#marked!reader

"Then put your elbow somewhere else," you say, nudging the offending body part with your own. "Feels like you're trying to dig a hole through my ribcage."

Lying on his stomach with a map of the Continent before him, Xaden is bracing his weight on his underarms in a way that has his relic-covered elbow pointed at you like a weapon.

"You were the one who insisted it would be more comfortable to do the planning in bed," he reminds you, but does you the favor of retracting his elbow, poking it into the mattress instead as he props his chin on his hand.

You roll over, throwing an arm across Xaden's back and resting your chin on his shoulder to glance at the map too, though at this point, you've already memorized all possible routes. "It would be, if the bed wasn't so damn narrow. Do you think we'll get bigger ones when we're second-years? I heard they have bigger rooms, at least."

"Probably," he answers distractedly, still focused on the problem of the next dagger delivery. "If we can make it through the rest of this year without being found out. Would you stop trying to stab me with your chin?"

"Sorry."

You turn your head so your cheek lies flat against his shoulder blade instead, and close your eyes. If you aren't careful, you'll fall asleep like this; it's getting late, and Xaden is so warm and comfortable. Your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on his lower back. His shirt has ridden up a little, his bare skin even softer and warmer under your hand. You slide it higher up his back — your hands are always a little cold, and despite how he likes to complain about it, you know Xaden doesn't really mind you warming them on him.

But when you feel the scars beneath your fingers, you freeze.

They're thin, barely raised — if you didn't know they're there, you probably couldn't even feel them. But you know. Oh, how you know. You will never forget the day he got them, will carry the guilt of what they'd forced you to do for the rest of your life. That day had left scars on both of you, though only Xaden's are physical, partially disguised by the relic Sgaeyl had gifted him, but still visible to anyone who knows to look. Your own only exist on the inside, a matching scar to marr your soul for every one etched into your beloved best friend's back.

It's a miracle that after everything, the both of you are still as close as you'd been as children. The apostasy and everything it made you do irrevocably changed both of you, but somehow, your friendship had prevailed. If anything, you're closer than ever now that you're finally reunited after the near-unbearable years in separate foster homes.

Things are the same between you as they had always been, but at the same time, they aren't. You're both older, harder, weighed down by responsibility. Gone are the days of chasing through the mountains surrounding Aretia on horseback, of stealing cake from the kitchens and huddling in Riorson House's library on rainy days until the scribe in charge chased you out for leaving chocolate smudges on the precious books. Now, it's dragons you ride, venin-killing daggers you steal, and the potential consequences of getting caught are no longer a mere scolding or being grounded, but death. The love you feel for Xaden — going far beyond platonic affection — had already been blossoming before his father's rebellion tore you apart, but the guilt mixing with it is another of the many subtle differences to before.

Xaden shifts slightly, like he felt you stiffen and wants to look at you over his shoulder to say something, but then seems to think better of it. The two of you never speak of his scars, of what happened that day. Every time you skirt the topic, guilt clogs your throat and prevents you from saying everything you so desperately want him to know.

You force your body to relax, and gently trace your finger up and down the scar it rests on.

The placement of each cut is so ingrained in you that you don't even have to see Xaden's back to know which one this is and who it represents. Every name is burned into your memory as permanently as the scars on Xaden's skin. The marked one he had taken responsibility of with this particular scar is dead, shoved off the parapet half a year ago. You never actually met him, can't even put a face to the name. Maybe that's for the better. The knowledge of every marked one lost hurts enough as it is, and knowing them personally only makes it worse. Terror seizes you every time you think of the marked ones you already lost this year, and of all the others that will follow you into this death trap of a school next year, and the year after, and the one after that and—

You turn your head, pressing your face deeper into Xaden's shirt and inhaling the comfort of his scent. Don't think about it. You cannot let yourself think about all those innocent lives, can't let yourself question how many — if any — of you will make it out of Basgiath alive. You have a weapons drop to plan, that's what you should focus on.

"When are we sneaking down to the forge again?" you ask, Xaden's shoulder muffling the words so they're barely intelligible.

Though each of you has a small bag of daggers stashed away already, it's not enough for a full shipment. You need to take as many as you can without leadership's notice, or it won't be worth the risk of the long flight.

"I was thinking we should wait for the weekend," Xaden answers, leaving the sentence hanging in a way that tells you he'll welcome your input if you have any concerns or better suggestions.

"Sounds good."

Minutes pass in comfortable silence as he continues to pore over the map. You're about to doze off when Xaden groans, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration.

"That meeting place is shit," he curses. "No matter what route we take, we'll have to fly fucking slalom to avoid all the outposts on the way."

You lift your head. "Can't you tell them to meet us somewhere else? I don't see why we should always let them decide these things."

"Because they're the ones out there on the front, and know where we can meet without Navarrian patrols coming across us."

"Still. They're making things difficult for us on purpose, and you know it, too. They want our help, not the other way around, so why are we letting them act all high and mighty?"

"You know it's not that easy," Xaden says, twisting his neck to glance back at you. "This alliance is more fragile than ever now that I've called off the arrangement with Cat."

You grimace at the mention of the Poromish heiress. If there has ever been a more unpleasant person, you haven't met them. Words can't describe how relieved you were when Xaden decided to call off the betrothal his father had arranged — and not purely out of selfish reasons. While you definitely prefer having your best friend to yourself, his own mental health was the more important concern. It would not have been good for him being stuck with someone like that, someone he neither likes nor gets along with, who only sees him as a trophy because of a title he no longer holds.

"Which you had every right to do," you remind him. Really, Tecarus had done you a favor by refusing to hand over that luminary, finally giving Xaden an excuse to get out of the betrothal he never wanted, without feeling guilty for the problems his refusal would cause. "And I repeat: They need us, not the other way around. I'm not saying they should grovel and beg for our help, but is it really too much to ask for that they be a little more accommodating about when and where we meet to deliver the daggers they want?"

Xaden folds his arms, resting his head on top of them. "Politics just are nonsensical like that," he grumbles into the mattress. "What are you suggesting we do about it?"

It's your turn to groan. "I don't know! You know I'm no good at politics and all that diplomatic shit. That's your field of expertise."

The sound he makes in response is half scoff, half laugh. "We're both terrible at this."

"True," you admit. "But we make up for it with enthusiasm."

At that, he barks a laugh, brief but real, and you allow yourself a small smile of victory. It's much too seldom that you get to hear him genuinely laugh these days.

"Is that what we're calling it now? Enthusiasm?" The amusement lingers in his tone.

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Determination? Ruthlessness? The will to survive?"

"We're doing more than survive," you say. "If that were all, we wouldn't be out there smuggling those daggers past the border."

What you're doing isn't exactly the peak of self-preservation. You might very well end up getting caught and executed like your parents, but it's worth the risk to carry on their legacy.

"True." With a sigh, Xaden folds up the map, hangs his arm over the edge of the bed, and throws it to the floor. "Let's go to sleep. We can figure out what to do about the drop-off tomorrow."

He sits up, ignoring your yelp of protest at being dislodged from your comfortable spot on his shoulder. Before you can complain, he pulls off his shirt, carelessly throwing it at his desk chair. The way his muscles flex with the casual movement could make anyone drool, and your brain completely shuts down at the sight. All you can do is stare. It's not like you haven't seen him shirtless before, but being in his bed with him while he's half naked feels decidedly different than seeing him bare-chested while sparring or going for a swim.

Luckily, he doesn't seem to detect anything improper in your gaze, probably interpreting your stare as one of bewilderment. "What? I only sleep with a shirt on in winter."

"It's barely spring," you sputter.

"It's getting warmer."

"So is this what I can expect every night from now until it's autumn again?"

Xaden and you spend the night in each other's room so often that half the quadrant is convinced you're a couple, and the other half thinks you're fucking. While you certainly wouldn't say no to either option, neither is the case. Your sleeping arrangement is strictly platonic — a mere matter of practicality. The fact that both of you suffer from insomnia and sleep better in the other's company aside, it allows you more private time to scheme.

But Amari give you strength — if he's going to be shirtless every night from now on, it's going to take even more effort than before to hide your attraction.

"Yes." His brows knit. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Well, no—"

"Good. Then scoot over, or I'll lie down on top of you."

Gods, he just had to put that image in your head, didn't he? Even though he certainly didn't mean it like that, you have half a mind to stay where you are, just to see if he makes true on the threat.

You're not sure your heart would survive that, though, so you roll over to lie against the wall, making just enough space for Xaden to squeeze into bed beside you. Clad in a short-sleeved shirt yourself, his bare skin meets your own as your arms press against each other.

It's a relief when Xaden smothers the mage lights, darkness hiding any signs of how flustered you are.

You've barely settled down when something slithers around your waist, winding up and around your shoulders, down around your hips. If you weren't so used to it by now, you might have yelped. The first time it had happened, you'd actually screamed.

Now, you just smile into your pillow. "Xaden," you whisper. "You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Your shadows."

"Shit. I'm sorry."

The shadows retreat, and you almost regret saying anything. But Xaden desperately wants to learn control over his signet as quickly as he can, and pointing out when he wields without meaning to is part of helping him with that.

The scraps of moonlight flowing in through the half-open curtains are just bright enough to make out the flat look Xaden gives you. "I've only had my signet for like a month, Y/N. I can't control it yet."

"I don't mind," you say. In fact, you quite like being wrapped in his shadows; it makes you feel secure somehow. "Though I gotta admit I am curious. Why does that always happen?"

"I know, that's not what I meant. I'm just wondering why the shadows always do this. I get the whole shadows rising and writhing around when you're agitated-thing, but when they wrap around me like this there never seems to be any trigger, and I've never seen it happen with anyone else."

Xaden is silent for so long you think he's not going to answer. Finally he says, "You're important to me. I think... I think the magic can sense that. I think it wants to protect you."

"Aww," you coo, "so your shadows like me! I like you too, shadows."

Xaden rolls his eyes. "Can you not? They aren't alive or anything. More like... an extension of me. They're drawn to you because I'm—"

He abruptly falls silent, like he said more than he meant to.

"Because you're what?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep."

Xaden turns, putting his back to you — his bare back, the covers only pulled up to his waist. Even though it's too dark to really make out the scars, you can't help but stare at where you know they're scattered across the expanse of his skin. Without thinking, you lift a trembling hand, pressing your palm flat over the scar right between his shoulder blades — the scar that represents you, cut there by your own hand.

You remember the horror of carving it into his skin like it was yesterday; how the general had rattled down name after name with no emotion, no pity. When she reached your name on her list, there had been no acknowledgement of the fact that it was your own life Xaden was to take responsibility for next, only that cold stare, a silent order to keep going and make the next cut. You weren't so foolish to think she hadn't realized — you might not have been anyone important, not like Xaden, who was taking lead in the face of your parents' failure, but there was no doubt she knew your name.

