99% traumatized dragonriders

Still floating in that fuzzy space between sleep and wakefulness, reality is as blurry as your vision. Are you actually back in your childhood room? And if you are, does that mean the Apostasy and everything that followed were nothing but an awful dream? If you open the curtains, will it be a bustling city you look down on, or a growing town, dotted here and there with scorched ruins yet to be repaired? If you rush from your room to look for your dad, will you find him at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee or perhaps already in his office, beginning the day’s work? Will he listen to your dream with suppressed amusement, shake his head about your colorful imagination, hold you until the image of him going up in flames fades from your mind?

“Do not be foolish,” a male voice in your head scoffs — and just like that, the illusion bursts like a soap bubble.

You’re twenty, not fourteen; a rider. Aretia is a shadow of the city it used to be, your father dead, your brother scarred for life with his legacy. You’re in your childhood room not because you never left, but because Xaden decided to risk opposing Navarrian leadership and returning home with everyone willing to come. Since the night passed uneventfully, you dare hope no one tracked the riot.

“Good morning to you, too,” you think at your dragon, unable to keep a hint of resentment from your voice. That happy fantasy would not have lasted either way, but he needn’t have ripped you out of it quite so brutally.

“You are not having a good morning.”

No shit.

“For a moment, I did. Before I remembered my dad is dead.”

“Hmm.”

Though you’ve only been bonded to Smao for a few weeks, you know this sound well. It’s his Oh no, she’s getting emotional again-sigh. Feelings, you’ve learned, annoy him a lot — even his own. He prefers to rely on logic, and pushes you to do the same, with a tendency to get incredibly rude whenever you act in a way he deems irrational. Since that happens a lot, you’ve already gotten so used to it you can usually tune out the remarks about you being moody, melodramatic, tender-hearted, excitable, and about a dozen similar things.

You expect no compassion nor apology, and get neither, but to your relief, he doesn’t make further comments, either.

The old grief feels fresh this morning, the hole your father’s death left in your life ripped open and bleeding again thanks to that moment of sleep-addled hope. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt his absence as keenly as you do here, in the home that feels cold and empty without him there, despite being full of people. You dread the thought of walking past his empty bedroom, of seeing his office lie bare and burned out, or worse — repurposed, occupied by someone else. The thought of Xaden sitting in Dad’s chair is painfull enough, bearable only because it was always meant to pass to him eventually; that of a stranger working in the office he spent so much time in is too much for you to take. You make a mental note not to go anywhere near it.

The weight of it all is almost enough to make you stay in bed, blanket pulled over your head to hide from reality, but that would prove Smao right about emotions equating weakness. You give yourself one minute to wallow in the sorrow, to miss your dad and steel yourself for the day. Once that time has passed, you banish all those pesky feelings into the darkest cornors of your mind, just like Smao wants you to, and throw back the covers to get dressed.

“Do you have any clue what the plan is, now that we’re here?” you ask him.

“Your training must continue, of course.”

“Of course. But, uh, you don’t know anything specific?”

A derisive snort. “I do not meddle in human affairs.”

You'll take that as a no.

There’s nothing to do for it then but to go out there and see what the day brings. Breakfast would be a good start, you suppose. Do the kitchens have enough stores to support this unexpected influx of riders?

It seems they do, though you show up late enough to have to content yourself with a couple left-over buns instead of something warm. You don’t mind. Keeping your thoughts from returning to your dad takes up enough of your focus that you barely even taste the food as you chew it, eating without real appetite only because you know your body needs the fuel.

After breakfast, you linger in the foyer to await instructions, just as the majority of cadets seems to be doing. Most of them sit against the walls, talking in small groups, or wander about to look at the art, but you settle into your favorite old observation place a little apart from the crowd: sitting on the stairs a tad above the heads of everyone in the foyer with your legs dangling down between the elaborately carved posts that support the stair’s handrail. As a child, you must have sat in this very same spot hundreds of times. You loved the way it allowed you to watch people going about their days without getting in the way, almost nobody below ever taking notice of you there, but even more often than you did that, you came here in the evenings to wait for your dad to be done working. It was peaceful. Less so were the days you spent here waiting in vain for your mom to come back after your parents’ marriage contract ran out, or when you eavesdropped from here during the Apostasy.

