourself beaten up.”

You let out an annoyed sigh as you swipe at his brow. Once again, this rider — Xaden Riorson— is here so that you can patch up his wounds and honestly, it’s starting to get a little infuriating.

Xaden lets out a sound between a huff and a laugh, and you take it as progress. Between the two of you, he hasn’t bothered speaking to you again. But that doesn’t deter you from telling him off when you can.

This time it’s his face. Bruised and battered in so many places that you can’t count that he looks like a walking artwork. Not that he seems to mind though. On the contrary, it’s almost like he revels in the fact that he hurts himself, as if he does it on purpose just to fall victim to the pain. As if it’s the only way he can feel alive.

Not that you’ve asked. You’ve healed too many riders to know that asking questions is not something that you can do. Not with him, not when they’re always so filled with secrets like they’re the ones solely responsible for the success of Basgiath and the powering of the wards.

Pompus jackasses, that’s what your friend Kaede would say.

Finally clean of all the blood splattered over his face, you dab some healing ointment onto a cotton paid and gently dab it along his cheek, the bridge of his nose, all the way down to his jawline where you can still see the scrape of a wound.

Xaden hisses, his beautiful face turning away on impulse.

You tut, “don’t move.”

He tenses, but does as he’s told until you are finished.

You let out a soft breath as you pull back and throw away your cotton pads, “alright. You’re done,” tiredness lines your voice. It’s been a rough week and you’re inclined to dump yourself in your bed for the rest of the weekend, “I’d hold off on sparring for now.”

You pause then, eyes flickering back to his and trying not to gaze at his beautiful, broad set of shoulders, the muscles cording and rippling whenever his arm bunches.

“But what I say doesn’t matter…does it?”

His dark eyes lift to yours.

Something in his jaw locks. He averts his gaze.

“Look,” a soft sigh escapes your lips as you proceed to disinfect your tools, “I don’t know why you’d want to do all this—“ you motion towards his body then, “—to yourself. But it’s not helping.”

He stays quiet.

“And this is my quadrant. It’s my duty to mend anyone who walks through these doors,” you continue, “but you’re doing this to yourself on purpose. And I can’t just keep mending you.”

Xaden’s eyes lock back onto yours.

You flinch. Look down.

Because dear gods, he is terrifying.

Slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey, he stands and it’s only then that you notice how tall he is, how imposing. Because you keep on craning your neck and— bless Malek, what in god’s name is this man made of?

He takes one step towards you.

Then another.

And another.

Until you’re forced to look up into his eyes and all breath ceases you at the intensity in his dark pools of onyx.

When he speaks next, his voice is rough and deep, striking a chord through your tummy.

“Do you know who I am?”

You blink, “uhm—no?”

You wonder if it’s your imagination that plays tricks on you— the way the corner of his lips curl up to the side.

Not a smile. But close enough.

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” he leans in close, so close that you lurch back on instinct. Dark, black onyx glimmers with gold as they clash with your brown ones, “stay away from me.”

You swallow. Clamp your lips together but hold his gaze in defiance, “you’re the one coming to me,” your voice falters at the coldness in his eyes, “…if I remember correctly.”

He makes a sound, low in his throat, like he can’t quite believe you, before swivelling around and striding out the door without another word. You’re still clutching at your medicine, the vials clustered against your chest, and let out an exasperated huff.

What a jackass, you can’t help but think to yourself.

And you’re stupid enough to mend his every whim, just because he’s got a cute face.

He doesn’t come back for the rest of the week, which is good because you’ve seen enough of him to last you a lifetime. The weekend finally comes around and you take this moment to scurry out into the courtyard on Saturday afternoon, enjoying the way the summer breeze cools off your sweat-slicked skin while munching on some fruit you’d carried out from your dining hall.

That’s when you see them. The riders.

They’re dresses in all black as usual, like bands of shadows moving across the field with the kind of silent confidence only reserved towards their kind. You huff and look away, but glance back in realization that you know one of them.

It’s Xaden, in all his six foot four glory, striding through the courtyard and looking pissed as hell.

The conversation increases to distinct voices as they approach and you quickly turn your face away, proceeding to stuff your face to distract yourself from the fact that you’re not technically supposed to be eavesdropping on whatever they say.

But to be true, you were here before them. So surely they should be the ones moving, right?

“—cannot just abandon them. We’ve worked too hard for this,” one of them is talking. He’s smaller in build, but still as impressive, with young features and a trimmed beard along his jawline, “we must find another way.”

“You’re being very loud Bodhi,” the other one, with the broader shoulders and an easy smile, quips up, “need a microphone?”

The younger one, Bodhi, just scowls at his friend, “we’re far from the Riders. No one will understand anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you can scream it at the top of your lungs—“

“I wasn’t screaming—“

“Both of you shut up,” Xaden finally snaps.

You flinch from where you sit, sneaking a raisin into your mouth and hoping against hope that he walks straight past you.

He does, and you wait with bated breath until the three figures disappear behind the stone bridge that will lead them back to the Rider’s Quadrant before finally allowing yourself to collapse against your picnic mat, heart galloping so fast you swear you can feel yourself having a heart attack.

Gods. Whoever he is that Xaden Riorson, you decide that he’s not good news and that you should stay away from him. As far as you possibly can.

Alas though, it seems like Malek is out for your soul today, for as the evening sun slowly slips away beneath the shadows of the castle, you’re about to pack up your things when you feel a restraining pull against your arm.

You look down, letting out a sharp yelp upon noticing that there’s a tendril of black halting your movements.

What in Malek’s name—

“I thought I told you to stay away.”

His voice prickles with anger. The kind that rumbles through him, causes your breath to stutter in a gasp.

You turn your head— very slowly— until your eyes skid up to find Xaden leaning against one of the trees.

You tug on your arm but the tendril of black is more resistant, weaving around your entire elbow, “let me go,” you try to sound firm.

Xaden pushes off the tree in one swift motion before closing the gap between your bodies. His eyes are hard and steely as they search your features for any kind of tell that you’re lying.

“You’re going to tell me exactly what you heard,” he murmurs softly, “and I’ll consider letting you go unscathed.”

“I’m not bound by your rules,” you stammer out, heart banging wildly inside your chest, “you cannot just order me around—“

The shadows surge up and make a grab at your neck. You yelp as it tightens around your throat, eyes widening with panic.

“I can,” warning lines his tone, “so speak.”

“I didn’t hear anything I swear,” you stutter through words, helplessly fighting against the shadows pinning you in place, “I just— I was having a picnic and I saw you guys coming from the forest. That’s all, I didn’t hear anything of substance. And—And anyway, I wouldn’t even understand half of what you’re saying—“

The vines crawl up your nape and tighten even more, causing you to gasp out as fear trickles through you.

You struggle desperately as tears line your eyes, “please please, I promise I’m not lying, I—“

And then, the shadows fall away.

You crumble to your knees and gasp for breath, chest heaving as logic and reason make it back to you like finally breaking through cold icy waters after being deprived of oxygen. You don’t notice Xaden approaching until you spot his booted feet just mere meters from yours and you quickly shoot, stumbling and falling onto your backside as you do so.

How pathetic. You wish for the ground to swallow you up right there and then.

“Why are you out here alone?”

Your eyes snap up to his face, taking note of the rigid line of his jaw.

You swallow thickly and measure your words carefully, “I have some…time off.”

You realize how lame it sounds that you’re out here alone, enjoying what you call a picnic when it’s basically just you and your sandwich. And from the cocked brow that Xaden gives you, it’s clear he’s thinking of the same thing.

“Alone?” He echoes.

“Alone, yes.”

A pause. Then, his eyes narrow.

“Why?”

You blink up at him, slowly stumbling to your feet as you do so, “what do you mean— why?”

Keeping hold of his onyx eyes, you don’t fail to miss the flash of pity surging through his gaze. You quickly look away, a rock forming in your throat at the pathetic picture you probably paint for him.

“Don’t think that the Riders’ quadrant is the only place they call hell,” is what you finally murmur out after a long, prolonged silence, “the Healer’s quadrant is not as nice as it seems to be.”

“I never said that.” He said, tone clipped.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

For a second, you spot the surprise on his face. That quickly disintegrates into forced neutrality as he replies, “it sound suspicious, is all.”

You can’t help the exasperated sigh that escapes, “honestly, can you just give me a break? Are all riders such dicks?”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward, “apologies, on behalf of the rider’s quadrant.”

“I’m not here to kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” you huff, “otherwise I would’ve done it already.”

He hums, cocks his head, “fair point.”

“So…am I off the hook?”

“For now.”

“For now?” You frown, “what does that mean?”