You never learned why it was that out of all the separatist kids, it had been you she had sent for that day, whether you'd been chosen for the task deliberately or at random. She'd needed a Tyr to do it, someone familiar enough with the custom to perform it, but why you? Had the general known how close you and Xaden were, and sent for you out of malice, knowing how much it would hurt you? Or was it merely because you genuinely were best suited to the task — your father had been one of Fen's most valued advisors, your mother a priestess; as a result, you were more well-versed in customs like this than most other teenagers, and since you had wanted to become a healer, you knew how to best make the cuts and treat them afterwards to minimize the risk of infection.

You prefer to think it had been the latter, if only because you hate to think you gave the general what she wanted when you burst into silent tears after the first cut. Better to belive she hadn't cared, hadn't chosen you as a form of punishment for sins neither you nor Xaden had committed. She couldn't have been entirely heartless, or she wouldn't have made that deal with Xaden when she could have just as easily let you all burn beside your parents.

As cruel as it seemed, that deal had been the only way of survival — not just for you and Xaden, but for all one hundred and seven of the rebellion leaders' children, most of them much younger than yourselves. When your horrified gaze had collided with Xaden's, he merely nodded, stoic and brave even at seventeen, resigned to carry that burden for the rest of you. Both of you knew there was no other choice.

And so you'd done as ordered, kneeling on the cold stone floor behind Xaden, the ritual knife a terrible, sacred weight in your hand. General Sorrengail perched on the edge of her desk with her list of underage traitors to be claimed for the Riders Quadrant, and when she read out the first name on that long, long list, you had willed your hands to stop shaking and took the knife to your best friend's back.

Again and again you lowered the blade to his unblemished skin, willing your voice not to waver as you spoke the ceremonial words with every cut. One hundred and seven times you repeated those sacred Tyrrish words that would burden him with the responsibility for the person represented by each cut, and one hundred and seven times Xaden answered with the traditional reply, each repetition the same except for the names. His voice was tight with pain, but not once did he allow himself to flinch or cry out.

You kept your free hand at the base of his spine, hoping the gesture could provide a fraction of comfort as the endless litany went on and on. The tears you couldn't hold back mixed with the blood trickling down Xaden's back, but you kept the despair from your voice, refusing to upset him with it. This was painful enough for him as it was, much worse than it was for you.

When it was finally done, the general gave you five minutes to bandage Xaden's wounds, and dismissed the both of you without another word. You didn't get any chance to speak to him again before you were all carted off to be fostered with various Navarrian nobles, could only pray the wounds would heal well, that Xaden would be treated decently and granted access to an actual healer wherever he ended up.

Thinking back on it all, tears well in your eyes even now. Reminding yourself that Xaden's wounds have healed just fine, that he is fine and back at your side, you swallow the tears. You press your forehead against Xaden's back, brushing a kiss to the scar he took for you.

Goosebumps rise on his skin, and another shadow manifests, which settles around your waist like an arm holding you close.

Your fingers wander over the scars, appreciating every single one. Here is the one that represents Bodhi, there Garrick and Soleil and Eya, there Xaden's foster brother Liam, whom you can't wait to meet someday. So many lives, so much responsibility weighing on Xaden's shoulders. So much pain, carved there by your own hand.

A single tear escapes your eye, running sideways down your face to drip onto the mattress.

You never even got the chance to apologize for what you'd been forced to do, never got to tell Xaden how sorry you are for the pain he had to endure. Now would be as good a time as any to remedy that, but as usual, the words refuse to come out.

The guilt envelopes you like a shroud, so palpable Xaden seems to sense it.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," he murmurs. "You just did what you had to, for all our sakes."

Gods, he knows you so well, always knows what you want to say and do before you do it. It can be annoying sometimes, but more often it just makes you feel seen — loved — and is incredibly helpful when the words get stuck, like now.

The shadow around your waist pulls you closer, putting your front flush against Xaden's back. You wonder if he wielded subconsciously again, or if it was on purpose this time, but it feels wrong to ask about that during such a vulnerable moment. Instead, you wordlessly drape your arm over his side. Your hand brushes against his, and Xaden clasps it tightly in his.

Pressing another kiss to his scarred back, you manage to whisper, "I just can't forget that it was me who gave these to you. Who hurt you."

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats, and brings your hand to his mouth to kiss your palm — the very palm in which you'd held the blade that cut all those wounds into his back.

Another tear streaks down your face. You already knew it hadn't been your fault, knew Xaden didn't blame you, but actually hearing him say it cracks something open in your emotional defenses, a wound half-healed and festering.

"I'm glad it was you," Xaden confesses in a broken whisper. "I know that's a horrible thing to say, to think, because I know how much it haunts you, but having you there, having you be the one to make those cuts, made it more bearable somehow."

You squeeze his hand, hold him tighter, well aware how hard it is for him to be vulnerable like this, what a monumental proof of his trust in you this conversation is.

"In that case I'm glad I was the one to do it, too," you whisper against his skin, heart aching with all the love you feel for him. "I'm just sorry you were forced to take on that burden at all."

"I would do it again."

"I know."

For a few minutes, the two of you lie in silence. Xaden lets himself be held, and doesn't let go of your hand, either. Your tears dry, something like peace settling into the cracks of your heart. You will never forget that day, probably won't ever be able to think of it without hurting, but knowing your presence made it easier for Xaden to receive those cuts takes the edge off your guilt. You hadn't even realized how very heavily it weighed on you, never realized how much lighter getting if off your chest would make you feel.

"I never thanked you," Xaden says after a while.

"For what?"

If he wants to thank you for performing those cuts, you're going to fucking bite him.

Your tone must have given away your incredulity, because Xaden chuckles. "Don't go biting my head off. I just meant for facing all this together with me. For always being by my side. I couldn't have done all this without you."

"You don't have to thank me for that, silly," you huff, nudging your head against his back. "By your side is where I belong."

Xaden lifts your hand again, this time kissing the back of it. "Yes. It is."

Heat creeps up your cheeks, your traitorous heart speeding up. You tell yourself he didn't mean it like that, even if it sure sounded like it. Wishful thinking, nothing more.

Though now that you think about it... Earlier, when you asked about how strangely attached to you his shadows seem, it almost sounded like he meant to say it was because he felt that way. And the way he said his magic wants to protect you... It doesn't necessarily mean anything, could be totally platonic — but it doesn't feel platonic.

With another squeeze of your hand, Xaden lets go and turns to lie on his back. You stay on your side, resting your head on the pillow of muscles between his shoulder and chest as his arm wraps around you, replacing the shadow around your waist. His bare skin is incredibly warm and soft under your fingers, a feeling you can't get enough of as you trace the lines of his abs.

"What were you going to say earlier, Xaden?" you whisper. Maybe the answer won't be what you're foolishly hoping for, but either way, you want to know.

He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling himself for something, and whispers back even more quietly than you, "That the shadows seem attracted to you because I am."

Your fingers still, splaying flat on his stomach. Holy shit. Xaden is attracted to you. Xaden is attracted to you. Completely stunned by the admission, you realize that though you were hoping for it, you didn't believe it could happen, never thought about what you would do if he did like you that way.

His grip on your waist has tightened, the only indication he might be as nervous to have this conversation as you are.

Slowly, you shift your head to look up at him. Your wide eyes meet his, Xaden's gaze intense and piercing even in the dark.

With his signet, he can probably make out a lot more of your expression than you of his.

You should say something, ask what exactly he means by attracted, just to be sure, or tell him you feel the same. But you're still processing his words, what they might mean. Everything you dreamed of but never thought you could actually get, suddenly a real possibility.

Those perfect lips of his quirk up in a lazy grin. "You want to kiss me so bad right now, don't you?"

Ugh, it's so typical of him to notice that and get cocky, even when he should be squirming as he waits for an answer to his confession. Worse, you can't even bring yourself to be annoyed by it, or pretend he's wrong, because gods, you do want to know what his mouth would feel like on yours, what he tastes like.

"Yes," you breathe. "Have wanted to for years, actually. I just— worried it'd make things awkward between us, since I didn't know how you'd react."

Xaden shakes his head, the grin turning into a gentle smile as he cups your cheek. "You really thought that after everything we've been through together that could drive a wedge between us?"

"Silly, I know. I was just so scared it would change things between us, and I figured you'd probably never feel the same—"

"I've loved you since we were children," Xaden softly interrupts. "I wasn't supposed to, so I never said anything, but I did."

"Oh." Shaking the shock of his words, you smile at Xaden. "We're both idiots, aren't we?"

"Seems like it. And for the record, this will change things." Before you can panic about what he means by that, he elaborates, "I intend to make up for all the time I could have been kissing you already, and the next person who has the audacity to flirt with you is getting their jaw broken."

You chuckle, relief and love flooding you in a cocktail more potent than any drug. "I love you, Xaden. More than words can describe."

"I love you too," Xaden says, nudging your face toward his own.

Then his mouth is on yours, and every coherent thought drains from your head. The taste of minty toothpaste is still heavy on his tongue, his lips impossibly soft. You've dreamed of this for years, but nothing you ever imagined can compare to the reality of kissing him. You're instantly addicted.

He releases you, both of you slightly out of breath, and rests his forehead against yours.

"Mine," he whispers, and this time there can be no doubt the shadows snaking around your limbs are intentional.

"Yours," you whisper back, wrapping your legs around the closer one of his, one hand on his shoulder, the other draped over his waist.

Your smile is so wide your cheeks are already starting to ache. You're half convinced you must have fallen asleep planning the dagger drop-off and this is all a dream. It's just too good to be true. But gods, if this is a dream, you never want to wake up.

Xaden traces his thumb along your bottom lip. "What are you thinking?"

"Just wondering if this is really happening. If it's a dream, I'll be pissed when I wake up."

"Good thing it's not a dream, then," he chuckles. "You're grumpy enough in the mornings as it is."

"Oh, shut it! I bet I'd be considerably less grumpy if you wake me up with a kiss."

With a smirk, Xaden lifts his brows at you. "Is that so? I think I'll have to test that theory."

He gives only a perfunctory knock and opens your door without waiting for a reply, too pissed off to care about manners.

All thoughts of berating you disappear at the sight that greets him, however. A glance is all it takes to tell you're unwell — buried under a heap of blankets, your complexion is wan, the eyes that flutter open at his entrance glassy with fever. Used tissues are strewn around the bed.

Dain immediately feels bad for having assumed you skipped formation on purpose. Aside from the relic on your arm marking you as a traitor's child, you've given him no reason to think badly of you. You're always punctual, good about following the rules, and unlike some people in his squad, you never interrupt him or give him the feeling of not being taken seriously when he's giving orders.

You should have reported in sick when you realized you wouldn't be able to attend class today, but Dain can't really blame you for failing to do so. Your arms tremble with effort as you struggle into a sitting position at the sight of him, and the cough that shakes your body doesn't sound good at all. If you tried to get out of bed, you would probably collapse on the spot.