Today, the information you’re waiting for arrives in the shape of your cousin. He emerges from the Assembly Chamber with Xaden, Garrick, Violet, Imogen, and the Assembly members themselves, the group breaking apart and walking in different directions. Bodhi does you the favor of walking past right below your staircase, so you can simply stretch down your foot to intercept him.

“Hey!” He recoils just in time to avoid bumping his forehead on your boot, reaching up to give it a playful slap. “Why are you kicking me, exactly?”

“I’m not kicking you,” you protest. “I’m only using my leg to block your path. And the reason is that I wanna know what’s going on. What did the Assembly decide? What’s our plan, now?”

Bodhi looks weary, like the discussion was headache-inducingly unpleasant, and you feel a little bad for falling upon him with your questions like this, but it doesn’t stop you from craving answers. Lucky for you, he doesn’t seem to mind providing you with those.

“The Assembly wasn’t happy” — when are they ever? — “since some of them are sure Melgren will come for us, and then of course there’s the little fact we lost access to Basgiath’s forge. But Xaden got in the last word” — of course he did — “and in the end they agreed to help organize classes. Better enjoy the time off while it lasts.”

Well, that is… disappointingly mundane. You’re not sure what you had been expecting — not open war or anything so extreme, but something.

“So everything is just going to resume like normal, except now we’re here instead of at Basgiath?”

Bodhi shrugs. “I’m sure some things will be different, like history class teaching actual history instead of bullshit lies, and hopefully no more RSC, but generally speaking… yeah.”

What the hell is RSC?

You shake your head, deciding you’ve bugged him with enough questions for now. “Huh, alright then. Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem. As soon as I hear anything more concrete about our schedule, I’ll let you know.”

You thank him again, watching him walk away as you contemplate what to do with yourself now. If you sit around doing nothing much longer, your grief and melancholy will escape the hole you tried to bury them in and consume you.

With nothing else to fill your day, you eventually find yourself wandering aimlessly through your home. The fortress is familiar, every corner you round and every staircase you climb awakening more memories; yet, at the same time, it feels entirely foreign after six years away.

You’ve never before walked these halls as an adult, have never taken your meals at the long trestle tables in the soldier’s mess hall, never stood at the window and gazed out over Aretia knowing you could do your part to protect it in case of attack. The foyer feels smaller than it used to, crowded with riders, and every time you see the large entrance door, you’re struck again by the realization your dad will never be returning through it ever again.

You wonder what he would think of the soldier you’ve become. Would he still recognize you?

Smao remains silent, probably too busy doing dragon-things to complain of your nostalgic mood. You’re grateful for the solitude. Having Smao in your head all the time keeps you from getting lonely, but he isn’t always good company. The bigger your emotional turmoil, the more unbearable he becomes. Even so, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Somehow, you end up in a windowless storage chamber. It’s choked with dust and cobwebs, like no one has entered it in years. There’s no real order to the items inside. To one side of the door, the wooden sleds you and the boys used to ride down a nearby hill every winter are lined up along the wall, while to the other side, a couple of rickety chairs lean against each other in a way that suggests they will collapse if moved. A handful of wooden planks lean in the corner, dirty but intact, along with a broom handle lacking its bristles, blocked by a giant dented pot, which upon inspection contains yet more battered cooking utensils.

The boxes stacked against the wall opposite the door are more interesting. One is filled with decorative tableware you remember being brought out for special occasions when you were little, a different traditional design painted on each plate and bowl. Another contains a bunch of oil lamps, candles, and lanterns (intended for emergency use if the mage lights ever fail, you suppose); a third holds a random assortment of empty picture frames, embroidery, and no less than four hammers.