“It means I’m still keeping an eye on you,” he steps back then, throwing a hand up in a casual wave as he turns away, “don’t make me regret it.”

“Regret what?” Annoyance bristles through you as you call after him.

His next set of words send a chill down your spine.

“Not killing you.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“You did not say that to him.”

You’re halfway through spearing your chicken with a knife while your one and only friend, Kaede, looks at you like you’ve just told him you’d set the riders’ quadrant on fire.

“What?” You frown at the way he’s looking at you, all horrified eyes and a look of utter disbelief in his eyes, “he was annoying.”

“Tala, do you even know who this man is?” Kaede’s eyes are as wide as saucers, which keep on growing bigger and bigger with every word that leaves her mouth, “he’s Xaden Riorson. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

Should it?

“Fen Riorson’s son?!” Kaede waves his fork around with barely restrained frustration, “the one who practically brought war to Basgiath?! He led the Rebellion?!”

It doesn’t make sense at first.

Until it does.

The pieces fall into place and you suck a breath as panic barrels into you without warning.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Fen Riorson ‘s son.

You’ve been insulting Fen Riorson’s son.

“And if that isn’t enough to scare you away, this guy is practically bonded to one of the most ferocious dragons Navarre has ever seen,” Kaede continues in a flurry of words, “you cannot just casually address him— scratch that, just don’t talk to him full stop unless you want to be charred to bits.”

There are countless rumours regarding the youngest Riorson and you’ve heard of too many to count ever since your conscription. But it hadn’t clicked back then, that the rider with a broken heart and moping around the Healers Quadrant would be the same merciless, flesh-killing vagabond that would be spoken of in hushed murmurs down the corridor.

But the dark eyes. The cold, clipped tone in which he spoke. The way he held himself, like a weapon and as though ready for any surprise attack. As though he was born to kill.

A shiver runs up your spine as dread slowly curls into your stomach.

“Oh my god,” Kaede is looking at you like you’ve grown an additional head, eyes wide, “oh my god,” he breathes and starts fanning himself as he shakes his head, “you—you didn’t have a clue, did you?”

You bite your lip, trying your best to force your dinner down even though you feel like it might come right back up at this rate.

"Stay the hell away from that guy, Tala," Kaede tuts, "he literally screams danger."

You hum in response, ducking your head and hoping against hope that Xaden Riorson doesn’t appear before you ever again after that last encounter.

Alas, for some unknown reason, he seems to turn up at the exact time your shift starts. You see him standing the double oak doors and quickly slip behind one of the makeshift curtains for privacy, motioning for one of your classmates to take him instead with the excuse that you need to re-arrange the medicine box.

But she comes to fetch you ten minutes later in the storage room.

“That rider is looking for you, Tala,” your classmate, Ariel, says as she props open the door.

Your grip tightens on the bottles in your arms, “why?” You mutter aloud more to yourself than to her.

She shrugs, “only Malek knows. But he’s got a nasty bruise on his lip. It’s split open.”

You all but storm back into the Healer’s room with barely restrained anger only to spot the said Rider decked in his flight leathers still, his onyx eyes finding yours like he’s been waiting for you all along.

“You’re avoiding me,” he states when you come close enough to hear. His face is a cold, impassive mask that makes you want to run for the hills.

You swallow thickly and avert your eyes, focusing on the wound instead, “I was busy. Someone else could’ve tended to your wound.”

It takes a long moment for him to answer. His eyes are so intense they practically bear holes through your face, “I don’t trust anyone.”

You blink in surprise, “and you trust me? After what you’ve done to me in the courtyard?”

Amusement curls at the corner of his lips and something in his gaze lightens, “had to make sure you weren’t bluffing.”

Anger simmers through your stomach, but you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood as you set about fussing over his injury. Before he has time to process, press the cotton pad filled with disinfectant to his split lip.

Xaden tenses but makes no noise, though it’s clear that it hurts as much as it should. Satisfaction curls through you at his lack of response, glad that it’s gotten him to shut up at least.

You hate people like him. Who walk around with all the power, knowing that others fear him just because of his goddamn name.

You hate people like him, who believe that everyone owes him the truth just because.

It’s not until you’re almost done with his wound that Xaden speaks. By then, most people have left the Ward in favour of grabbing dinner, leaving you alone with Navarre’s most impressive warrior and your fingers are shaking as you force yourself to finish up as quickly as possible.

“You’re afraid of me.”

He says it like a statement. Not a question.

You freeze underneath his stare. Hating how your heart does a small flutter at the intensity in his eyes.

“No I’m not,” you let out a small laugh, trying your best not to sound shaky, “why would you say that?”

He sends you a look that says he’s not convinced, “is there another reason why you sent someone else to clean my wound?”

“Like I said— I was busy. Packing up the medicine.”

“And yet, you look like you’re ready to bolt.”

Your eyes snap up to his and flinch. Your heart drops to your stomach at the cold, calculating way his features are set in stone.

You’re literally seconds away from bolting.

“Why—“ you bite at the inside of your cheek and forced your hands to keep going, to not let yourself fall apart underneath his stony countenance, “why are you doing this to me?”

Your voice is shaky. It gives away to the fear you feel but you can’t help it. You are scared of him. Because these hands can kill you. Can practically rip your throat apart if he wanted to.

You stumble back on impulse but you realise you can’t go any further when there’s a shadow curling around the back of your calf.

The hold is firm. Not tight, but it keeps you there and your horrified eyes go back up to Xaden as you try to squirm against whatever magic trick he’s doing.

“What— let me go,” your hands go up to try anything, but shadows are there too, gripping your wrists and caging you on the spot. Fear curdles your stomach like spilt milk, “what are you doing?!”

Xaden still sits. He leans forward, hands clasping together as his elbows press against his knees. He’s searching your face, it’s clear he’s trying to figure out whether you’re still against him or on his team.

“I’m having a hard time,” he says it low, slowly so that you hear every word. His tenor is laced with danger, the kind that makes you want to shrivel, “believing that you told me the truth back then.”

“What?! No! I told you the truth!”

“And yet you avoid me.”

“Because you scare me!”

The words roll off your tongue before you can stop them. He looks at you with mild surprise, your wide, terrified eyes meeting his as dread coils in your stomach.

Fuck. You’re fucked.

Cooked for good.

He’s going to feed you to his dragon.

He’s going to burn you to ash.

Oh who are you kidding? One twist of this weird dark vine thing around your neck and snap it in half.

You’d be dead in a heartbeat.

And then, just when you think he might pulverize you with a flick of his fingers—

The shadows fall away.

You gasp.

Fall to your knees, chest heaving from the aftermath of this near-death incident. It takes you every ounce of self-restraint not to throw up on Xaden’s boots.

He leans down so that you’re face to face with him, dark eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite figure you out. Like he’s trying to read you.

“I’m not the one you should be scared of,” he says coldly, “I don’t know what you’ve heard. About me, who I am. And truthfully, I don’t give a damn. But you will trust me when I say this—“

“Trust you?” You gasp for breath, heave and stammer. Sweaty strands of hair stick to your cheeks, your lip. You forcefully brush them away, “trust you? When all you do is—is threaten me?”

“Yes,” he answers flatly, “because you don’t want to know what’s outside these walls.”

He doesn’t give you time to reply, already straightening and walking out from where he’d come from. You wait for his footsteps to recede until there’s nothing but the empty walls that ring with silence, and that’s when you slowly get to your feet and try not to let your fear consume you whole, shaky legs and all.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

What is wrong with him?

That's all that's been running through Xaden's mind the moment he's left you behind, gasping and reeling, on the Healer Quadrant's floor. He strides forward without looking back, calling for his shadows to mask his footsteps so that he blends into the night and does not stop, not until he reaches the Rider's Quadrant, all the way to his room.

It's only when he locks his door and seals it with a silent locking spell that he falls back against its surface, letting out a staggered breath that he's been holding all along.

Why is he being like this?

She torments you, Sgaeyl's lazy drawl curls around his bond, a midnight shadow shimmering past his closed lids, why is that so, Shadow Wielder?

"I can't read her," he whispers, jaw clenching at the thought.

Maybe there is a reason for that, Sgaeyl answers.

What if she's a traitor? Or a spy? Xaden's thoughts reel to a stop as panic takes over, what if she's one of them?

She is too clueless, too human to be even considered a worthy opponent, Sgaeyl huffs as though the idea is laughable, she can barely stand on her own two feet.

Something’s off, Xaden tells his dragon.

You are overthinking it.

You underestimate my instincts.

She is just a girl. A naive, stupid girl.

And what if she's not? He walks over to his window and peers out into the darkness. With no one in sight and only the lamps shining over the courtyard, the place almost looks peaceful. A pang of sorrow washes through his heart at the memory of the blissful nights he'd spend by Violet's side.