Dain stands awkwardly in the doorway, grasping for something to say. He'd been so caught up in his suspicions that he hadn't planned for the possibility of finding you sick.

"You missed formation," he finally says. The statement comes out flat, but to Dain's ears, it still sounds accusing somehow. Quickly, he adds, "I just wanted to know why. I'll note you down as sick."

You just nod, bleary-eyed and barely awake.

Dain isn't sure you actually comprehended a single word of what he said. It feels strangely intimate to see you so vulnerable, and he can't help but think he's probably one of the last people you'd want to have around while you're in this state.

He should go, maybe tell one of your friends to check in on you when he sees them. It wouldn't be right to leave without making sure you'll be okay on your own in the meantime, though.

A step forward brings him fully into your room, the door creaking shut behind him.

He looks around, feeling like an intruder. The dorms in the quadrant all look pretty much the same, the only real difference being that some have windows and others don't, but in the few months since Threshing, you've made the space your own in a way Dain never thought to do with his own.

You have a window looking out over the ravine, and wooden butterflies of various colors and sizes decorate the curtain rod above it. A bundle of dried lavender sticks out of an empty glass bottle on top of the dresser, sharing the space with neatly lined up daggers and a black stone covered in decorative runes. Above the bed, a few simple but colorful drawings are pinned to the wall. Dain wonders if you made them yourself or received them from a friend.

A rattling cough draws his attention back to you.

Sitting up with a pillow at your back, your blankets — Dain counts at least three — have pooled in your lap, and he can see that the shirt you're wearing is much too big on you, clearly having come from someone else's wardrobe. An uncalled-for surge of jealousy washes over Dain as he contemplates whose it might be. Do you have a partner he doesn't know about? Then his eye catches on the wingleader emblem, and he feels incredibly stupid. Of course it's your brother's. From what he's seen, Riorson and Durran are much too overprotective of you to let you go out with anyone. It wouldn't surprise Dain at all if they secretly disposed of anyone who so much as hints at being interested in you.

It's on the tip of his tongue to point out that you shouldn't wear clothes displaying a rank you don't have, but he stops himself. You're sick and using the shirt as a pajama, not wearing it out and about. Who is he to berate you for that? Squad leader or not, it's none of his business what you wear in private.

Besides, he's still not sure how bad your fever is, whether you're even lucid enough to hold a conversation.

He thinks about feeling your temperature, but immediately dismisses the idea. His signet is supposed to be a secret, but Dain is pretty sure your brother knows what it is, and he doesn't want Riorson to get the wrong idea if you tell him about this encounter. And Dain is curious; if he touched you, he might dive into your memories without even meaning to. He might learn something about what the older marked ones are hiding that way (and he's sure they're hiding something), but it's not worth the risk. Better to keep his hands to himself than to lose them.

"Do you want to go to the healers?" he asks instead.

In Dain's opinion, you definitely should, but you shake your head. Maybe you don't think you need a healer, or you feel too weak to get up even if he helps you, or maybe you don't trust him enough to let him take you to the infirmary. Dain doesn't know, because you still don't say anything.

"Is there anything I can get you? Medicine? More tissues?"

Dain tries to tell himself he's only asking because it's part of his leadership duties to make sure the members of his squad are at their best, but deep down, he knows that's not true. He's worried about you because, against his better judgement, he's drawn to you.

When you were placed in his squad, Dain had expected you to be a little Xaden-clone who would make his life difficult on purpose. And you do make it difficult, just not in the way he'd thought. Everything about you intrigues him. You're reserved, eloquent, and skilled in combat just like your brother, but also entirely unlike him — friendly and polite where he is broody, humble where he is cocky; brave, yet softer than anyone else Dain has met in the Quadrant. Your bright smiles are reserved for a select handful of people only, Dain decidedly not among them, but he gets butterflies at the sight every time nonetheless. He can't get you out of his head, and it's driving him insane.

"I'm fine," you reply. "But thanks."

Dain doesn't think you're fine — your voice is a rasp, the words coming out like someone dragged them over glass and clearly hurting your throat. He should get you some cough drops, at the very least. Would he be overstepping if he did that?

You perk up, seeming to think of something he can do for you after all. "Can you—" You cough again, and yeah, he's definitely getting you something to help with that, regardless of whether or not you ask him to. "Can you not tell Xay I'm sick, please?"

Dain blinks at the nickname. He wouldn't have thought Riorson the type to allow anyone to call him by a nickname, let alone something cute sounding like that, but then, he supposes that as his sister, you're privy to sides of him no one else — certainly not Dain — ever sees.

You seem to interpret his stunned silence as hesitation. Before he can decide whether he should point out that he and Xaden don't exactly speak to each other unless their leadership duties require it, you continue, "Please! He'd get all worried, and he really has enough to worry about as it is."

"Like Violet?"

The question slips out before he can think better of it. He knows it's not right to take advantage of your state to gain information, but despite Violet's claims that Xaden won't hurt her, Dain can't believe it. That man is plotting something, he's sure, and if his best friend is in danger, he wants to know. If you happen to reveal something in your feverish state that you otherwise wouldn't have said in answer to a harmless question, well, then that's not the same as if he went digging through your memories, is it?

No, he doesn't think so, but it still isn't nice. Despite his worries about Violet and how she's chained to Xaden thanks to their dragons, Dain is kind of relieved when you completely misunderstand his question.

"Mhm, I like her. She's totally badass. And sooo smart!"

"That's not what—" Dain shakes his head. No information gained, no harm done. "Nevermind."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. You should rest."

And he should get out of here before he can ask any more questions he doesn't really want you to answer.

Your face scrunches in confusion. "Yeah, that's why 'm in bed."

"Right." Dain clears his throat and inches back toward the door. "Of course. Then I'll just leave you b—"

"Wait!" You sit up as if to stop him, and a stuffed animal tumbles to the floor, dislodged from its place at your side by the sudden movement. "You didn't say if you'll tell Xa— Oh."

Realizing your stuffed animal fell down, you shift closer to the edge of the bed to pick it up. Your movements are slow and careful, as though you're dizzy or nauseous. Dain can barely stand to watch you, fearing you'll fall from the bed if you lean far enough over the edge to reach the stuffie.

"Lie down," he says, crossing the room with a few big steps, "I'll get it."

You sink back into the pillows with a frustrated sigh.

Dain can't tell if your dismay is aimed at your own helplessness or the fact that it's him helping you, but chooses to believe it's the former. Despite the mutual distrust between him and the marked ones, he never got the impression you dislike him.

Crouching beside the bed, he picks up your stuffed animal. It's a bunny, light brown and so worn you must have had and loved it for a long time. Not wanting to embarrass you, he keeps his thoughts about how recklessly impractical and cute it is that you brought it across the parapet and into the quadrant with you to himself. Wordlessly, he brushes off any dust that might have gotten on it from the floor, and hands it back to you.

You close your hand around its floppy ear with a mumbled thanks, and the bunny disappears between the folds of your many blankets.

Where did you even get all of those? The standard is one duvet and one wool blanket, and Dain doesn't think any of the professors would hand out extras — certainly nothing as pink and fluffy as the blanket that peeks out beneath the regular black one. He decides not to question it.

"I won't tell Xaden you're sick unless he directly asks me," he continues the conversation like nothing happened. "Which I doubt he will. But I can't guarantee he won't find out on his own."

You grimace. "Yeah, he always finds out when I try to hide something. But hopefully not 'till I'm better."

"Like I said, I won't tell him. I doubt he would approve of me being here."

To Dain's astonishment, you giggle. Once the coughing fit it triggers is over, you croak, "No, definitely not. He'd kill you if he walked in right now, no questions asked."

Dain, unable to share your amusement, reflexively glances at the door, as if the mere talk of the wingleader might summon him.

Gods, what is he even doing here? He should have left as soon as he saw you had a valid reason for missing formation, shouldn't have even set foot into the room. The fact that Riorson will likely kill Dain if he finds out he was alone with you in your room aside, he should be on his way to class, not chatting with a sick subordinate. Which reminds him—

"Do you have anyone who'll take notes for you in class?"

"Dunno. I'll figure it out when I feel better. Can't be that much I'll miss in a single day."

Dain shakes his head. He has no idea if you have the flu or just a common cold, but it doesn't take a healer to know you won't be getting over whatever it is in one day. Chances are you'll need to stay in bed for the rest of the week. If you show up to class still sick, Dain will drag you back to your room himself. No way will he let you spread your germs to everyone and get the whole squad sick.

"I'll ask one of the other first-years," he offers.

Probably Violet. Dain doesn't like how involved she's getting with the marked ones, but nothing he can do will change the fact that you two are slowly becoming friends, and her notes will certainly be the most comprehensible. His own friendship with Violet has been strained lately, thanks to his — apparently uncalled for — attempts of protecting her and the thing with Amber, but as her squad leader, she can't avoid him completely. She'll probably be happy enough to help, once she hears it's you she'll be doing a favor.

The fact that his lifelong best friend is suddenly closer with the children of the man who killed her brother than with him is depressing, so Dain turns his thoughts back to more practical matters.

Getting you cough drops and tissues is added to his mental to-do list, but will have to wait until he has time for it. He can bring you the things during lunch, along with something to eat. It's not like there's anyone else who might bring you food, if Dain is the only one aware that you're sick. In agreeing to keep it to himself, he's made himself responsible for taking care of you.

Noticing you don't have anything to drink in reach, Dain fetches you a bottle of water.

"I'll come check on you during lunchtime," he says as he hands it to you, "and I want this to be empty by then."

"Is that an order, squad leader?"

It's hard to tell with how raspy your voice is, but Dain is pretty sure you're teasing.

"Yes. Staying hydrated is especially important while you're sick." He might not be an expert, but he knows that much. "If you feel worse or need anything, just have your dragon tell Cath, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you."

It's entirely unlike you to be late. Usually, you're the first to arrive when the three of you agree to meet somewhere. Especially considering the importance of tonight's plans, Xaden had fully expected you to already be waiting when he left his room, and was surprised to find only Garrick there.

Fleetingly, Xaden wonders if you got cold feet, but immediately dismisses the thought. Of the three of you, you'd been the most eager to turn the plan of smuggling weapons to the fliers into reality, to finally do something to continue the fight your parents had started. It could be possible you simply overslept, but even that seems unlikely. You wouldn't miss sneaking into the forge for the world, which means something has to be wrong.

As Xaden snaps his watch closed, silent understanding passes between him and Garrick. They've waited long enough — maybe too long, an anxious little voice in the back of Xaden's head insists. Whatever has kept you from showing up must be serious. Dangerous, perhaps. They should be with you, make sure you're okay, instead of uselessly lingering beside the staircase, where anyone could walk by and see them. The hour isn't entirely unreasonable, but whether leadership, suspicious as most of its members are of them, would believe the excuse of being up early for some extra training is something Xaden would rather not put to the test.