A few boxes to the side of the stack seem to have been moved here from another room — one less sheltered from the fire — to be sorted through later, and then forgotten. You skim through them, already loosing interest when amidst ash-stained curtains and a frayed jump-rope, a pair of green glass eyes gleams at you like dusty emeralds.

Digging deeper into the box, you uncover your old porcelain doll.

“Oh, Emilie,” you whisper, startling at the crack in your voice.

You wouldn’t have thought a doll you discarded years ago could make you so emotional, especially when you’ve always favored Anna — a wooden-headed cloth doll still hidden in the very bottom of your armoire — over fragile Emilie, who was more decoration than toy. Yet seeing her in her current state, there’s a tightness in your throat forecasting tears.

She’s in truly wretched condition: Her once neat and shiny black hair looks as if a rat made its nest in it, her gown is in tatters, and the brown-painted porcelain that is her skin is spider-webbed with fissures, one of her hands broken off at the wrist. The detached limb lies atop her sternum like it isn’t part of her at all, the hollow stump’s edge surely sharp enough to cut you should you be fool enough to touch it.

You reach into the crate anyway. Placing a finger on the palm of her broken-off hand to keep it from tumbling off her chest to shatter into a million pieces, you gingerly slide your other hand beneath Emilie and lift her out. A few shards crumble out of her shoulder from the movement, dropping into her body with a hollow clink.

It feels like holding the corpse of an old friend.

You close your eyes against the tears, conjure up the image of how she used to look. You want to see her whole once again, even if it’s only inside your memory.

It takes you a few seconds to notice when the body beneath your hand starts to change. What was barely more than broken fragments held together only by the rags that clothed it when you picked it up now feels less jagged against your palm, and you could swear the whole doll is quivering ever so slightly. You open your eyes, and almost drop her. The damage is reversing itself before your eyes, shards of porcelain slotting back into their proper places, frayed fabric knitting itself back together.

Your pulse rushes in your ears, an unfamiliar warmth filling your chest. You don't know how many minutes it takes, but when you set her on the floor before you with trembling hands, the doll is whole again. Only a few hairline cracks remain here and there, the most prominent of which encircles her wrist. You tap her hand, fully expecting it to fall off again, but it holds. Even her hair looks better, though it’s still tangled and in desperate need of a comb.

“Smao? I—”

“Yes,” he confirms, actually sounding satisfied with you for once. “You are a mender. Very good. You should report to a superior that your signet has manifested. I believe you are the first among your year-mates.”

He sounds rather smug for someone who pretends to above emotions, but you keep that observation to yourself.

Your brother is similarly pleased when you tell him; menders are always in high demand, and now that you’ve defected from Navarre, the revolution needs their own more than ever. You are to begin training your signet the very next day, with as many lessons as the schedule you have yet to be given will allow, to ensure you advance fast and will be ready when your help is needed.

Xaden himself takes you to meet your mentor early the next morning, your first lesson squeezed in before breakfast.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been introduced to Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, have you?” Xaden begins upon leading you to an office — thankfully not the one that used to be your dad’s — where an auburn-haired officer awaits you.

You shake your head — you know vaguely who all the Assembly members are and have seen the Lieutenant Colonel in passing, but never actually interacted with him. Since you don’t know if he’s been told anything beyond the fact you’re a newly manifested mender, you offer your own name in turn.

The Lieutenant Colonel gives you a nod in greeting, and lifts his brows at your brother. “Considering we’re about to be spending a lot of time together, we can probably skip the formalities and just let her call me Brennan, don’t you think?”

‘Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh’ is quite the mouthful.

Xaden shrugs his agreement. To you, he says, “Brennan is the best mender we have; he’ll be able to teach you everything you need to know. Not to put unnecessary pressure on you, but out of all your classes, I want you to make this one your top priority, along with flight lessons, once we can safely hold those.”

You nod. He’s already drilled it into you that it will be those practical skills that will keep you alive if battle finds you before you’re fully ready.