He would give anything to bring her back.

Gods, he'd sacrifice himself to Malek if that's all that it took.

But life unfortunately does not work that way. And he's left to suffer alone. Maybe it's fate, it's to atone for all the sins he's done. After all, he's not a hero. Just someone who wants to make things right despite being branded evil.

And yet, he would’ve spilled all of his secrets, just because he can’t seem to read you. Just because whenever he tries to probe your mind all he gets is a massive brick wall that seems unsurmountable.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he gets a whiff of your emotions whenever they’re strong enough to overwhelm your control. But most times, most times it’s as though he’s talking to an invisible wall.

And that frustrates him to no end.

So preoccupied he is with his own mind that he doesn’t hear the soft knock on his door. Until Garrick’s voice echoes from the other side:

“You in there, Riorson?”

Xaden’s head tilts up. A moment later, he unlocks the door to find the other young man sporting an expression he cannot quite place.

“What is it?” Xaden asks roughly.

Garrick pushes past him and enters the room, hand carding through his hair as he does, “there’s been an attack from venin. Another neighboring village close to our borders.”

Xaden instantly straightens, alert, “how many dead?”

“Don’t know yet. The Fliers didn’t reach in time. Village was already in ruins when they got there," Garrick presses his lips together to draw a thin line, "they need more weapons. It's the only way."

"And how do you suggest we do that when we're already stealing as much as we can?" Xaden snaps, "You saw what happened at Resson. They know we're up to something. They just don't know what."

"So we're just going to let them die? Is that what we were doing all this time? Is this the reason we're risking our lives to smuggle weapons out?" Garrick's voice rises and Xaden clenches his jaw in response, "we need to get away from here, Xaden. I say we sneak out and disappear before they even realise it."

"They're going to send me away soon," the dark-haired shadow wielder leans back against his desk, his muscles aching from the tiredness of sparring for three whole hours before this. He rubs at his jaw in thought, "they're watching me very closely. I cannot move against them. Not right now."

"So then?" desperation lines his friend's voice, "what do we do?"

Xaden settles his dark eyes over his friend and his tone suggests that whatever he says is final, "we lay low. I'll scout for information once I'm sent to the outpost. For now, don't do anything that might attract attention."

Garrick is clearly not convinced, but who is he to fight his leader when all Xaden has done was for the good of his people?

It's only when his friend leaves with a soft grumble of approval that Xaden finally allows himself to breathe. He washes away the grime and dirt from his earlier training before collapsing onto his bed, trying not to think too much about the missing warmth that used to welcome him in the form of his lover.

Do not blame yourself, Sgaeyl murmurs from the other end of the bond, go to sleep, shadow-wielder. You'll need it.

He isn't the type to listen to his dragon. Under any normal circumstances, Xaden would find himself pacing his bedroom floor as he tries to piece together solutions and strategies the next few moves.

But he finds he cannot find the energy to. Or maybe that isn't it. There's been something off with him ever since Violet's death and he's pretty certain it's his broken heart.

And so he closes his eyes and allows the shadow to wrap him up in its arms.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

A month goes by. Then two. Then three.

Before you know it, you've placed Xaden Riorson at the back of your mind and hoped that he wouldn't appear before you again like a nightmare you'd rather forget.

Soon enough the weather turns cold, the air crisp with the north winds as fall takes its place. The trees turn beautiful shades of orange and yellow and russet brown, the foliage transforming the land into an array of warm colours that always manages to catch your breath. You barely get glimpses of it though, in-between study sessions, theory courses and being on shift at the Healers' Quadrant for Infantry and Riders, there is barely any time to rest, the urgency of having Healers deployed all along Navarre a rumour that only seems to expand tenfold as the weeks go on.

You're dispatched to one of the outposts of Samara as part of your Healer Theory module, in order to shadow the third-years that are currently stationed there, and it is no surprise that you have no other choice to get to that outpost other than on the back of a dragon. That is, unless you want to take the travel route which takes more than enough time for the entire outpost to be torched to pieces before your arrival.

Needless to say, the dragons make you want to run for it. That, or pee your pants.

"Don't worry," one of the riders whose face seems eerily familiar, steps forward with an easy smile, "they won't bite. Unless we ask them too. Or if you piss them off."

"No eye contact," says another blonde rider, "don't squirm. Don't move until we tell you to, unless you want to be charred for this night's dinner."

You swear you can feel your heart pound when the familiar-looking rider steps towards you, an arm outstretched in a friendly gesture, "Come on then," his voice is deep and rich, like that of gravel, and it's quite the torture how handsome he is when the beast that huffs behind him is more than ten meters tall and has teeth as big as your entire body.

You stretch out a shaky hand, eyes darting to the ground and gluing there the entire time he helps you climb the scales. They are smooth and warm under your touch, not a sensation that you had expected. You reach the top seat and the rider practically hauls himself up with the ease of a monkey before reaching out for your hand.

You take it, breath stuttering when he hauls you up like you weigh nothing before instructing you to sit right behind him, hands locked around his waist.

"Hold on tight. You don't want to fall off," he says, sneaking a peek at you from behind his shoulder with another grin, "my name's Garrick Tavis. This is Chradh. He's usually nice, though I doubt he likes strangers."

You can't help but flinch when you feel the dragon rumble a growl from deep inside its belly.

Garrick tips his head back in laughter, "I'm joking. He's telling me off for frightening you."

And with a final wink, his dragon launches into the sky.

Your scream is lost within the winds that howl through your ears and on impulse you just hold onto Garrick for dear life. Your arms are an iron grip that don't cease, not even when you finally spot Samara from the distance.

He helps you down like a gentleman, holding onto your hand and grabbing your waist to lift you from his dragon and settling you on solid ground.

You blush, stumbling back while you mumble out, "th--thank you."

"Pleasure's all mine," he grins with sparkling eyes, "what's your name again? Sorry, I didn't even ask."

"Tala Huang," you mumble out. You can still hear your heart pounding inside your ribcage, and you're surprised he cannot hear it too.

"Well, it was nice to fly with you, Tala Huang."

It isn't until evening time, after you're all showered and glowing from the warmth of the baths, settled into the Healer's common room while you wait for your shift to begin, that you come face to face with none other than the one person you were trying so hard to avoid.

You practically jolt up from your seat, eyes wide, "wh--what are you doing here?"

Xaden cocks a brow and god does he know it makes him hot. Your face flames as he strides in, dark brows furrowed as his eyes look you up and down like he's not quite sure what to do with you here.

You back up unconsciously, the back of your knees hitting the soft mattress. Words dry up at the back of your throat.

He cocks his head to the side, "I'll have you know that I was the one dispatched to Samara."

"You're--" your brain reels with shock at that information, "you're a graduate? You--You've been here all this time?"

"Why?" he takes a step closer, "miss me?" his lips curl up into a smirk.

You frown and hope he can't spot your soft blush, "no."

Turning away to busy your hands with the medicine box, you wait for him to sit atop one of the beds before treading over to him with more reluctance than necessary.

"So, what do you need?" you ask while taking out your disinfectant and finding your cotton pads. A mere habit now, one that you've developed because of him.

Xaden's eyes are still on you, flickering across your features as though trying to read you.

Then, he turns away slowly. Almost hesitant as he lifts the edge of his shirt to show you his back.

You gasp at the huge, gaping wound sizzling with blood. It's ghastly, like a creature has chomped onto his skin and wrenched it away. And it must hurt like hell, surely.

"What in Malek's name..." your words trail off as your eyes find his face. But his is set in stone, jaw ticking and body tense.

"Don't ask," he grumbles.

You take his advice and get to work, the silence enveloping you like a gentle hum as the wind— muffled by the windowpanes — echoes through the stone walls.

It’s impossible to to admire the said rider when he’s sitting right in front of you; his chest is broader than most men you’ve seen, not to forget that he’a built like a goddamn fortress. Every single muscle in him cords and bunches with every movement, like a sinuous dance that makes your mouth water. You breathe out through your nose and grip the cotton pads a little tighter as you clean around his wound, trying not to blatantly stare at his abs despite the fact that they’re right there.

You’re not immune to men, and you’re not all that innocent either. Throughout your first-year it was safe to say that you had a flirtation going on with one of the cadets from Infantry. But that had soon turned to dust the moment he’d told you he hadn’t wanted any kids and that women should stay in the kitchens where they belonged, just like his mother had. After all, you’re here for the long ride, not for a vacation hookup, as amazing as it sounds. That, and the fact that you did not work your ass off just to be stuck home while your husband is out making a career for himself.

With all the Healer preparation exams, the late nights, the continuous shifts in the Infirmary, you’d practically closed yourself off to any romantic adventures lest you failed to pass your exams.