Garrick and Xaden move as one down the hall in the direction of your room.

Just then, Sgaeyl pushes past his shields, flimsy as they are. When she speaks, Xaden is glad he can't keep her out yet.

"Hurry," is all she says, confirming his fears.

You're in danger.

Garrick must have gotten the same information from Chradh, breaking into a run at the same moment Xaden does.

"What's the situation?" Xaden asks down the bond, hoping your dragon has relayed details to Sgaeyl and not just a vague distress call.

"It seems your girl has been waylaid by a group of unbonded cadets. She is holding her own for now, but clearly in need of backup."

Wasting breath on a curse, Xaden pushes himself to run even faster. Gods, why does your room have to be so fucking far away from theirs? Xaden and Garrick's rooms are right next to each other, but you ended up far from them, on the opposite side of the first-years floor, which means unlike them, you have to walk the halls alone to get to them. Xaden curses himself for not having thought about that sooner, and promises himself that from now on, he and Garrick will always pick you up from your room, nevermind that it means having to double back the way they came.

Sgaeyl had warned him to watch out for the unbonded, but now it's clear that even so, he underestimated how much of a threat they really would be. Knowing how capable you are, it hadn't crossed his mind until tonight that the unbonded could actually do you any harm; foolishly, he hadn't viewed them as serious a threat as the many enemies you all have among leadership and the cadets whose families remained loyal to Navarre.

Skidding around the last corner with Garrick close on his heels, they're greeted by the sight of you with your back to the wall about halfway down the corridor, trying your damnedest to fend off four enemies at once. Blood runs down your cheek, and through a bloodstained hole in your shirt, Xaden can see a gash just above your hip bone. The hem of your shirt and your pants gleam wetly with blood in the dim light of the hallway.

Boiling rage steals Xaden's breath at the sight.

How fucking dare those bastards lay hand on you? Fucking cowards, jumping you in the dim hall because they know they could never beat you in a fair fight. You're one of the best fighters Xaden knows, but ambushed and outnumbered like this, even you don't stand much of a chance.

Two of the assailants turn at the sound of Xaden's and Garrick's approaching footsteps, raising their weapons in a defensive stance while the third continues to try and wrestle yours from your hands. The fourth looks between you and the new arrivals, clearly panicked. She's clutching her shoulder, blood seeping out between her fingers.

The sight fills Xaden with grim satisfaction. You got her good. But they won't get away with just a few injuries. Oh no, Xaden will make them pay. Nobody touches either of his partners and lives; he already proved that during Threshing.

Catching a glimpse of Garrick's expression, Xaden notes that it's just as murderous as he himself feels.

"Get the fuck away from her!" his boyfriend bellows, drawing one of the swords strapped to his back and charging right at the group.

The man in front flings a dagger, but Garrick dodges and keeps advancing, using the moment his opponent fumbles to draw another weapon to rush him.

With Threshing only a few days past, neither of you has a signet yet, which means the odds are relatively even now that Xaden and Garrick are here. Xaden is sure the three of you can defeat the four unbonded cadets, but it won't do to be careless. It wasn't due to lack of fighting skills that the man to your right failed to bond a dragon, that's for sure — Xaden had faced him on the challenge mat earlier in the year, and while Xaden had won, it hadn't been as effortlessly as most of his other victories. The other three can't be weak either, considering they survived this long.

Sidestepping Garrick and his opponent, Xaden draws two of his daggers. While he prefers the swords, they're no good in such close quarters. The dormitory hallway is not necessarily narrow, but doesn't provide enough space to properly swing the swords without risk of hitting a wall or one of you.

Garrick must have come to the same conclusion — switching his sword to his non-dominant hand, he slams his bare fist into his enemy's face. Taken by surprise, the cadet stumbles a step backward and collides with the bulky woman you're still fighting.

Her attention wavers for a split second, giving you opportunity to yank free of her grasp and jab your dagger into her throat.

Garrick's opponent is knocked off balance too; the arm holding his weapon droops, leaving an opening Garrick doesn't hesitate to take advantage of, sinking his own blade deep into the man's guts. Jumping back, Garrick easily dodges as the injured man swings his short sword at him in retaliation. Already swaying on his feet, he's too slow and clumsy to stop Garrick from finishing him off.

Xaden notes you crossing blades with the woman with the injured shoulder, but then he has to focus on his own enemy — the man he remembers from challenges. Fighting with a hatchet in each hand, the brunette is annoyingly fast, and with the limited range of his daggers, Xaden has a hard time getting past his defense. His opponent even manages to hit him in the chest with the handle of a hatchet, but after chasing him down half the length of the hall, Xaden finally spots an opening, and plunges his blade into the cadet's chest to the hilt. He goes limp, hatchets clattering to the floor, and Xaden whirls around to check on you and Garrick.

His eyes find you first; bent at the waist with your hands braced on your thighs, you're panting and wan, but as far as he can tell no worse injured than when he entered the hall. The fourth and last opponent's body lies between the other two, and Garrick is crouched beside it to retrieve his blade, which seems to be stuck between the woman's ribs.

Xaden pulls his own dagger from the hatchet-wielding cadet's chest and walks back down the hall to you, wiping his blades on his pants before sheathing them.

The fight was certainly loud enough to wake the other cadets residing in this hall, but their doors remain closed. All the better. He doesn't feel like dealing with anyone else.

Reaching you, Xaden immediately pulls you into his arms, simultaneously giving Garrick a once-over to make sure he didn't get hurt while he was busy with his opponent. Other than a laceration on his jaw, he seems fine.

Finally having freed his blade, your boyfriend joins the both of you.

Xaden presses a kiss to your forehead and releases you, the weight on his chest easing now that you're out of danger. Garrick cups your cheek and does the same, asking if you're alright.

You nod, taking a steadying breath before answering.

"Yeah, thanks to you two." Huffing a humorless laugh, you run a hand over your face and shake your head. "Those fuckers were sneaky as hell. When I left my room, they were already waiting, but I only saw two of them at first. By the time I noticed the others, it was too late to retreat."

Xaden's brows knit. "How did they know when to wait for you?"

It shouldn't be possible for anyone to have known about your rendezvous; the three of you had been careful to only discuss it in the privacy of your rooms, using sign language in case leadership had someone with enhanced hearing around, and Xaden doesn't have to ask to be certain neither of you told anyone else about it.

You point at the dead woman at Xaden's feet, the one you had killed. "Her room is right next to mine. My best guess is she must have heard me getting ready and ran to get her friends so they could use the chance to ambush me. Pretty sure they were supposed to have breakfast duty today, so they would have been getting up already too."

Xaden frowns down at the corpse, barely restraining himself from kicking its face. "Didn't this one bond, though?"

"Yeah, but her brother didn't, so I guess that's why she helped him and their friends." You shrug, failing to hide a wince at the pain the movement causes you. "Or maybe it was just for fun because she hates us marked ones so much. You should have heard them going on about how unfair it is that a traitor like me got bonded by a dragon while they were passed over."

"Assholes," Xaden scoffs, wishing he could have killed them slower.

When you ask what to do with the bodies, Xaden shakes his head with a pointed glance at the wound in your side. "Nothing, for now. You're hurt."

"Yeah, let's get you to the healers and then we'll see," Garrick agrees.

"No healers," you say. "The less people who know what happened, the better. I can stitch myself up while you two get rid of the bodies, and then we can go scope out the forge like we planned."

Xaden shakes his head. Even if the attack's timing was just coincidence, it's better not to risk it. "We'll do it another time. But you're right about the healers. Come on, let's patch you up, and then I'll clean up this mess."

"I can help," you argue. "I'm mildly injured, not at the brink of death. You've got some nasty scrapes too, if you haven't noticed."

He hadn't noticed, if he's being honest, but now that you say it, he can feel the dull ache of a bruise forming on his sternum, and the sting of a cut on his arm. Still, he took decidedly less damage than you, so it's only fair he should be the one to deal with the cleanup.

Garrick kicks aside the arm of one of the bodies so you and Xaden won't trip over it, and opens the door to your room. His knuckles are bleeding.

"Where do you have your med kit?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Wardrobe," you answer. "Bottom right corner, behind my spare boots."

While Garrick retrieves the medical supplies, Xaden walks you to the bed, his hand hovering inches from your elbow in case you need help. You aren't exactly steady on your feet, no matter how you try to hide it. You sit down; Xaden remains standing Taking the first aid kit from Garrick when he steps to his side, he motions for him to sit down too.

Garrick rolls his eyes as he does so. "You know it doesn't always have to be you taking care of us, right?"

The both of you tell Xaden so all the time, reminding him he's just a person too and entitled to moments of weakness like everyone else, but the scars covering his back make it hard to forget the responsibility he carries for your lives.

"I'm fine," he deflects, and gently pushes on your shoulder to make you lean back so he can better reach the wound in your side. You hiss in pain when he peels your shirt away from the cut, which thankfully isn't as deep as he had feared.

Still... "That's gonna need stitches."

"I was afraid you would say that," you grit out between clenched teeth. "Any chance either of you would like to knock me out before you sew it shut?"

Xaden shakes his head. He knows how much you hate needles, but knocking you out is definitely not happening; you've taken more than enough damage tonight. "Nope. Sorry, love, but we need you awake. Garrick can distract you."

"Fine," you groan, squeezing your eyes shut. "Just be quick about it."

Xaden waits until Garrick has leant in and captured your lips with his, then he quickly cleans and closes the wound.

Your pained whimpers are muffled by Garrick's mouth but still audible, and when Xaden briefly glances up from his work he notes the white-knuckled grip you're clutching his shirt with. He knows how big an effort it must be to hold still like this. Tying off the end of the thread, Xaden frowns down at his handiwork. It's not the prettiest, but it'll do well enough.

"Okay, I'm done. Anything else that needs stitches while I've got the needle in hand?"

You both shake your heads, but then Garrick sits up and leans forward to poke at Xaden's arm. The cut there is still trickling blood, red smeared all over his forearm.

"Give me that," his boyfriend demands, grabbing for the thread and needle, which Xaden quickly holds out of reach.

"It's not that bad."

"Bad enough to need a stich or three," Garrick insists. To you, he adds, "Back me up here, babe."

"He's right," you tell Xaden.

"You're just agreeing with him because I was the one poking you with a needle just now," Xaden grumbles, but hands the offending item to Garrick and holds out his arm. He doesn't think the stitches are strictly necessary, but it's true that the cut will probably heal better with them.

Working together, the three of you soon finish patching each other up.

When you try to follow Xaden and Garrick as they step back into the hall to dispose of the bodies, Xaden stops you.

"Oh come on! I'm not that hurt!"

"No," Xaden admits, "but this—" he points at your side "—is going to rip right back open if you aren't careful. I doubt you want us to have to redo the stitches, right?"