“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it now.”

You don’t know whether to be glad or annoyed he’s abandoning you — on one hand, your brother’s presence would ease the nerves you feel about this first lesson, but on the other, you’ll probably mess up a lot to begin with, and don’t want a spectator for that.

In any case, Xaden doesn’t wait to hear your opinion. Giving you an encouraging pat on the back, he simply turns and walks out.

“The shadow wielder is right to leave,” Smao decrees. “His presence would be unnecessary and a distraction.”

Ugh. Whatever.

“If she’s in your head all the time, doesn’t she already know everything about me?”

“Well, some things, sure. But not everything. She can hear what I’m thinking so long as neither of us is shielding, but it’s not like she goes rifling through my mind.”

“As if there is any need to, when you are constantly bragging about the little one, or bemoaning how much you miss her,” Sgaeyl scoffs.

Xaden refrains from answering. It’s true he often mentions his sister to Sgaeyl — who else is he supposed to talk to about her, when Basgiath is filled to the brim with people who would wish her harm if they ever learned of her existence? Garrick and Bodhi are the only ones he can fully trust in this regard, and the three of them rarely talk about her for fear of eavesdroppers. It’s only with his dragon that he doesn’t need to worry about that.

“Basically, she knows what I’ve shared with her,” he continues, “which admittedly is quite a bit, but even so that’s not the same as actually meeting you. You don’t have to, obviously, I just thought you might like—”

“Of course I want to!”

Xaden grins, inwardly shaking his head. Apparently, the idea of meeting a dragon is much less intimidating to his sister than that of a new human acquaintance. Typical. While he doesn’t quite understand the logic of it, if indeed there is any, he is glad to see her embrace his suggestion with such enthusiasm.

“Okay. Ready to go, then?”

She looks down at herself — or rather, at the pajamas she’s still wearing, since Xaden and Garrick had appeared in her room to wake her with breakfast in bed a mere half hour ago. “I guess I should get changed first.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sgaeyl is waiting for them in a mountain meadow not too far from the fortress, having flown down upon Xaden’s request to spare his sister the hike all the way up to the valley where Aretia’s dragons reside. She sits on her haunches with her tail curved around herself, wings spread wide like she’s enjoying the early morning sun, or like she’s showing off her impressive wingspan.

His arm slung protectively around his sister’s shoulders as they walk closer, Xaden leans in to murmur, “Remember: no eye contact, and no talking to her directly unless I say so.”

“I know.”

Xaden knows she knows. Most likely, she understands the dragons’ preference not to directly interact with any humans beside their chosen rider better than most people do — she, too, hates interacting with anyone outside her family. The only difference is that she has yet to bite anyone’s head off for having the audacity to approach her. Maybe if she had sharper teeth and the ability to breathe fire, social interactions wouldn’t be so damn frightening for her.

This once, Xaden has the impression she’s less anxious about the encounter ahead than he is, which is a first.

He just loathes the possibility that she might end up being scared of Sgaeyl. Respectfull fondness would be preferable, mild intimidation acceptable, but fear? No. He never wants to see her wear the terrified expression the new first-years do on Conscription Day, when the wingleaders’ dragons descent upon the courtyard in a show of their might.

This won’t be like that, he reminds himself. It will only be Sgaeyl, and she assured him she would be her kindest self — whatever that means by her standards. His sister will know Sgaeyl won’t mean her any harm, and he’ll be right by her side. It’ll be fine.

The nearer they draw to her, the wider his sister’s eyes get. No wonder, since she’s only seen Sgaeyl and Chradh from her window before. Flying overhead, the dragons are so far away as to barely seem real; up close, Sgaeyl is more than a little imposing, even as she tucks in her wings and curves her neck into the shape of a question mark to gaze down on them in an uncharacteristically benign way. Her jaw is firmly closed, hiding the maw that could swallow Raspberry as easily as if she really were one of the fruits Bodhi named her for.