But by gods, just one glance in Xaden’s direction makes your insides turn to mush.

“Like something you see?”

You’re so caught up in your own head that you don’t realize you’re staring blankly at the said six-pack in question, until his voice snaps you back to reality.

Heat blazes through your cheeks. You whip your head away, focusing on treating his wound as you curse at yourself inwardly, “you wish, Riorson.” You mutter.

“I didn’t know Healers were dispatched before graduation,” Xaden shifts to the side so that you have better access to his wound.

You grab another cotton pad and soak it up with healing medicine; a crushed mixture of natural ingredients that speed up the healing process and would dry it off, “it’s part of our term grade. We shadow graduates and receive hands-on training,” you spare him a glance then, “but this is the first time they’ve sent someone this far.”

He hums, “are you the only one dispatched here?”

“To Samara, yes.”

When your eyes flit up next, they lock on his own. You notice, for the first time, that his pupils are dark, flecked with golden.

“This is Navarre’s cruelest outpost,” Xaden searches your eyes with that same, poised mask that makes you want to shrivel up, “why would they send you here, if not to die?”

The word death reverberates through you and you flinch back on impulse, “what? What are you talking about?”

“We're practically on Poromiel's border, making us the primary target for our enemies," something that looks like half-amusement flickers across Xaden's features, "did they not tell you that before you volunteered?"

"I did not volunteer," you try not to let the panic take over, instead focusing on dressing his wound and putting on a plaster so that it won't get infected. Your hands are shaking at this point, and it's definitely not from the cold, "I was assigned to it without choice."

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't have to. It's as clear as day that being stationed here is literally like a guillotine hanging over your head. You might die tonight. Or tomorrow. Or in the days to come.

"Stay away from the guard towers," Xaden speaks, his voice somehow softer. Or maybe it's just your imagination, though you do flinch when his gold-flecked dark eyes meet yours next, "lay low and don't bring any attention to yourselves. The riders here are not like the ones in Basgiath. They're..." he presses his lips so tight they form a thin line, "they won't hesitate to kill you if they think you're a nuisance. Just stay inside the Healer's quarters as much as possible, unless you have specific reason to be out."

You blink at him, "why..." you hesitate, not knowing exactly what to say. This is the rider that had practically threatened to end your life and now, he's being all protective? "why are you telling me this?"

His brow lifts in that very seductive way of his, the corner of his kips curling up, as though amused by your display of confusion and nervousness.

"Do you want to die?" he asks.

"No."

"Then do as I say."

Smartass, is what you want to yell. But you don't. What if he's the one that kills you for being out of line. You clamp your lips together and finally draw back, motioning towards his abdomen, "you're all set," you say in a grumble, "I would tell you not to spar, but you won't listen anyway, so what's the point?"

"Feisty," he smirks, "didn't know you had it in you."

"Oh shut up Riorson," you roll your eyes, move away and start to pack the medicine bottles, "and don't let it get into contact with water. if you have to clean it, come see me," you say over your shoulder.

You almost yelp when you feel the warmth of his breath along the back of your head.

You freeze, eyes widening as you realise that he's standing millimetres from you and could practically thrust a knife into your chest and be done with it.

And when he speaks next, his tenor practically rumbles through the walls in a vibration that has your skin sizzling.

"I never asked for your name."

"Uhm..." you scramble for a response and have half a mind to lie about it, but decide that maybe it might bite back at you later, "Tala," you murmur out with a defeated sigh, "Tala Huang."

You don't have to look at him to know that there's another growing smirk on his face when he says, "try not to get yourself killed, Tala Huang."

He's gone before you can turn around.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, gazing at the emptiness that now surrounds you. Funny. When Xaden was here, his presence had filled the entire room and you'd felt safe. Now, with the cold walls and the soft howling wind your only companions, the Healers Quarters isn't looking the most friendly.

Great, and now I'm becoming used to him, you mutter inwardly to yourself.

That is definitely something you don't want to get accustomed with. Because, for all you know, Xaden Riorson is a monster.

A very handsome monster.

But a monster nevertheless.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Xaden's life soon becomes routine at Samara, whether he likes it or not.

He spends the early morning inside the sparring gym training with whoever is available at the moment, faces and names that he doesn't quite know yet recognises all too well by the shapes of their blows and their signet abilities manifesting on the mat. Then, he grabs a quick breakfast before heading out into his first patrol of the morning. He flies all the way till mid-afternoon, sometimes more, rotating around the perimeter until his superiors are satisfied with his work and dismiss him for the night. He then either eats his dinner inside his room, entertained with none other than his dragon that exchanges comments and pleasantries as he wolfs down his food, or finds himself searching for any kind of rooftop upon which he will sit and watch the night sky unfolding before his very eyes.

Sometimes. Just sometimes, he'll tread down to the Healing Quarters and allow his shadows to reach for you. Gently. Out of sight. But still there.

It's merely his amusement. His curiosity, at the incredible innocence that seems to drip from your countenance. You're a walking rabbit into a lion's angry den and you don't even realise it. Your wide eyes are always filled with the fear of being eaten alive and the only time Xaden sees you actually comfortable in your skin is when you have a medicine box in your hand, or when you're diligently stitching up someone.

And that's fascinating. Because despite the shy, reserved nature that is you, the girl that keeps to herself and doesn't usually speak her mind, is a quiet confidence as you work through horrible wounds, burns, scars that can traumatise literally anyone in this Outpost. But not you. Never you.

The contradiction is a miracle. And one that fascinates the said raven-haired shadow-wielder.

That, and the fact that he can't read you no matter how much he tries.

So he settles for watching over you from afar. Reading into your mannerisms, understanding every tick, every tell that you have; like chewing on your lip whenever you're afraid of saying something. Walking with your eyes downcast like you fear anyone that might approach you. Scratching your jawline when you're in deep thought. You're always ready to help, so eager in your movements that sometimes you get clumsy. And that small, humanistic aspect renders you...what? Cute? Adorable? Sure, that can work. As adorable as a five-year old kid at a Carnival fair.

That's what Xaden tells himself. You're like a sister. A sister that he can't see as anything more.

Hell, he's still not over Violet. He will never be.

Because he's the famous Xaden Riorson and because you're you, he doesn't want people to notice someone as defenceless as you are. And so, sends out his shadows to do whatever he cannot. For instance, hiding behind the doors during your night shifts and allowing his shadows to support your feet whenever he senses that you're tired, or letting the darkness accompany you back to your room until you're safe and locked away. You don't take notice, or maybe you don't even know that this is him. Maybe you can feel something different, something more than just the air. But somehow, your inability to recognise his power makes you even more...endearing. In a way.

You are getting soft for this girl, Sgaeyl chuffs at him when he meets her along the tower's border one morning.

Nonsense, Xaden replies flatly as he climbs up her midnight scales and settles along her back. Sgaeyl lets out a grunt, launching into the air a beat later as her wings expand to catch the morning drift.

Then what is it with your little escapades down to the Healers' room? Why are you so insistent on keeping her safe?

She's defenceless. I'm just doing my job.

And who told you to do that for her? Last I heard, you were not responsible for anyone but yourself, shadow-wielder. Do not forget why you are here, why the Marked ones depend on your survival.

He clenches his teeth together, leaning to the side when his dragon suddenly banks left, "you don't need to remind me," he snaps.

Sgaeyl is right. He doesn't need any more distractions. The civilians around the border are getting attacked and the wards are slowly failing with every day that passes. Now is not the time to be looking for any sexual escapades in the form of any kind; rider or healer or infantry alike.

But when he finds another rider trying to get his hands on you a few nights later, all those thoughts go straight down the drain.

He's gotten you pinned to the cold stone wall of the corridor, practically caging you with one leg lodged between your thighs and his hands glued to your hips. It would've made for a romantic picture of two lovers meeting in the middle of the night, if not for the whimpers and the helpless "please don't" that escapes your lips at intervals as he tries to litter your skin with marks and bruises.

Xaden steps out of the dark, his shadows curling around him in a threatening manner.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

His words come out as a growl. Raspy and menacing. Filled with danger.

The rider freezes in mid-action and from where Xaden stands he can see the tears caking your cheeks.

That makes him want to tear this fucker's throat apart.

"Oh hey Riorson," the rider, a graduate a few years above him whose known as Clence Killig, has the audacity to send him a sickeningly sweet smile, "look what I found all alone in the Healer's room. Nice, ey?"

"Get your hands off her," Xaden snarls. He steps closer.

"whoa hey, we can share. Bet you need a bit of release yourself, after what happened with--"

"I said," Xaden punctuates every word, "Hands. off."

A beat passes. Then two.