As expected, that convinces you. "Fine... But I can at least hold open doors for you and keep watch so no one will see us."

Xaden nods and the both of you join Garrick, who is already in the hall, glaring down at the corpses with his hands on his hips.

"So, if we killed the breakfast crew..."

At first, that had been fine. You had enough homework to occupy yourself with, even if your period cramps made it hard to focus.

But now, almost an hour after you finished everything you had to do, Xaden and Garrick are still huddled over the former's desk and paying zero attention to you, and it's really starting to bother you. Not their fault, you know. It's your period that makes you so irritable, but that doesn't stop you from cursing the fact that it's today of all days that they have to be so busy.

Despite the multiple attempts to get their attention you've made already, they remain so focused on their work they haven't even noticed how miserable your mood has gotten over the span of the last two hours.

No, this really isn't your day — usually, they're much more observant than this.

Even though you know interrupting them won't make their work get done any faster, you can't stop yourself from once again asking, "Are you almost done?"

"Soon," Xaden says without looking up, but that's what he'd said half an hour ago, too.

"How soon?" you insist.

"Soon," he repeats, pushing the paper in front of him to Garrick to point something out. A heated discussion ensues, and you're forgotten again.

You sigh into Xaden's pillow. What's the point of having two boyfriends if neither of them has time to cuddle with you?

While them being wingleader and section leader has a lot of perks — bigger rooms, more control over their — and your — schedule, and the authority to punish anyone giving you shit for the rebellion relic on your arm, to only name a few — this is the downside. Loads and loads of extra work. They've been sitting at Xaden's desk brooding over gods know what for hours now, the only sounds in the room the rustling of paper and the occasional muttered question.

Usually, you don't mind keeping them company while each of you does their own thing — it's a peaceful kind of quiet, something so rare in this godsforsaken place. You like to silently sit with them while you study, despite how tempting it is to let yourself get distracted by them. Since they always tend to have more work than you thanks to their leadership duties, you're always done before them, anyway. And it's nice to just curl up on the bed and watch them while you wait for them to finish their work too — just not today. Staying patient is hard when it feels like your lower body is being stabbed with burning knives, and all you want is to be held. With every passing minute, it gets harder to sit and wait.

You could break their concentration. You know if you asked outright, they'd put everything aside and come cuddle you in a heartbeat. But as tempting as that is, you also know how important it is that they get their work done. Being marked, they had to work harder for their leadership positions than anyone else, and need to be better than everyone else to be treated with even a fraction of the respect they deserve. If they mess up, the consequences will be worse than they'd be for anyone else. They can't afford to get sloppy with their duties.

You know how Xaden would argue against that reasoning: That you are more important than any of that, that they can still get the work done later tonight, when you are asleep. But Xaden already doesn't get enough sleep as it is; you refuse to be the reason for making it worse.

And yet, it only takes a few more minutes for your resolve to crumble. Unable to take this any longer, you tell yourself you won't keep them from working for long. A few minutes of their attention, that's all you want. Surely, a small break like that can't hurt.

"If neither of you comes cuddle me in the next five minutes I'm going to fucking riot," you declare into the quiet. "And by riot I mean I'll go get cuddles from Imogen."

Now that gets their attention more effectively than anything else could have. Finally looking up from their paperwork, your boyfriends share a confused look and turn to frown at you.

"What?" Xaden asks, and Garrick adds, "Why the fuck would you do that?"

"Because I've been trying to get your attention for like an hour and you just keep on ignoring me," you whine. "I. Want. Cuddles. And I'll get them, one way or another."

You don't actually mean to make true on your threat, even in the unlikely case that they insist on finishing their work first. There's no way you're getting up now that you finally found a position that makes your cramps at least kind of bearable. Your best friend isn't much for physical affection, anyway. And while she might make an exception for you, it just wouldn't be the same as getting held by your boyfriends.

Luckily, the threat does the trick, even though the both of them are certainly aware of how empty it is.

"You didn't say that you want to cuddle," Xaden scolds, gathering up a few papers before rising from his chair to join you on the bed. "I thought you were just bored. Are you okay?"

The question comes as no surprise — it's very unlike you to interrupt them like this, even more so in such an agitated manner.

"Yeah," you mumble, a little ashamed of being so needy. "Sorry. 's just that I got my period, and it feels like you guys are taking forever today."

"Nothing to apologize for," Xaden assures you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Garrick explains, "It's taking so long because of that leadership meeting we have tomorrow morning to sort some stuff out before Threshing. Lots of shit to plan, but we can just as well do that in bed with you."

"Right, you mentioned that... Forgot it's tomorrow. Does that mean I have to sleep in my own room?"

More often than not, Fourth Wing's leadership meetings take place in Xaden's room.

Xaden shakes his head. "You can sleep wherever you want. If you want to sleep here, we'll just have to be quiet. I'm not letting anyone disturb your sleep."

He's completely serious, you know. You can imagine it all too well, Xaden waiting for the squad- and section-leaders at the door and instructing them to keep their voices down as they enter the room, his shadows engulfing you like a cocoon so no undeserving eye will catch sight of your sleeping form. Xaden just is dramatic like that.

"Makes it kinda hard to hold a meeting when no one is allowed to speak," you chuckle.

"Oh, I don't know," Garrick jokes as he settles at the head of the bed, letting you and Xaden rest your heads on his lap. "It actually would be kind of nice if the other idiots had to keep their mouths shut and just listen for a change."

Xaden hums in agreement. He has made himself comfortable behind you, one arm slid beneath you, the other thrown over your waist, holding his papers in front of you both so he can finish his work while he holds you. His legs tangle with yours, head resting in the crook of your neck. The hand not holding the papers slips under your shirt, resting warm and comforting on your aching lower abdomen.

With a content sigh, you close your eyes, finally relaxing as Xaden's body heat seeps into you. You swear just being near him is enough to release the tension from your muscles.

"Did you take something against the pain yet?" Xaden asks after a minute.

When you shake your head, Garrick immediately moves to get up, ready to disappear and get the medicine for you in a blink. Before he can, you explain, "I was too nauseous to eat, so I can't take anything."

You'd made the mistake of taking painkillers on an empty stomach once, and spent hours throwing up bile as a result. After that, it had taken you months to work up the courage to try taking them again at all, even though logically you knew you'd be fine as long as you ate something first. You would much rather endure the pain than make that same mistake again.

"Damn, that sucks. I'm sorry, baby."

You shrug, opening your eyes and angling your head back to smile up at Garrick. "I'll survive. I'm just glad we're not scheduled for flight lessons until the end of the week."

Garrick nods, but observes, "This is worse than usual. Maybe you should see a healer, don't you think?"

"No. They have enough patients with real problems."

"Being in so much pain from your period that you can't eat or sleep through the night is a real problem," he insists.

"Ehh, I'm used to it. There's nothing they can do, anyway. And besides, this isn't even that bad. One time my period was so bad I actually fainted after getting up a bit too fast."

Xaden tenses, pushing up on his elbow to lean over you so he can look at your face. "Why don't I know about that?"

"I guess it just never came up? I dunno." You shrug. "It's not that big of a deal, Xaden. That was before I came to Basgiath."

"You should have warned us in case it happens again. It's fucking dangerous. What if you faint during a challenge or while flying?"

"If I felt like fainting I'd let you know, I promise. It's not like it's a frequent occurrence, and I'm pretty sure that one time it did happen was mostly due to low blood pressure."

You lift your hand to cup Xaden's cheek as you speak, rubbing your thumb back and forth along his cheek bone to soothe him. He's adorable when he gets all worried and protective, but you know better than to tell him that right now.

"Still," he grumbles. "Maybe you should stay in bed until your period is over. You shouldn't have to go to class and fight while dealing with this torture. We can cover for you. No one would doubt it if we say you're sick, and you can easily catch up on the stuff you miss."

"Tempting," you admit, "but I think we both know that's not actually an option."

With a sigh, Xaden lies back down and buries his face in your shoulder. "I know."

"Is there anything we can do to make you feel better?" Garrick asks, setting his stack of papers aside in favor of lying down on your other side.

"Just cuddles," you mumble, the words barely intelligible as you bury your face in the soft fabric of his shirt. "Think I'll try to nap for a bit."

"Alright, love." Xaden kisses your head, then you feel him half sit up again. "Here, drink some water first, hm? You've got to stay hydrated, or you'll feel even worse."

Since you know he's right, you force yourself to sit up and accept the water he hands you, draining half the glass before settling down once more.

As soon as that first drop hits the mat where you’ve doubled over after taking your opponent’s knee to the face, you know it’s over. That one little drop of red is all it takes to destroy any chance you had of winning this challenge.

The wave of nausea and lightheadedness is instant. You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s useless; you can still feel more blood trickling down your face. You swallow. The taste of it is in your mouth, too. Fuck. You’re going to throw up.

“I yield,” you croak.

Without waiting for a response, you push to your feet and rush for the gym’s exit, careful to keep your eyes averted from the blood on the mat. By the time you reach the restroom, the bleeding has already stopped. It should’ve been a relief; instead, it makes you question whether the gods are deliberately mocking you.

Your hands shake as you bend over the sink and cup water in them to wash away the drying blood and rinse your mouth. Only once you’re certain all traces of red are gone do you raise your head. Meeting your own exhausted eyes in the mirror, you carefully dab your face dry with a paper towel.

There isn’t much to be seen of your injury — some minor swelling on the side of your nose that took the brunt of the attack, barely noticable. The cold water probably helped.

You try not to imagine what your squad mates will think, but the words they’ve thrown at you before echo in your mind, anyway. Wuss. Coward. Pathetic. And of course, they expected nothing else right from the start. Marked as a traitor, you’re destined to be a failure in their eyes.

True enough, you wouldn’t be here making such a fool of yourself if you hadn’t been forced into conscription as punishment for your parents’ sins against the kingdom. Sometimes, you wonder if it wouldn’t have been preferable if you’d never been offered this path to survival, if instead, you’d been put to death along with your parents. It’s a selfish thought, you know. Although not all marked ones will make it out of Basgiath alive, it at least is a fair chance for most of the others.

In regards to your own chances, you’ve been sceptical all along, and with every day of training and lessons that goes by, your pessimism grows. Though both your parents had been prodigious officers, and you’d always been proud of and admired them for it, becoming a soldier was not what you had imagined for yourself in life. It’s the bloodshed that bothers you most, but not only the bloodshed — you’re terrified to think that someday soon, it will be your duty to defend Navarre’s innocent citizens from those who would bring them harm, given you survive long enough to actually become a rider, and the brutal violence permeating the Quadrant threatens to suffocate you every day, more excessive than you could’ve ever imagined. The need for constant vigilance grates on you, the pressure to always be prepared for a fight… or a knife in the back. The longer you are here, the more painfully obvious it becomes that you aren’t made for this kind of life.