“She’s even bigger than I thought,” she whispers, staring at the placid dragon in what Xaden decides to optimistically interpret as awe.

“Mhh, blues tend to be on the larger side. Some dragons are even bigger, though, like her mate Tairn… or Codagh.”

Xaden immediately regrets mentioning Melgren’s dragon. While his sister wasn’t present at the execution, she knows enough to recognize the name of their father’s killer. He doesn’t want the thought of him to overshadow what is supposed to be a special — a happy — moment.

“See her tail?” he asks by way of distraction.

She nods. “Dagger. That’s the rarest for blues, right?”

“Right.” He squeezes her shoulder, pleasantly surprised she remembers the information he mentioned in passing the previous time he visited home. Smiling, he adds, “Sgaeyl is many things, but ordinary definitely isn’t one of them.”

They’re close enough now that Xaden pulls her to a halt, the dragon’s looming shadow just barely touching their feet. Better to be safe than sorry. Although he knows in his heart that Sgaeyl would never harm his sister, that doesn’t make it a good idea to provoke her by throwing basic safety-measures out the window. She might stay outwardly calm even if he were to bring the girl too close, but that doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be consequences for Xaden later.

The sharp comment he was half-expecting for the thought doesn’t come. His shields have been getting better, finally enough so to reliantly keep Sgaeyl out of his head unless she really tries to barge into it. He lowers them now.

“Berry-bug, this is Sgaeyl. Sgaeyl, meet my little sister.”

She gives Sgaeyl a small wave, visibly uncertain whether the gesture is appropriate. Xaden has never been prouder of her.

“Mhm... she has courage,” Sgaeyl observes. She’s regarding her much the same way one would an adventurous toddler, her mental voice tinged with amused approval.

Xaden doesn’t bother hiding his relief. “Yeah. She does.”

“And what do you except us to do now?” Her wry tone suggests that if she had eyebrows to raise at him, she would do so now.

“Well… I don’t know,” he admits. “I just wanted you to meet each other.”

His sister is looking at him too, waiting for his guidance. Xaden gives her a reassuring smile. Despite his lack of a plan, this is going very well.

There’s no need to make this into a big deal, he decides. He has introduced them, and now, the three of them can hang out a little, without pressuring either dragon or girl to be more social than she likes to.

He spreads his flight jacket over the dew-damp grass to sit in Sgaeyl’s shadow, his sister upon his lap so he can rest his chin on her shoulder and murmur about the thrill of soaring through the sky. There’s no doubt in his mind she would enjoy it as much as he does. Although there is nothing he would like more, he knows better than to ask Sgaeyl if they could take her for a short flight. After the huge favor she’s doing him by acting as non-threatening as he’s ever seen her, that would be pushing his luck too far.

Not that he really minds. Sitting there with both his girls, Xaden feels more at peace than he’s been in years.

You lift your face to receive the usual peck on the lips, shrugging as Brennan drops onto the couch beside you. “A little, yeah.”

“Here, let me help,” he offers instantly, reaching for you before he has even finished shucking off his boots.

“It’s not that bad,” you wave him off. “You should save your energy in case one of our fighters needs mending, not waste it on my little boo-boos.”

“I’m off-duty for the rest of the night, so I can use my energy however I please. And nothing is ever a waste if it improves your comfort.”

You duck your head at the gentle reprimand in his voice. He has almost fully trained you out of the mindset that your own well-being is less valuable than that of everyone around you, but occasionally, you still slip up. You always have to consiously remind yourself that although you’re not at all important in the grand scheme of things, you are important to Brennan personally.

“I just meant there’s no need to exert yourself over something so minor,” you amend. “You must be tired.”

You’ve seen for yourself how exhausted he tends to be at the end of a long day filled with patrols, strategy meetings, and mending sessions, if anyone has been injured. Inside the privacy of your quarters, he can shed all pretenses along with his uniform, slumping into your arms for some much-needed cuddles, which regularly leads to him falling asleep with his head pillowed on your lap while you play with his hair, even as he mutters about getting up to do this or that. It’s adorable, but the dark circles under his eyes are not.