Xaden holds Clence’s gaze. His own features a hard stone mask.

Finally, Clence releases you from his grasp. You stumble to the floor, catching yourself with your hands as you heave in ragged, relieved breaths.

“Leave,” Xaden growls.

Clence doesn’t need to be told twice, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath as he disappears down the corridor.

Xaden is at your side in an instant, arms gripping your elbows to pull you up.

His touch is gentle, unlike the tone of his voice, “are you okay?”

You nod, though don’t trust yourself to speak.

Pulling you up with minimal effort, the rider ensures you’re on your feet before he asks if you can walk back to your room. You say yes, though no sooner have you taken a step that you’re stumbling face first into the cold cobblestone beneath.

Shit. That hurts like a bitch.

“Need a little help?”

You scowl at the ground, hating that you can practically hear the amusement in his tone. Quickly pushing yourself up to your feet while ignoring him, you force your shaky legs forward as his chuckle echoes through the corridor, all the way up to your room.

He follows you. Not far behind, but far enough that it gives you space to breathe. His eyes locked on your dark silhouette, his shadows seem to have a mind of their own as their curl over the walls around you almost protectively. The thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t interrupted the scene earlier flashes through his mind and disgust reels in his stomach. He curls his fists and clamps them in by his sides as the dark bond with Sgaeyl resonates with her small growl.

Get a grip, shadow-wielder. You are not here to play hero.

Thank you for your wonderful contribution.

She chuffs in what sounds to be annoyance. A second later, the bond dissipates with her absence. She’s probably gone to sleep. Or feed on sheep.

Xaden only comes to a stop when you swivel around just outside your doorway, “are you—following me?”

“No,” Xaden states.

“Then…” you make a shooing motion and his eyebrow quirks up. Really? You’re acting like he’s a horse. Or worse, a pest, “you can go now.”

He snorts, "thanks for the dismissal."

"I did not--" you purse your lips, the sight surprisingly adorable as your eyes narrow up at him into a glare, "look, thank you. For tonight. But I'm fine now."

Xaden can definitely take your words as fact and walk away.

He can definitely try to pass this off as an accident, some kind of weird coincidence that he'd been roaming the halls at the same time that you got attacked. That this will probably never happen again, especially when he's fucking Xaden Riorson and everybody is scared of him.

There's no way that rider will mess with you ever again, unless he wants a good punch in his face to wake him the hell up.

And you've practically dismissed him. Technically, he has all the right to walk away. Right now.

He can.

But his eyes catch your lips.

They wobble.

As if you're holding on.

Your eyes flicker past him. Filled with uncertainty. Fear.

Xaden's resolve breaks.

He doesn't hesitate. Pushes past you despite the overflow of protests from your lips about what the fuck is he doing but he strides into your room without remorse before sending you a look that might cause anyone to shrivel under his gaze.

In all honesty, you do flinch back like he's burnt you.

When you speak next, your words are barely above a murmur, "what are you doing?"

"You're clearly not fine," Xaden states matter-of-factly. He finds your closet, opening it up to pull out the spare duvet and pillow that every room has, and starts to lay it out next to your bed.

"What--Yes I am. I'm fine, see?!" you wave your arms about in growing concern of what he's currently doing, eyes flitting back and forth between him and the now spread-out blanket, "honestly--what are you doing?! And this is--this isn't even allowed! They said--"

"Fuck what they say," Xaden cuts you off, looking up to lock eyes with you and when you take note of the silent anger etched onto his face, words die in the back of your throat, "do you want to stay here alone and risk getting taken advantage of? Just tell me the word Tala, and I'll be gone."

His admission causes something to tug in your heart. You just look at him, jaw parting as you blink. What in the world is he saying?

"Why..." you find your voice after a few beats of silence, "why are you doing this?"

I wish I knew, is what goes through Xaden's head.

This is a dangerous game you're playing, boy. Sgaeyl warns.

I'm not leaving her defenceless, Xaden snaps back.

His jaw ticks, tongue poking at his left cheek, "a Healer getting killed is not on top of my list of priorities at the moment."

"Who says you won't attack me in my sleep?"

"Smart. I'll give you that," he smirks, "if I'd wanted to, you'd already be dead."

True. That doesn't make it any easier.

Seeing you won't relent, the shadow-wielder lets out another annoyed breath, "I'll be out before you wake up. You won't even know I'm gone," then, sensing as if that's not enough, he quickly unsheathes the four daggers hidden at his thighs and throws them to the ground before you. They clatter onto the stone floor and make you wince, the noise bouncing off the walls of the room. Too loud in the small space.

"These are my daggers," he meets your petrified eyes and softens slightly, "riders win them through sparring. The more daggers, the better the rider. We usually sleep with them as a precaution, mostly from other riders," he releases a soft breath, "you keep them, if it makes you feel any better."

“Me?” You echo, “keep your…daggers?”

Amusement flickers across his lips, “yes. So that you’re sure I don’t kill you in your sleep.”

He watches your chest heave. Once. Twice in small rapid succession.

You blink at him, press your lips together as the silence envelopes the room. In the distance, the softest howl of a dragon is heard.

After what finally feels like eternity, you slowly bend down and— keeping your gaze on his— gather up his daggers against your chest.

His chest tightens.

He’s never seen anyone hold his daggers this way.

And that… is surprisingly cute.

He blinks, looks away before he finds himself in deeper troubled waters. What is he even thinking?

“Fine,” you tilt your chin in defiance, a contrast to the fear reflected in your maroon pupils, "only for tonight. But you stay--" you point a shaky hand to the duvet that serves as a mattress pushed against the windowpane overlooking the outpost, "you stay in your corner. Or that dagger's going to end up where it doesn't belong."

"Are you threatening me?" he can't help but let out a chuckle. He shakes his head, "relax, cadet. I'll stay on my side of the room."

You mumble something incomprehensible under your breath but it seems that his words satisfy you, for you quickly disappear into your private bathroom as Xaden tries to get as comfortable as possible with his single-layer mattress that doesn't even count as a mattress in the first place.

You are being an idiot, states Sgaeyl like she is reprimanding a five-year-old dragon. He can practically see her roll her eyes at him, you are wasting your energy on a girl that does not deserve any of it.

Maybe I am, Xaden curls up on his side to stare at the stone wall, but leaving her alone does not feel right. Even for me.

You could've just warded the place, Sgaeyl retorts.

That's true. He's not going to deny that. Instead he stays quiet.

He hears you shuffle back in, your footsteps hesitant and padded, like you've changed out of your work shoes for something comfier. Maybe slippers. He wonders briefly if your sleepwear is mismatched, whether you wear a nightgown or opt for large t-shirts and shorts. Riders usually sleep with their riding tunic, sometimes with their armour in an attempt of protection. He remembers all too well the nights Violet would roll around in her own dragon vest and something akin to guilt curls up inside his stomach.

Violet. He wonders how she'd feel about him sleeping on a stranger's floor.

Tensing upon hearing your footsteps approach, he closes his eyes and tries to lay still, a semblance of sleep, just to see what you do.

There's silence. You're probably watching him, probably gaging his every move, his alliance. What his actions mean to you.

And then, something heavy and warm settles across his body.

It's warm. And comfortable. It makes him want to bury his nose into it because goddamnit it's so soft he wants to let out a sigh of bliss.

But he holds completely still, waiting. Wondering what the hell you're doing.

Your fingers are icy when they reach for the edge of the covers you've settled across Xaden's body, and you make sure not to brush them against him as you tuck the blanket a little more firmly against the rider's sides.

A moment later, he hears you retreat. A weight settles upon the bed and a few beats later, the lights go out.

Xaden has grown to be a weapon. To be used for killing, violence, for everything that is dark and cold and lonely. Growing up had been harsh, the scars lining his back is good enough evidence of that, and the responsibility of the marked ones' safety pushes down on his shoulders every single day he wakes. He doesn't do kindness, doesn't want to have anything to do with it. He's made of steel and violence, of destruction and efficiency, a cold river that never shows its true facade.

And yet, the cold-blooded shadow-wielder can't help but feel his heart soften, at your small act of kindness.

Because to him, it speaks volumes.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

It doesn't surprise you the next day when you go back to being practical strangers. Xaden barely acknowledges you, and it's probably for the best, considering that relationships between each district quadrant are highly discouraged for the mere sake that each quadrant believed it to be better than its counterparts.

But you still remember waking up the morning after, groggy and eyelids heavy with sleep, before realising that the blanket you'd thrown around his figure last night was now curled around you in a cozy cocoon. You still remember blushing furiously at the idea of Xaden Riorson tucking you in like you're something worth keeping safe before stepping out to resume his deadly rider duties, a stark contrast to the boy who slept inside your room.