Even if you last until Threshing somehow — will any of the dragons be willing to take a rider unable to stomach the sight of blood? From everything you’ve been told about the creatures, they don’t seem like they’d be particularly understanding of such a weakness, though you suppose they must each have their own personal opinions and priorities just like humans, making it just barely possible, if unlikely, that there might be one who wouldn’t mind.

You sigh, throwing the paper towel into the trash with more force than necessary. It’s no use dwelling on these thoughts. You can only continue to try your best, inadequade as it might be, and if you die, you die.

When you exit the restroom, your section’s executive officer is leaning against the wall opposite the door, clearly waiting for you. The hallway is otherwise deserted, everyone else still in the gym from where shouts, clangs of metal, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh ring out as challenges continue.

You stop short, blurting, “Am I in trouble?”

It’s the only explanation you can think of for Bodhi’s presence. You’re not aware of any rules that prohibit cadets from leaving the gym during challenges, nor from yielding without being pinned or seriously injured, but even if not outright wrong, your behavior had certainly been unusual. Maybe your section leader decided you were making Tail Section look bad, though why he sent his XO and not your squad leader to scold you is beyond you.

Bodhi looks taken aback by your assumption, though, inquisitively cocking his head to the side. “You tell me. It looked like you were doing fine, and then you just yielded for seemingly no reason. I thought maybe that knee to the face did more damage than it looked like, but you seem okay now, so…” He shrugs. “I’m just curious, I guess.”

“It was the nosebleed,” you admit. “I— I don’t do well with blood, even when there’s just a little.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him this. You’re only acquainted in the fleeting way all marked ones are, and due to you being his subordinate — this is the first time you’ve spoken to each other one-on-one. Yet somehow, you’re comfortable around him. Maybe it’s the relief of not being in trouble after all.

In any case, the words are out now. Hearing them is strangely freeing; the last time you were open about your aversion to blood, your parents were still alive. An eternity ago, it feels like.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

You frown. It hadn’t occurred to you to bother telling any of your superiors of your problem — what for, when it would only make you look weak, and at worst would cause word to spread so anyone might use the fact against you? But a second later, you realize that’s not what Bodhi means: he’s hinting at the secret meeting his cousin had held a few weeks ago.

You suppose you could have safely said something then, seeing as the whole point of that gathering had been for those marked first-years that were struggling to get help from the second- and third-years. No child of the rebellion would exploit the weakness of another — in theory, at least.

“I dunno,” you answer truthfully. “I guess I just didn’t see the point. I spent years trying to desensitize myself to the sight of blood in preparation for the quadrant — unsuccessfully, as you just saw. It’s nothing anyone can help me with, and… well, Riorson was very clear about not wanting us to waste his time with problems he can’t solve, so…”

You trail off with a shrug, unsure how to explain that you’ve long accepted that you’ll most likely die on one of those challenge mats, or be incinerated at Presentation if the dragons somehow sniff out your weakness.

“So just because you have a phobia of blood you can’t get rid of, you’ve decided asking for support is pointless? You’re just giving up?”

“What else am I meant to do? I can’t change that aspect of myself, and neither can anyone else.”

“No, but you can find ways around it. A fight needn’t always be bloody. Just because challenges are commonly fought with daggers doesn’t mean that’s what you have to use. With the right techniques, you can defeat or even kill someone without spilling a single drop of blood.”

He’s right, and that’s exactly what you’ve been trying to do, using a dagger only to block your opponent’s own and attacking with your bare hands. The problem? You never managed to win that way.

“Easier said than done,” you sigh. “All I’ve been taught is some super basic hand-to-hand, plus swords and daggers. I can’t win without using blades, and I’m not even good enough with those to get an opponent to yield without cutting them. And it only takes one unfortunate hit that makes me bleed to force me to yield instead.”

During your very first challenge, your knuckles had started bleeding after you got in a good punch, and you’d had to give up to wrap your hand lest you pass out in front of everyone.

“And that is where asking for help comes in.” Bodhi softens the reprimand with a small smile. In a graver tone, he continues, “Assuming you would like an alternative to accepting your doom as unavoidable, I’ll be happy to train with you.”

Your gaze snaps up to meet his. “You’d really do that?”

“I wouldn’t have offered it otherwise.”

“Right. Of course.” You shake your head, chuckling a little embarrassedly. “Sorry, I’m just not used to anyone in this place being nice to me.”

“I get it. The first few months are the worst, with all the first-years who’ve never been around marked ones before and assume the worst of us, and everyone so competitive about Threshing. Most of them will come around in time, you’ll see. Now, about that extra training: how does tomorrow after dinner sound for the first session?”

The gentlest brush of your mind against Srian's confirms she's still fast asleep, as is to be expected at this time of morning. Your dragon is many things, but certainly not an early-riser. You on the other hand would normally be up already.

Letting your eyelids drift shut again, you snuggle closer to Garrick, grateful your schedule for today is empty enough that you can start the day a little later than usual.

No, you muse, you probably can't blame your unwillingness to get out of bed on Srian. After the way Garrick wore you out last night, it's really no wonder you're still so tired.

You're ripped from your thoughts when suddenly the covers are flung off you by a gust of crisp morning air that has goosebumps rising all over your bare body.

"Garrick!" you shriek, curling in on yourself against the chill and swatting at your boyfriend. "Stop that!"

Garrick just smirks, leaning back with an arm propping up his head.

The wind intensifies.

"I swear to Dunne, if I get a cold because of you I'll bite you. And then make you nurse me back to health."

"Aw, come on. I'm just trying to enjoy the view."

Heat creeps up your neck. Even after more than half a year of dating Garrick, you still haven't fully gotten used to his shameless appreciation of your body. He never lets you forget for even a second how beautiful he thinks you are. It's doing wonders for your confidence, but you have yet to figure out how to take his flirtatious compliments without getting flustered.

He just likes to watch the way your nipples harden in the cold, you're sure of it. You're not going to say that out loud, though. Knowing Garrick, he wouldn't even try to deny it and say something to fluster you even more.

Just then, another gust of air hits you right in the face, effectively cooling you right back down.

A low growl rises in your throat. Enough is enough.

Before Garrick can react, you've grabbed your pillow and smacked it in his face. The wind instantly dies, but Garrick is far from complaining, because now you're straddling his bare stomach.

His hands find your equally bare hips, head tilted to the side as he grins up at you. "Comfortable?"

You huff. He looks so smug, like this is exactly what he'd wanted to achieve with his stupid wind. For all you know, it might be.

"If you're done with your nonsense," you grumble, dropping the pillow so you won't be tempted to suffocate him with it.

"Yesterday you liked the wind," Garrick defends.

"Because we were standing in the sun and it was way too fucking hot! It's not hot in here and you know it."

Garrick's eyes leave your face and travel down your body. He takes his sweet time, drinking in every inch of skin bared to him before finally returning his gaze to yours with a sleazy grin. "Oh, I don't know about that. Now that you mention it, it is getting a little hot."

"Garrick," you whine, "I'm too damn tired for this!"

Realizing you mean it, he relents. "Okay, okay. Then how about some more cuddles before we have to get up? No ulterior motives, I promise."

"Cuddles sound good," you agree, already moving to get comfortable curled up on top of him.

For a few minutes, you lie in silence, almost dozing off again.

Garrick idly trails a hand over your hip and thigh, but then stops just above the hollow of your knee. "I never noticed you have a scar here," he remarks, rubbing the spot with his thumb.

That's no wonder — it's slightly raised to the touch, but so faded it's practically invisible. The only reason you yourself can even make it out when looking in the mirror is because you know it's there.

"Mhh, 's super old," you mumble.

"How'd you get it? Must've been when we were really small, cause I don't remember you getting any injuries bad enough to scar on your legs."

"I was like three, I think. Sat down on a tree log when my parents looked away for a second while we were outside. Only problem was, I didn't notice there was the sharp stump of a branch jutting out from it until I impaled myself on it." You shrug. "I don't really remember it myself, but when I was older, Dad once told me that I just sat there screaming my lungs out until he rescued me. Didn't even try to get up, apparently."

"Wow," Garrick laughs. "You really were like 'might as well stay here and let this dead tree absorb me'?"

You laugh too. "Yeah, I guess so."

His hand continues its path, lingering on another scar when it reaches your ribcage. This one, Garrick knows the cause of, since he was there to witness you slip on the banister of Riorson House's staircase and crack multiple bones on the foyer's hard stone floor after falling two stories. You'd been eleven and desperate to prove you were braver than the boys, but all the reckless balance act had earned you was a week in the infirmary and another three of being grounded.

"At least your balance has gotten better since that happened," Garrick mutters as he caresses another of the scars you got that day.

"My balance has always been fine," you retort. "Slipping that time was just bad luck."

Even so, that long-ago fall had certainly been on your mind when you crossed the parapet nearly two years ago, along with the knowledge that up there, the slightest misstep would end in much worse than a few broken bones.

"Hmm, of course. But bad luck or balance issues, I'm very glad that the only time you fell after that was when you fell for me."

Even as you roll your eyes at the cheeky pun, you can't bite back a smile. "Yeah, me too."

In the comfortable silence that follows, Garrick's fingers brush down your shoulder, lingering on the thin, hand-long scar on your upper arm. "That one's from sparring with Bodhi, right?"

"Mhmm, because I couldn't stop watching you."

Garrick tenses beneath you. "What?"

Oh no. He hadn't known. You would've preferred to keep it that way, but you suppose there's no way to take back what you so idiotically mentioned in your sleepy state.

Swallowing the twinge of embarrassment that rises at the memory, you elaborate, "Yeah, I was super distracted because you were sparring with Xaden, and you didn't have your shirt on, and then you walked by and I totally forgot that Bodhi had a fucking blade in his hand that I was supposed to dodge. And then, well..."

You make a slashing gesture with your hand, mimicking the blade cutting you.

Garrick tuts. "As flattered as I am, you should probably keep the looking at me to when you're not in the middle of a fight."

"Ugh, I know!" Hiding your heating face again his chest, you mumble, "That was over a year ago, Garrick. I learned my lesson."

It's true; since that incident, you always keep your eyes firmly on your opponent when you step on the mat, no matter what interesting — or goodlooking — sights there might be to see in the room.

"Glad to hear that." He leans in to press his lips to yours, but the kiss is cut short when your stomach rumbles. Garrick chuckles. "I guess your stomach has different opinions on sleeping in than we do. How about I hop down to the kitchens real quick and grab us breakfast in bed?"

For a tense few seconds, everyone is silent. You find yourself wishing you had a signet like Imogen's to simply erase what they just saw from their memories, but of course you would have never gotten so close with Brennan in the first place if you weren't a mender.

"Could we just pretend you guys didn't see that?" you try to diffuse the tension.

Xaden, Garrick, and Bodhi answer as one without even looking at you. "No."