Today, those aren’t very pronounced, and you note no other signs of weariness either. It doesn’t make you feel any less guilty about the idea of causing him additional work.

“Never too tired to take care of you,” he replies. “And precisely because this is something small, mending it won’t even take much energy. Come on, I know how much the itching bothers you. Let me help. Please.”

It’s the please that breaks your resolve. Brennan isn’t going to relax until you let him fix this.

“Alright, alright… Thank you, love.”

He smiles like you’re doing him a favor, and not the other way around.

Sliding your hand into his, you pull it toward you to kiss his knuckles before letting him lift your arm for inspection.

He studies the rash with a disapproving frown. “How long were you outside?”

“Too long, apparently,” you sigh, shrugging. “I kinda lost track of time.”

“Hmh.”

He takes your arm between his healing palms, beginning his work at the wrist you were scratching. The rash receeds. The scratch marks you left disappear along with it, because Brennan doesn’t do anything by halves — if he’s mending you, he’ll mend everything there is to mend, no matter how insignificant it may be.

You sigh at the immediate relief. Only now that the itching has stopped on one arm do you fully become aware of just how bad it is, struggling to hold still and not claw at the spots Brenann has yet to get to.

“I fucking love your signet,” you mumble, eternally grateful he convinced you to accept his help.

He moves on to your other arm, pausing to squint at you in playful reproach. “That’s funny coming from someone who almost never wants me to use it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to use it! It just feels so unfair to make you work during what’s supposed to be your freetime… like I’m taking advantage of the fact that my amazing boyfriend happens to be an amazing mender as well.”

“It isn’t work if it’s for you,” Brennan repeats what he’s told you a hundred times before, and probably will repeat a hundred times more until you finally believe it. “And I find it much easier to enjoy my freetime when I know you’re feeling well and comfortable, rather than having to watch you stubbornly suffer from your allergies or injuries I could mend in under a minute.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

He nods, but doesn’t rub his point in.

“There,” he says, finished with your arm. “Anywhere else?”

“My upper back and neck, I think.”

You haven’t checked in the mirror, but then, you don’t really need to. That area was hit even more directly by the sun than your arms, and itches accordingly; there can be no doubt it’s covered in the rash.

Brennan gestures for you to turn. His hands close around your shoulders, healing the irritated skin they touch as he slowly slides them inward until they meet at your spine. A little detour up your nape, and…done!

“All good?” he checks. “I didn't miss any spots?”

“No, perfect. Thank you.” You lean back into his chest, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

Just like you did as kids, the both of you chose a time when the gym would be deserted by the fortress’s soldiers, or as close to it as possible. Today, you have the room all to yourselves.

The slap of your boots echoes through the vast empty space as you pounce. Bodhi side-steps, easily evading the attack, and tries to tackle you in retaliation.

You drop into a crouch, twisting away underneath his reaching hands to lunge at him from the side. The many times you’ve practiced this sequence of movements after learning it a few months ago pay off, allowing you to execute it so quick and flawlessly you actually manage to land a soft punch to Bodhi’s ribs.

Huffing a startled laugh, he dances back out of reach. “Hey, nice one!”

You beam wide enough to hurt your cheeks. It worked! You actually managed to surprise him with a new move! Seeing as you and the boys had learned together until the Apostasy, after which they went on to prepare for the Riders Quadrant while your own training pretty much stagnated, that’s beyond rare.

“Thanks! Brennan taught it to me.”

“He’s been training you?”

“I dunno if you can call it that,” you mumble. Training you implies some degree of regularity, doesn’t it? “We just sparr once in a while, when he isn’t super busy and my headache’s bearable, and since he’s better than me he gives me tips.”

Bodhi shrugs, a smile playing around his lips. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m glad you found a friend to practice with while we were away. Let’s see if he taught you enough to beat me, hm?”

“I can’t beat you! You’re a rider, Bodhi!”