Nevertheless, you realise soon that for him, that night had been a small blip. A tiny bump in his otherwise successful dark rider reputation. God knows he wouldn't want to destroy that when every rider, infantry or healer alike skitters away from him wherever he moves, like a shark through water. And you're content on keeping it that way, a mere escapade that if you pinch yourself hard enough you'd think it had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

The next time you see him is during one particular sparring battle that had been organised a weekend after the incident. The riders somehow enjoy tearing each other apart like it's an itch they can't quite scratch unless they see blood and missing teeth flying over the arena. You were assigned in case of any medical emergencies that were to happen, and that's when you truly got to see how riders fight.

Because they don't fight like any normal humans. They don't fight to defend, to be safe, to win.

They fight like they want to kill.

You stop watching after the third--or is it the fourth?-- opponent is kicked back into the steel fence that lines the sparring area, flinching back on instinct as your hands curl into fists, hidden in your lap.

One of your healer mates -- you believe her name is Peyton-- notices, leans over to whisper, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you say through gritted teeth.

"It's always a bit gruesome to watch," Peyton says. Her eyes, golden amber flecked with emerald, sparkle with what you want to say is not excitement, but is, "but I find it quite fascinating. It's definitely not for the weak hearted."

"You can say that," you're about to throw up your breakfast. How does she look so normal?

"Don't worry. You get used to it," she replies just as one of the men slumps in defeat, his wrist tapping the mat hard.

"Look," she prods your shoulder once more and points towards the sidelines, "I think Riorson is up next."

Sure enough, she's right. There he stands, chest bare in all its glory, tattoo marks winding up his neck and down his back as his arms clench and unclench as though he's mentally preparing himself for what's to come. He is built like a god and you knew that, having patched him up more times than you could count in your healer career. But with the dim lights of the arena shining on ever sinuous curve and toned muscle of his body, it's hard not to stare. You swear you're drooling.

His eyes catch yours.

You look down, a burst of heat coiling through your chest as butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Gods. You hope he hasn't noticed that you've been staring.

Next to you, Peyton lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, "Oh my gods," her eyes glimmer with longing as she allows her chin to rest atop her palm, "he looks absolutely delicious."

Absolutely delicious is right.

Absolutely terrifying is --also-- right.

Because the way he moves, the way his eyes track his opponent like a well-trained wolf about to go for the kill, the speed at which his body contorts and skids and avoids blows like he's actually made out of water, is like a shadow that you cannot catch no matter how fast you try to be. That, but the grace with which he dances along his opponent has you gasping and holding your breath. Wanting more. Like a performance that you don't want to end.

He's beautiful and so, so terrible at the same time. Like a beautiful nightmare come to life.

He wins easily, and just as he exits the arena, you swear you spot him glancing back at you, the beginning of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A few days go by, and you bump into him one early morning. The entire outpost is still asleep and, unable to keep dozing off due to the horrible nightmare about your recent abuser that had pinned you in the corridor, you decide to head out early to catch the tiniest glimmer of the sunrise.

You are more than careful as you find one of the staircases leading up the tower, fallen snow and ice crunching under your boots as you make your way up the turret and slide through the opening. You balance yourself quite steadily, holding on to the edge of the wall as you find a nice spot on which to sit.

You plop down with a loud sigh, tilting your head up to watch the sky painted in hues of midnight purple to pink.

"You're not supposed to be up here, cadet."

Your head snaps up.

You see him, a mere shadow in the darkness, standing a few meters away.

"Are you insane?!" is what falls out of your mouth first as you take in the closeness of his feet to the edge, "what are you doing?! Get off there!"

Xaden lets out a huff that sounds more like a chuckle but does as he's told, jumping off the ledge and joining you on the wall, "you didn't answer my question."

"What? Oh--" you stumble over your words, unsure what you can say, "I was...taking some air."

"At five in the morning?"

"Yes. Why not?" you scowl at him, "and--you're here, aren't you? Doing the same thing?"

"Fair point," he sits more comfortable and dangles his legs over the tower, "but I'm here to check up on Sgaeyl. Unless you have a dragon that you need tending to."

"Pardon? I--" The word dragon registers in your mind a little too late, because no sooner does panic slam into you and you yelp in terror, "e--excuse me?!"

You spot a humongous shape moving in the dark, scales glinting like moonlight, and you can't help but scream, feet slipping as your first instinct is to get the hell away from it as possible--

But you lose your footing and practically teeter, gasping out a, "No!" as you feel your body rocking back with gravity towards the ground--

A hand shoots out and snatches you right back--

You crash into Xaden's chest headfirst, his other arm locking you around the middle as you all but tumble into a breathless heap against the wall edge.

"You--" Xaden breathes out raggedly, "--have the worst--" he takes a choked breath, "-- instincts."

But you're not focused on him. Not on the warmth of his chest against your cheek. Not on his body practically glued to yours.

No.

You're focused on the giant, golden serpent eyes that watch you.

Prey.

You're like prey.

The dragon's head is huge. Massive in comparison to your height, practically half the size of the turret. You can't even imagine how tall or long its body is, though it being shrouded in darkness does not help.

The dragon chuffs and hot, steaming air blows against your face.

Jesus. It can practically incinerate you.

But it won't, right?

Not when you're practically hanging onto Xaden for dear life.

"It's--It's not going to eat me, is it?" you can't help but whisper, words stuttering on your lips and your heart beating like it has wings.

You feel Xaden's warm breath against your temple, "no," amusement lines his tone, "Sgaeyl isn't particularly fond of human flesh. She does, however, torch them."

"T--To--Torch them?" bile rises at the back of your throat.

The said dragon lets out another huff of steam and water sprinkles along your face. You squirm and plaster yourself against the taller rider like your life depends on it. Because it does.

"Play nice," he tells Sgaeyl, "it's probably the second time she's seen a dragon this close."

Sgaeyl's chest rumbles and you flinch back, not caring that you’re practically cuddled into Xaden as you eye the dragon’s set of glimmering scales. Up close, it ressembles more of a shimmering ocean and dare you say, it is absolutely mesmerizing.

As though sensing your gaze, Sgaeyl’s golden eyes settles on your own. It’s almost like a challenge, the way she stares you down unflinchingly as though you might be the unwanted distraction that needs to be taken away from her rider.

And then, just like that, the dragon’s features soften. She turns away, her long neck almost brushing against you as she settles against the edge of the wall.

If you extend your arm, you can almost touch her.

“What—What is she doing?” You croak out to Xaden, your words barely above a whisper.

“Nothing that concerns you, it seems,” it is then — when Xaden’s arm slowly loosens around your frame — that you take note of the way you’ve been pressed up against him all this time. You’re quick to scurry out of his arms and you’re glad that the cold is enough to cool the heat flushing your cheeks bright red.

“I—probably need to get back,” your hand scrambles for something to hold and you decide to grip the wall edge despite the rock digging into your palm, “thank you. You know— for not— well, I guess burning me to ashes. Or feeding me to your dragon.”

You’re off before he can say anything and Xaden merely gazes after you with a grin threatening to tug at the corners of his lips. That is until Sgaeyl’s giant form turns to face him with what looks to be disapproval.

I guess I should’ve seen it coming, her words echo through the bond link, she looks like she could be eaten in one bite.

“Don’t even think of it,” Xaden mutters. Behind his dragon, the smallest glimmers of gold pierces through the landscape to welcome the dawn.

What exactly do you find so fascinating about her? And why in God’s name do you trust her now when she hasn’t done anything to earn it?

Disapproval rolls of every tense line of her body in waves but the shadow-wielder merely leans back against the edge and lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

She’s too fucking gullible to be considered a threat, he says simply,

Oh really? That’s not what you said a few months ago.

You seem to hate her.

Shadow-wielder, I have lived for centuries. When you live for that long, you learn to trust when it’s clear to you that betrayal is not a possibility. Not when nothing was proven.

Do you trust me? Xaden’s jaw ticks.

Sgaeyl hesitates, yes. I do. Unfortunately.

Well, I trust her, Xaden says, so you will too.

He just hopes that he isn’t wrong on this account.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The next time you find the said shadow-wielder, he's sitting atop the roof before you, legs swinging into nothingness and face etched with a faraway look in his eyes. The sight is devastatingly beautiful, like he's a god carved out of marble, and your fingers twitch with the desire to run your hands through those dark strands that fall across his face, until he senses your approach and cocks his head towards you.

You jump, startled, "hi." you say lamely.

"Are you spying on me?"

"No," you say through flushed cheeks, glad that it's still dark out so that he can't see and --

And what? Make fun of you for it?

No. Xaden would use it as bait. Or as a way to get something out of the situation.