Their furious expressions are so similar that if you squint, it almost seems like your brother has multiplied. As if one angry Xaden wouldn't be trouble enough.

"Thought so..." you sigh, and exchange a look with Brennan, who gives you a tight-lipped smile that you assume is meant to be reassuring. You're too nervous to be reassured, though. This situation has a huge potential to get very ugly.

"Care to enlighten us on what exactly it is that we just saw?" Garrick challenges, cocking his head at you.

"It's called kissing," you retort. Maybe being snippy isn't the best idea, considering how pissed they are, but you can't help how annoyed you are by the interruption. "If you're not familiar with the term, we have a library where I'm sure you'll find a dictionary to look it up."

"Really," Xaden growls. "You sure about that? Because it looked like a lot more than kissing, considering where he had his hands."

Damn it. You were hoping none of them had noticed Brennan's hands under your shirt, or the way you'd been perched on the edge of his desk with your legs on either side of his hips, but of course you couldn't be so lucky.

Thank gods things hadn't gone far enough for any clothing to come off yet.

Even as it is, you're not sure how the fuck you're going to keep your brother from murdering Brennan. There can be no doubt he wants to, not with that look on his face. It's a testament to Xaden's self-restraint that he isn't at his throat already.

You take a step to the side, positioning yourself in front of your boyfriend, just in case the situation escalates, but Xaden isn't having it. His shadows wrap around your arms and pull you away from Brennan, not releasing you until you're right in between Bodhi and Garrick with Xaden in front of you.

"Hey! What the fuck, Xay!" you yell, only to be ignored. When you try to walk back over to Brennan's side, a waist high wall of shadows blocks your path.

Brennan asks, a lot more calmly than you, "Don't you think you're overreacting a little?"

In your opinion, Xaden is overreacting a lot. This is ridiculous. The three of them have always been very protective of you, but this is a whole new level of overprotectiveness, even for them. Maybe it's because they've never had the chance to give someone the shovel talk before, since both of the two relationships you've had so far — if you can even call them that, considering they consisted of no more than a handful of dates each — had taken place while the boys were already away at Basgiath. Or maybe it's the suddenness of unsuspectingly opening a door only to be met with the sight of you and Brennan making out.

If you'd just told them you're dating, it might have gone better. You had meant to tell them — eventually.

You had known all along you wouldn't be able to keep your relationship hidden forever. Xaden has a talent for sniffing out people's secrets — probably a side effect of having so many of them himself. You didn't want to keep it secret forever, only as long as the relationship was still fresh, until you figured things out a little more. The problem was the question of how to tell people without them making a big deal of it. Both of you knew right from the start people would judge you once they found out — because of the age difference between you, because he is a Lieutenant Colonel and you're just a first-year cadet, because he is the one instructing you as a mender.

Of all the ways your brother — or rather brothers, since Bodhi and Garrick are just as close to you as Xaden — could have found out, this is just about the worst.

"Overreacting?" Xaden asks in that deceptively soft tone that usually promises a painful death. "I catch you being all over my fucking baby sister, and you think I'm overreacting for putting some distance between you and her until I know what the fuck is going on here?"

Brennan rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "No. I get that. But it's not what it might have looked like."

"Isn't it? Then please, do tell me what the fucking hell you think you were doing with my baby sister."

Before Brennan can do so, you snap, "I am not a baby! I'm twenty!"

Xaden only spares you the barest glance, but that's enough for you to realize he's not just angry with Brennan, but with you, too. His curt answer confirms that. "You're grounded is what you are."

You gape at him, not sure you heard him right. "You can't ground me!"

"Watch me."

Just like that, he dismisses you, turning back to Brennan and demanding he explain himself. As if nothing you have to say about this even matters.

"You're being ridiculous, Xaden! What I'm doing with my boyfriend is none of your fucking business!"

Damn, it feels good to actually call Brennan that out loud.

Your brother looks momentarily put off by your giving Brennan that title, but ultimately ignores the statement. He doesn't even turn to look at you again. "I'd like to talk to Brennan alone for a moment, Y/N," he says. His voice is calm, but you can hear the fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"Absolutely not!"

"I promise I won't kill him... for now."

"How reassuring." You hesitate, knowing this is a fight you can't win. "Promise you won't punch or otherwise hurt him, either?"

"That depends on him."

"Go. I'll be fine," Brennan says.

You wish Xaden would let you near him. If you were in reach, he would doubtlessly be giving your hand a reassuring squeeze like he's taken to doing lately when he notices you're nervous, and right now, nervous doesn't even begin to describe how anxious you are. It's impressive how Brennan manages to stay so calm with Xaden trying to glare holes into him. Maybe his near death experience during the rebellion has made him immune to fearing for his life. Or maybe he's just good at hiding his nerves. He certainly isn't so stupid to think your brother is not a threat just because he's younger than Brennan.

"Alright." You point a threatening finger at Xaden. "But I want him back in one piece."

"Yeah, I gathered as much," he says, which isn't exactly agreement, but better than nothing.

Bodhi and Garrick lead you from the room, taking you in the middle. It simultaneously makes you feel like a child and like you're a criminal being escorted to prison. They lead you to the kitchen, the silence between you heavy like it's never been before.

"Guys—"

"Save the excuses for when Xaden is done with Brennan," Bodhi advises. He doesn't really sound angry, but when you risk a glance at his face, he's still wearing that scowl that looks like it belongs on Xaden's face instead of Bodhi's.

"I don't know why you guys are making such a big deal of this," you mutter as you take a seat at the kitchen table. "I'm more than old enough to have a boyfriend."

"That's not the point," Bodhi says. "The point is that he's too old to be your boyfriend."

"Bullshit. You're making it sound like he's ninety. Or like I'm ten."

Bodhi and Garrick shake their heads and refuse to say any more for now. You should probably be glad for the relative peace while it lasts. Once Xaden joins you, you'll be getting an earful, no doubt.

The waiting is bad. The not knowing what Xaden and Brennan are talking about, exactly, is worse. And the worst of it all is your own imagination running wild with all the horrible things that could be happening inside Brennan's office while you sit here, thinking they're just talking. Logically, you know Xaden won't attack Brennan, no matter how much he might want to. By now, he probably already realized Brennan holds no bad intentions toward you, and has calmed down. Even if he were to get violent, your boyfriend is perfectly capable of defending himself. None of these facts stop you from worrying, though.

After what feels like an eternity, Xaden walks into the kitchen. To your relief, you don't see any blood on him. That doesn't necessarily mean anything — you know he's perfectly capable of slaughtering someone without getting any of the mess on himself — but it's a good sign nonetheless. He doesn't look quite as furious anymore, either.

But not furious anymore doesn't mean his anger has evaporated. He's still far from happy, that much is evident by the look he gives you when he takes a seat across from you, folding his arms on the table. You know that look very well; it always means you're about to get lectured.

But before he can start, you can't stop yourself from asking, "You didn't hurt him, did you?"

"No," Xaden says, drumming his fingers on the table. He exchanges a look with Bodhi and Garrick, and adds, "Apparently, they're in love, so I decided to let him live."

Garrick snorts. "Well, clearly having a thing for Sorrengails runs in the family."

You ignore Garrick and glare at your brother. "If you'd just asked me, I could have told you that too. You didn't need to make such a scene."

"Watch it, or I really will ground you."

Rolling your eyes, you ask, "Why are you so mad about this, anyway? Aren't you and Brennan, like, friends?"

"That doesn't mean I want him dating my sister. He's too fucking old for you, not to mention he's supposed to be your mentor."

"I know it's not ideal. But you're not in the position to talk, considering you were Violet's wingleader when you two got together. And Brennan never gave you shit for that."

At least not as far as you know.

"Xaden and Violet are almost the same age, though," Bodhi points out. "Brennan is like, a decade older than you."

It does sound kind of bad when he phrases it like that, which is probably why he did it. Still, it's not the world-ending issue they're making it out to be.

"I'm aware. And I know that kind of age difference is a bit... unusual—"

"It's fucking weird is what it is," Garrick interjects.

"Fine, whatever. But I'm an adult, in case you haven't noticed, so—"

"A very young adult," Xaden corrects.

"Stop interrupting me! What I'm trying to say is, just because Brennan is a few years older than me doesn't mean he's taking advantage of me or anything like that. I'm not a little kid."

"No, but you're young and inexperienced. Even if he doesn't mean to take advantage of you, it's a fact that he's in a position of power over you, and you've never even had a proper relationship before."

"Just because my previous relationships ended before they really started doesn't mean they don't count. Besides, there's a first time for everything."

"Sure, but—"

"No but! Stop treating me like a godsdamned child, Xaden! I'm only three years younger than you. And I understand why you're... concerned... about the age difference between Brennan and me, okay. But—"

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Xaden interrupts. "Tell us?"

"Because I knew you'd freak out!"

"We're freaking out because you kept it from us so long! How are we supposed to look out for you if we don't know about the shit you're getting yourself into?! If you really understood why we're concerned, you would have told us."

"I was going to tell you! Just... not yet."

"You should have told us the moment this started," Garrick says.

You cross your arms and lean back in your seat, glaring from one of them to the other. "Why? So you could have meddled and stopped us from getting together?"

"So we could have made sure you're safe," Bodhi insists. "We're just trying to look out for you!"

You soften a little at that. It sucks having to justify your relationship like this, but you know they're not arguing with you just to make you feel bad. They only want your best, even when they're being unreasonable and overbearing.

"I know. And I appreciate it. But there really isn't anything to worry about. Brennan is very gentlemanly, you know."

"Well, that's good."

You think maybe they'll leave it at that, but then Garrick asks, "How long has this been going on for, anyway?"

"A few weeks."

It had started innocent enough. When your signet manifested, Brennan was the obvious choice to mentor you. Before that, you'd only known him fleetingly, from Battle Brief and through Xaden. But once you started spending time with him honing your signet, your admiration for his strategic brilliance quickly grew more personal and turned into a full-blown crush.

After months of unsuccessfully trying to fight your feelings, you'd been baffled to find that Brennan returned them.

In your mind, your chances with him had seemed practically non-existent. After all, he is a revered strategist, a war hero and member of the Assembly, while you're just a cadet, constantly overlooked in comparison to your brother. You're nothing special — a good fighter, but not exceptional, bonded to a dragon that is big but not huge nor legendary. Your signet, while useful and not overly common, is nothing out of the ordinary, either. Not even your appearance is anything special — you wouldn't go so far as to call yourself ugly, but you don't have the kind of striking beauty that turns heads wherever you go, either. It's always your brother who draws everyone's eyes, while you fade into the background. Xaden is the powerful one, the brave and selfless one, the pretty and charismatic one, the leader. Meanwhile you're absolutely average in every possible way.

And yet somehow, you'd been lucky enough to earn Brennan's affections; Brennan's, who is way out of your league! You'll be damned if you let these overprotective assholes ruin that for you.