You tiptoe the rest of the way in silence so as not to disturb in peace, plopping down just a few meters away as the wind picks up and swirls through your hair, catching at your cheek as it does.

It is always so much more pleasant to watch the sunrise without the constant pressure of having people depend on you. These were the rare times of solitude that you had for yourself, and you weren't about to give that up. Not even for the grumpy Riorson.

"Can't sleep?" Xaden murmurs.

Your eyes narrow to his in surprise, "no actually. I usually wake up at this time."

"How so?"

He's being chatty today. You decide to entertain him, “I guess I’m not used to this place yet. And it’s colder than Basgiath.”

He gazes down at you with a look you cannot quite read, which prompts you to ask a, “what?”

He looks away, “where do you come from?”

His question perplexes you for a minute, “I’m from a small village next to Callydyr. Pretty isolated, we don’t get much company.”

When Xaden stays silent, you ask, “why?”

He avoids your question and asks another, “why become a Healer?”

“Why not?”

His dark eyes are steely. As if demanding a better answer than a rhetorical question.

You sigh, “my mother was a healer. Showed me pretty much everything I know about it. I guess I just wanted to be like her,” you let out a small laugh, “it’s a stupid reason, and not an honorable one. Not like you riders—“

“I wasn’t given a choice.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “right.” You croak, “sorry.“

“Not your fault,” Xaden leans back and you catch a glimpse of muscles lining up his forearm. You swallow thickly, heat permeating your skin as you look away.

“Anyway,” you try to change the subject, “how was it? Where you grew up?”

You think that maybe you’ve struck a chord too close to home. But Xaden surprises you by answering, “most Marked kids were put in foster homes. Wasn’t great, but it was manageable. As long as we recited what they wanted to hear, they left us alone.”

“Was it hard? Living without your parents?” You murmur hesitantly, tilting your head towards him.

He dips his head in a singular nod but does not say anything more.

There are parameters with him, you soon learn. Depending on his mood, he is either open to light discussion until it falls into territory he’d rather ignore, and that’s when he closes off like a brick wall. Or he’s straight up in a foul mood and refuses to speak even a word. You’d tried numerous times when you spot him in a permanent dark cloud, once even losing your temper when he’d snapped at you for something completely irrelevant.

“Gods Riorson, you are incorrigible when you’re like this,” you finally snap in growing irritation because goddamnit you’re not his babysitter. In fact, you might just have called yourself his friend, if not for the defensive way he keeps his walls up with you.

“You want a two-way honest conversation? Then stop acting like a baby every time I bring up something you don’t wanna talk about,” you continue on in a flow of anger, “and if you don’t wanna know, then stop asking me questions about myself then expect me not to ask you the same.”

Since then, he’s been a little more responsive to your advances. Though it’s clear that sometimes his grumpy ass cannot be fucked. But the fact that he is even trying for your sake is somewhat of a miracle, so you don’t complain.

“I wouldn’t get too close to him,” Peyton once tells you during your shift. You’re currently wiping down the medical counters as she puts away the medication, “he had a girlfriend, you know. Like, a serious relationship.”

“Wait—really?” You frown. It’s somehow surprising to think of Xaden as a serious relationship type of guy.

“Yeah. Apparently their dragons were mates. The relationship was strong, almost like they were mates in a way. But then…”

“Then what?”

“She got killed during battle in Resson,” Peyton shakes her head, “a pretty bad kill, apparently. He never got over it."

Oh.

It feels like a slap to your face.

For some reason, the notion of Xaden being so intensely attached to another woman has your stomach churning like you've eaten something bad for breakfast. No wonder he's so cold, so ruthless, so uncaring towards every single person he interacts with. His heart got broken once. He's definitely not going to try that again.

It makes it hard to look at him in the face after that. You can't seem to hold his eyes for more than a heartbeat and though you sense that he knows something must be off, he doesn't comment on it. Because he doesn't have to care. You're just someone he comes to when he needs patching up. Nothing more, nothing less.

So you do the only thing you can; busy yourself within the Healer’s room. Thank god for the piling number of injured people, for that keeps your distracted thoughts at bay as you focus on doing your job right instead.

Peyton chatters by your side as the days go by. She teaches you everything about the Outpost; the secret passageways, the extra food that would be stored in the kitchens once lights go out, the flowers at the back in a small alleyway right beside the Outpost wall— the one that faces the mountains and is actually off limits to you.

But peace never lasts long in a place like Samara. You’re jostled awake a few nights after by one of the Healers stating that enemies have breached your territory. You don’t hesitate, flinging yourself out of your bed and scurrying out— shoeless feet and all — towards the closest exit you know of.

You hear snarls and growls and clanging metal that suggests people are fighting but you don’t dare look, not when your heart feels like it might fall out of your chest, not even when a scream pierces through the turret and makes your own heart plummet like stone.

“Come on Tala! Quicker!” You can hear and make out Peyton’s figure by the doorway, a dark silhouette in contrast to the blinding light of the moon overhead.

But no sooner have you reached that a sharp talon strikes her from behind. She falls, her eyes still wide with terror as a scream tears past your throat, “Peyton!”

You throw yourself onto the open doorway, the wind and rain battering at your face as you gaze down in horror at Peyton’s lifeless body a few meters down.

“No,” you whimper out, lips trembling and backing away from the edge, “no…no, no, no.”

And that’s when you hear it, the softest hiss. A menace that causes a terrifying shiver down your spine. The man steps out from the swaths of darkness, eyes tinged with red and skin ashen grey, gnarly fingers curled in on themselves.

He’s filled with magic. The kind of magic that you can feel — from the bottom of your gut — is not of the good kind.

You back away, step by step, a silent prayer echoing through your head, “st—stay away from me,” you croak pathetically.

The man just laughs and keeps striding towards you like he doesn’t care. You keep moving back until you’re left with nothing but the stone wall at your back. You’re trapped with nowhere else to go, and he knows it.

“Please,” you can’t help but let out a broken whimper, “please don’t—“

Your words break off as the man’s arm shoots out to grab at your throat. You shriek and try to bat him away, but his hold is made of iron as you shamelessly squirm in growing panic that this is it.

You might die here.

No.

You will die here.

“Look at you, so weak. So pathetic,” the man hisses.

Everything stops for a second when his hand crushes your throat.

You gasp, eyes blinking as black starts to swarm—

And then, his hand’s gone.

You fall to your knees and gasp like your life depends on it, practically heaving your insides out as a figure steps out of the shadows and doesn’t hesitate to slice the man’s throat with one, smooth arc of his arm.

It’s Xaden.

Of course it’s him.

You’re still trying to reign in some oxygen when he strides over to your crouched form and bends down to face you.

His eyes are branded with a mixture of panic and anger, totally at odds with the gentle way he asks, “are you hurt?”

You shake your head no, not trusting your voice when your lips are practically trembling.

“Come on,” he tugs you up, grabbing onto your elbow before making his way out of the tower, the shadows blending the two of you into the wall as more cries and dragon howls slice through the night that reverberates through your ears, a terrible nightmare come to life.

You don’t even recall half of the journey out of the tower, only that Xaden manages to get you out onto the field before he practically throws you up onto Sgaeyl’s back and joins on a moment later. And then, you’re airborne, flying through the thick cloudy sky and leaving the mess of fire and ash behind as what’s left of Samara is destroyed by the remaining creatures you can’t even start to name.

All you know is that whatever you’ve seen that night is not human.

At some point you feel your lids press together, feel your head roll forward as sleep threatens to overtake you only to be nudged awake by the shadow-wielder.

“Eyes open,” he says, though his tone is tinged with barely concealed amusement, “we’re almost there.”

“Where are you bringing me?” You try to turn your head to look up at him, but can only see part of his chiseled jawline, “what happened? What are they? These—creatures?”

You notice the tension in his jaw, “Wyvern.”

“What’s a—wyvern?” The word sounds oddly familiar on your tongue. You’ve heard of that name before—

Wyvern.

“Wait,” realisation is an ice-bucket piercing straight into your skin, “you mean— the creatures from the fables?”

Xaden spares you a glance, “you catch on quick.”

Is that surprise and a little bit of pride you hear in his tone?

“Wyvern don’t exist,” you gape at him, “they’re—they’re like fairytales. Only meant to scare children—“

Xaden cuts you off, “they’re real.”

“But—“

“But nothing,” he snaps, “you’re not supposed to know this. Gods know what they’d do to you if they knew you were involved,” he tips his head forward, “we’re almost there,” he says, “I’ll tell you everything— when we land.”

You don’t argue. You find it’s easier when it concerns Xaden.

A few hours later and you've set foot into another house that looks by far like the grandest manor you've ever stepped foot into. It's dark marble floors are spotlessly clean and the victorian columns lining the centre rotunda reach for the skyline, an impressive architectural feat that you can't help but admire as you all but stumble after Xaden down one of the long-winded corridors.

He reaches a door ornate with a gold bangle and twists the knob open without hesitation. Inside, the room is simple enough; grand, without seeming too pretentious. With a grand bed and grey covers and too many pillows to count.

"You can stay here for the night," Xaden says without sparing you a glance, "lock your door. Don't let anyone in."

"Wait--" you reach for his arm, hand dropping to your side when he turns to you with that cold, impassive face that would've made you shut your mouth and run away if it were any other time.

But this is not like any other time. And Xaden has proved time and time again that despite what he wants people to believe -- that he's a soulless, merciless weapon used for the kill -- he is nothing but a man with a good heart that seems to have been disappointed too many times to count.

So you don't look away when those onyx storms lock on yours, glistening with golden flecks of emotions that causes something to stir in your lower belly.

"Where--" the words catch in your throat, "where are you going?"

He turns his body halfway towards you, swallowing up the whole doorway with his figure, "to my room?" he cocks his head like its a question.

"I--" you bite down so hard on your lip you can taste the metallic tang of blood, "well, I don't--can I--"

Xaden merely waits. Expression like stone. His gaze intense.

Your heart shudders as you force the words out before you can chicken out, "can you--stayhereplease?"

He stills.

You search his eyes. And then blink down.

What are you even thinking?

He's a rider. A merciless one at that, he doesn't do weaknesses, probably hates them with his entire gut. The woman he fell in love with, she was the one he'd bear his soul to, she was strong and bold and fierce and just as ruthless as he was. Not like you.

Never like you.

Why would he throw away his comfort just for the sake of making you feel safe?

"You want me--" he repeats low in his throat, keeping his eyes glued on your face as though to search for any kind of misunderstanding, "to stay with you?"

"Yes," you reply quickly, and then add, "please."

There's a beat of silence.

You don't dare look at him, don't even dare breathe as you wait for him to turn you down and walk away because he doesn't owe you anything. Not after just saving your life.

Warm hands reach for your shoulders.

Xaden moves you out of the way. He brushes past your figure into the room. For the second time, you watch in a mixture of surprise and a rush of gratefulness as he rummages through the drawers of the closet in the far corner. He pulls out a spare blanket and a pillow that he throws onto the battered couch resting on the opposite side, right beside the bed and wordlessly starts unbuttoning his flight jacket.

Your cheeks can't help but burn at the notion that this man has done more for you than anyone has ever done in your lifetime.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Your eyes snap away from him as his words cut through you like ice.

You stammer out a soft, "thank you" before scurrying towards the washroom, glad that you have the distraction of running water to ease the anxious knots now forming in your stomach.

Xaden merely watches, brow cocked and head tilted, a smile curving along his lips as your figure disappears through the door. It's not like he wants to find anything amusing. On the contrary, whatever has happened at the outpost has shaken him to his very core and now that you're here, there's a lot of questions he has to answer; about him, about this place, about how his secrets will either make or break your trust.

Why don't you take a picture? Sgaeyl huffs, if you keep staring at her like that, you might scorch her to death.

Her voice is a reminder to keep moving. He fluffs the pillows and settles on the ground. In the distance, he hears the softest squeak of the bath running. She's scared. It's a normal reaction. She is not a warrior.

You baby her too much, Sgaeyl snarls in a clear display of anger, she needs to know how to stand on her own two feet without you coddling her.

I'm not coddling her, he scowls at the opposite wall.

Keep telling yourself that, Shadow-wielder. But I see past your mask. You can lie to anyone but me.

And then, the bond goes silent. As though Sgaeyl has shut the doors in his face.

Xaden lets out a breath and runs a hand along his face. His muscles are aching from the flight and the remnants of battle, and still he can only think about the moment you might've died in front of his eyes if he hadn't been there on time.

Because he knows, deep down in his heart where there's a small cage of unspoken feelings that rattle through his chest like an echo of a reminder, that Sgaeyl is right. He is soft on you. Too soft, despite the fact that he can't even read your mind, read your intentions.

But the genuine fear in your eyes. The rush of gratefulness that swam through your face the moment you spotted him, like he was your saviour, your superhero. He cannot just ignore it.

People lie all the time. He's a master at it, deception and feigning nonchalance are his strong suit. But not you. You wear your heart on your sleeve, your face displayed like an open book, and that somehow makes Xaden want to protect you, to ensure that nothing-- no one -- can touch you.

And that thought is the single reason as to why he should stay the hell away from you.

Not just for his sake. But yours.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Ok first up, if a bunch of people have already been saying this I’m sorry, I am deep in the writing cave lmao, but here goes! I think this is going to be a novella, and it's going to come with a bonus chapter. Hear me out! *clears throat*

Around the time Rebecca was working on the graphic novel (about a year ago) she said that she'd been inspired by immersing herself in that story once more, that story being Violet's first year and her falling in love with her supposed enemy but also super hot wingleader.

ENTER STAGE LEFT:

Sloane Mairi and Dain Aetos ✨

Look, here's the thing, I'm a writer at heart and I can tell you there's absolutely no way on earth I'd have sprinkled some of those moments into Onyx Storm with zero inclination to come back to them. These two are delicious! I should know, I wanted to write them before Onyx Storm was even out. They have the perfect background for an iconic enemies-to-lovers and I think we're going to get it 🙂‍↕️

They're just the right amount of *different* in their characterisation for it to still be interesting while also being easy to write (for her). We all know Dain is one of her favourites, I think that was clear from the jump, and his arc in Iron Flame/Onyx Storm is kind of epic—and we didn't get to see much of it. We deserve to see the rest and I think she was inspired to give us that Fourth Wing (Redux) fantasy.

Rebecca has also said that we're getting a Sloane POV and everyone assumed that was for Empyrean 4...but that was before this book was announced. I think that was a misdirection, I think the Sloane POV is this book. I also think that what we might learn from a novella in Sloane's POV about her powers here is going to be of direct importance in Empyrean 4, hence why this would have to come out first.

I have also seen people say that Rebecca implied Eternity by Alex Warren either inspired her or reminded her of this book and "not [in relation to] who you might think". That's a song about grief and loss, and that doesn't necessarily mean a lover. I think most people would assume it's about Violet missing Xaden, but I think it's about Liam. Sloane lost Liam, her only remaining family after losing everything else and she didn't even get to see him. Throughout this book (if I'm right) she's in the belly of the beast, reading his letters, having them dripfed to her!! by the person she thinks is responsible for him being gone. Not only that but she's training under her wingleader who is the other person responsible for him being gone and I AM UNWELL!!!!

Oh, how long has it been? I don't know but it feels like an eternity since I had you here with me, since I had to learn to be someone you don't know.

To be with you in paradise, what I wouldn't sacrifice. Why'd you have to chase the light somewhere I can't go, as I walk this world alone.

Another glimpse of what could've been, another dream, another way that it never was.

Like, picture this:

It's an endless night, it's a starless sky, it's a hell that I call home.

Sloane's sitting out after dark at Basgiath, staring up at the sky, mourning the loss of her brother, MAYBE even beneath a specific tree by the river?? And her wingleader finds her, they have a little faceoff and he says yo get your ass inside before you wingleader finds you out after dark??? And she sniffles, glaring, and is like "but you are my wingleader, asshole?"

DECEASED! (like Liam)

Anywayyyyy, we are living a first year again, her first year. It's an insight into her power, it's an insight into all the cadets everyone complained they couldn't keep track of in Onyx Storm (valid), and it's juuuust enough to make us fall in love with Dain Aetos just like her, so that when he inevitably dies to save either Sloane or Violet, or Xaden in Actual Book 4 or Actual Book 5, it will be like a kick in the teeth. It's just the kind of evil I could dream up but never execute and Rebecca does not have that problem 😇

"But wait Amy!" I hear you say. "What about the scene she already wrote in Xaden's POV of him and Garrick hunting wyvern?" That's totally during this timeframe, which is why if it wasn’t abandoned, it's going to make a kickass bonus chapter.

Aaaaand, to add more credence to the theory that this is exactly what it is—Sloane Mairi's first year—the book releases on a very specific Tuesday, one that falls between Presentation Day and Threshing 🙂‍↕️

I would wager we'll find out more infomation about the book like it's title and cover, maybe a blurb, on July 15th—Conscription Day, because we're all being conscripted with Sloane 🥰

Boom 💥

Anyway, I am prepared for all of this to be incorrect given how utterly, hideously wrong all my Onyx Storm theories were bar one, but look I'm being brave and putting it out there (so it's not in my head), aren't you all proud of me for ruining your day?