"Weeks?! You've kept this from us for multiple fucking weeks?"

"Yes, Bodhi, I did. Because I don't fucking owe you guys a report about my love life."

He winces. "Of course not. But usually a new relationship is something you tell your friends about, don't you think? Like Xaden said, we can't keep you safe if we don't know what's going on."

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, okay?" You sigh. "I just wanted to avoid this very argument we're having, but I should have known that wouldn't be possible."

Bodhi smiles, and it feels like a peace offer. "Well, it kind of is our job to worry about you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And you don't have to like that I'm with Brennan, but you do have to accept it."

The three share a look, and then Xaden nods. "Okay. But we'll be keeping an eye on him."

That was to be expected. You can live with that. Unnecessary as their concern seems to you, it's kind of nice to know they're watching over you.

"Okay. Then if you don't mind, I'm going to go talk to my boyfriend now." You love calling him that. You're going to do it every chance you get for the foreseeable future.

"Talk to him, yeah?" Garrick teases. "Let me guess, you mean the same kind of talking you were doing earlier?"

You ignore the gagging noises Bodhi and Xaden make at the idea, flipping the three of them off as you walk away.

Brennan is in his office where you left him, and true to Xaden's word, he's unharmed. Closing the door behind you, you let out a deep breath and slump your posture.

"Well, that was..."

"Stressful?" Brennan suggests, crossing the distance from his desk to where you stand with three long steps.

"Yeah. That sums it up." You smile. "Definitely not how I meant to spend the afternoon, but at least that matter is out of the way now."

"Did they give you a very hard time about it?"

You shake your head, fidgeting with Brennan's fingers. "They're overprotective to an unhealthy degree, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. If it wasn't so annoying, it would almost be sweet how worried they were. What about you? How many death threats did Xay make once I was out of the room?"

Brennan chuckles. "Oh, a bunch. But they'll only take effect should I mistreat you in any way, shape, or form. Nothing to worry about. It wasn't easy to placate him, but we talked for a while about what I see in you, and I guess in the end I convinced him that this is serious."

"Good." You place your hands on his chest and give him a playful grin. "Now, where were we when those idiots interrupted us?"

Brennan pulls you against him, both hands on the small of your back. You slide yours to the back of his neck, and he presses his lips to yours.

You're not sure why it is that they went especially hard on you — because your father had been the Great Betrayer, because they recognized you as the weakest link of your squad, or because you refused to show any pain and they were determined to change that. In the end, it doesn't matter. You didn't break. You survived. That's what you have to focus on. Another one of the stupid trials this cursed place puts you through that you've overcome. One step closer to eventually making it out of here alive.

Finally the professor is done talking and allows you to leave.

The walk back into the quadrant proper passes in a blur, one stumbling step after the other as Bodhi pulls you along. Since he's well aware of your aversion to healers, and since neither of you is that badly hurt, he doesn't bother to suggest going to the infirmary and takes you straight to the dormitories. Your room is closer to the stairs than his, so that's where you go, slumping onto the bed side by side, too exhausted to lift a finger, though you know you need to get cleaned up, or at the very least remove your boots. In a moment, you tell yourself. As soon as the room stops spinning, you'll get up and do it.

Minutes later, a knock sounds on the door, startling your poor, tired heart into doubling the pace of its beating.

"I think Cuir asked Sgaeyl to send us Xaden," Bodhi soothingly murmurs, sitting up and unlocking the door with lesser magic.

Sure enough it's your brother who enters the room a second later, grimacing at the state he finds the both of you in. "Shit, are you guys okay?"

"Yeah," you and Bodhi mutter, "Sure."

Admittedly, that's a bit of an exaggeration. But okay is a flexible term, and you suppose things could be worse. You know the question was just reflex anyway, and Xaden is perfectly aware that no one is ever truly okay after just getting out of an RSC torture session.

He comes over to the bed, crouching down beside it. You feel shadows stirr underneath and all around you — no doubt Xaden 'subtly' taking inventory of your injuries. You've lost track of what hurts where about an hour into the exercise, your whole body one big ache, but you're pretty sure most of the damage is superficial. It's your heart giving you the most trouble, thanks to having missed this morning's dose of your medication, and simple dehydration.

"Are you feeling strong enough to shower?" Xaden asks.

Bodhi nods, but you hesitate. Getting up the stairs without fainting had been challenge enough, so you roll over to turn a pleading look on your cousin. "Can we go together?"

When Bodhi nods, you nod too, and Xaden helps you to your feet.

"Alright," he says, "you two get cleaned up, and I'll be back with some food and a first-aid kit."

The showers are blessedly empty, and you let yourself plop down on the floor, the cold tiles digging into your bare knees as Bodhi turns on the water, a less than lukewarm spray raining down on you. Cold as you feel, you would have preferred your water steaming hot, but you know that would only make your already too low blood pressure worse, so you don't complain.

Bodhi sits down behind you, takes a handful of soap and gently massages it into your scalp, careful to avoid pulling all the tangles that have formed in your hair from the rough treatment you'd been given.

"You don't have to," you half-heartedly mutter.

In truth, you're not entirely sure you can muster the energy to do it yourself, and with the way you're finally starting to relax under his touch, Bodhi rightfully ignores the protest and continues to help you wash.

By the time you dry off and pull on fresh clothes, you're shivering with cold, but your head is a little clearer, and you don't feel like you'll pass out any second anymore, either.

Xaden is already waiting in your room when you return to it, the soft glow of mage lights illuminating the space since dusk has fallen while you were in the shower. He has brought not only the promised food and first-aid supplies, but also Garrick.

Taking a seat on your bed, you don't bother reminding him that it's illegal for more than three of you to be together; he's doubtlessly well aware of the trouble you'd be in if you're caught, and simply doesn't care because he can tell how much you need the company right now.

You shudder to think that he and Garrick had to go through the same experience last year without anyone to comfort them. Thinking back, you try to remember if you'd noticed any injuries on them around this time of year, but you can't recall. Even if you had noticed, Xaden would have brushed you off with some excuse to stop you from worrying.

The thought makes you frown. You have no doubt they'd been as hard on Xaden as they were on you — probably even harder. It's not fair that he'd had to get through that on his own, that he always has to go through everything alone because he thinks that's what being the one with all the responsibility means. Ever since the apostasy, since he took on that responsibility for all your lives, he never lets himself be weak in front of anyone — even you. Of course you're grateful for everything he's done, is still doing, his care and protection, but you wish he would let himself be taken care of, too, when he needs it.

His hand on your shoulder snaps you out of these thoughts, and you blink up at him, wondering when you closed your eyes. The plain worry on his face makes your eyes swim with tears, and you tell yourself to pull it together — to no avail.

"They did that to you too last year," you mumble, not quite a question. "You should have let us be there for you."

"First-years aren't allowed to know about RSC," Xaden reminds you, hand on your chin to angle your head sideways so he can get a better look at a scrape on your jaw.

You know that's not the reason he kept it from you, at least not the only one, but you let it go, knowing he just wants your best.

Treating your wounds doesn't take long. Mostly it's bruises — a lot of them, swollen and hot to the touch, decorating you in various shades of red, purple, and blue. There isn't much Xaden and Garrick can do about those, though they diligently smear them with some stinky salve that's supposed to soothe the worst of the ache.

To you it just feels cold and nothing more, but you don't complain. Not about the useless stinky ointment, nor about the burn of disinfectant in your open scrapes and cuts. You're simply too exhausted to do anything but force yourself to stay sitting upright, letting Xaden do whatever he wants. He knows better what you need right now than you do, anyway. You're limp in his hands, letting him turn you this way and that to get at all your wounds, his shadows supporting you when needed.

He pays extra attention to your wrists, the skin there rubbed raw from your fruitless attempts to slip free of the chains they'd put on you in the interrogation chamber. Even through the fog of exhaustion hanging over your mind, you don't miss the sorrow that passes over your brother's face as he takes in the harm you did to yourself. He is uncharacteristically gentle as he bandages your wrists, even going so far as to press a little kiss on top of each, the way your dad used to do when you were little. You tear up again at the action, have to bite your trembling bottom lip to keep from crying.

Done with your wounds, Xaden helps you get comfortable sitting against the wall with a pillow at your back, a soft blanket over your lap and tucked in around your waist. Bodhi already sits next to you much the same way; the comforting warmth of his shoulder against yours helps you ground yourself in the present.

Xaden puts a bowl of soup into your hands, ordering you to eat. It's not quite hot anymore, having stood on the desk while Xaden and Garrick patched you guys up, but still warm enough, and you consider it a bonus that you can't burn your mouth on it anymore.

When you're done, Garrick takes the empty bowls and leaves, but Xaden remains.

"I guess we'd better get you two to sleep," he says. "You've had a long day."

"Can Bodhi sleep here tonight?"

"Does Bodhi want to sleep here?" Xaden counters, looking to your cousin for answer.

To your relief, he agrees. You're not sure you could stand being alone right now, with the memory of today's torture still so fresh in your mind and the lingering dizziness you can't seem to shake.

"Okay," Xaden nods. "Then he can."

After tucking the both of you into bed, Xaden turns to leave. Before you can think better of it, you reach for his hand, silently pleading with him to stay a little longer. He sinks back to the floor beside the bed, brushing a hand over your face in an attempt to get you to close your eyes.

"Sleep. I'm here."

Bodhi moves closer — at this point he's practically lying on top of you — and butts his head against Xaden's hand with a little whine. Your brother gets the hint, and starts to pet Bodhi's hair, his other hand still gripped tight in yours. He doesn't need to have his hands free to make you close your eyes again — a soft layer of shadows descends on your face like a blanket, leaving you in complete darkness. It should be unsettling, but somehow, it isn't. Encased in the safety of your brother's shadow, you can finally keep your eyes shut and actually try to fall asleep.

Which is easier said then done, despite your exhaustion. While your body is fully ready to shut down, your mind won't stop racing. Bodhi is having the same problem, if the way you feel him fidget is any indication.

Xaden starts softly humming, and after a moment, you recognize the melody as an old Tyrrish lullaby. It had been your favorite one as a child, but after all these years, you'd almost forgotten it. Now the words come back to you like magic, even if Xaden doesn't sing them.

Trying to remember the song text and sing along in your mind gives you something to focus on other than the day's events; your racing thoughts can finally settle down. Slowly the tension leaves your body and your breathing evens out as sleep descents over you.

But just as you finally drift into that calm drowsy state, your heart skips a beat and you jolt wide awake again.

Xaden is quick to soothe you. The shadow over your face disappears, replaced by others that gently hold you so you don't startle Bodhi by sitting up. Xaden gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, more shadows caressing your face as he murmurs, "Shh, you're okay."

You slowly relax again, nuzzling your face into Bodhi's shoulder and mirroring his slow, deep breathing. Xaden starts to hum the lullaby again.