But when he makes a come on gesture, you attack anyway, matching grins on both your faces. The power imbalance isn’t that much worse than it used to be — four years older, he’s always been ahead of you in training, and while that advantage has grown with proper military training, not to mention magic, at least you aren’t so much smaller than him as you used to be. You can’t beat him, no, but that has never stopped you from trying.

It doesn’t take long before you’re flushed and out of breath, muscles burning with the strain of trying to match Bodhi’s strength, but the exertion is a pleasant one, entirely unlike that of struggling through a bad pain day.

You’ve always enjoyed sparring with the boys, and although you’ve trained only sporadically these past years, your body remembers the necessary motions. Punching, blocking, dashing from Bodhi’s attacks or twisting free when he does get a hold on you — it all comes easily, instinctively. You don’t need to think, you only need to move.

Later, your body will demand the price. Like as not, you’ll collapse into bed as soon as you’re back in your room, sleeping through dinner, and even so still be exhausted tomorrow. That’s alright. After taking time out of his schedule for you today, Bodhi will be busy tomorrow, and Xaden and Garrick are still flying about the province collecting riders who left their outposts to join the revolution, so there’s no reason not to spend the day in bed.

Bodhi and you are on the ground when the gym door opens, rolling this way and that across the mat as you unsuccessfully try to pin him down instead of being pinned. The sound of footsteps and quiet conversation flows into the room; over Bodhi’s shoulder, your eyes land on a group of people in the same kind of black sparring clothes he is wearing. There’s maybe a dozen of them. The gym could’ve fit nine such groups — one to each mat — without problem, but to you, it suddenly feels cramped.

Feeling you tense, Bodhi releases you. He glances behind him, and, seeing the group of riders, rises and offers a hand to pull you to your feet as well. You’re vaguely aware of him watching you, but your own attention is wholly on the group of strangers.

As they come closer, you spot one rider standing a head shorter than any of the others, silver hair glinting in the dull winter sun shining in through the windows. The unique color makes Violet easy to recognize; as is Imogen with her head of bright pink. Not all of them strangers, then. It should be a relief, but you don’t know either of the women well enough for their presence to be any real comfort.

A dark-haired guy toward the back of the group bounces on the balls of his feet, craning his neck to stare at you. “Wait, is that Riorson’s sister?”

You suppose it was meant to be a whisper, but in the large, half-empty room, the sound carries, perfectly audible even in your back corner. Beside you, Bodhi glares disapprovingly. The guy doesn’t seem to notice.

Violet, whom the question was addressed at, sighs. “Yes, Ridoc. And she’s a little shy, so do me a favor and stop staring at her as if you’ve never seen a teenager before.”

“But I haven’t seen a teenage Riorson before,” Ridoc argues, only to raise his hands in surrender when Violet throws him a glare. “Okay, okay, sorry.”

A woman walking on Violet’s other side gives you a smile, greeting Bodhi as Section Leader Durran. “We wanted to put in some extra sparring, since Emetterio only has us running up and down the mountain trail in class for now. You could join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen, flying to the woman’s face, but the rest of you is frozen in place, hands and feet turning icy cold even as your face and chest heat up with your panic. She wants you to join them? A whole-ass squad of riders whom you’ve never meet before, aside from Violet and Imogen? No. No, you absolutely cannot do that.

“Better not,” Bodhi interjects, sparing you the embarrassment of everyone seeing you be unable to answer. You could’ve cried with gratitude. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“The first-years would be gentle with her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the woman replies, seeming surprised. She looks back to you, as if she’s expecting you to give a different answer of your own, even though Bodhi has already said no. Does she think he was speaking over you, instead of for you?

Shuffling closer to him, you manage a shake of your head.

“Leave her be,” Bodhi says — no, orders. It’s that same tone you’ve heard Xaden use with the other riders, the one that reminds you of how Dad sometimes sounded when he was working: not unfriendly, but very firm, so full of authority no one in their right mind would even think of contradicting him.

The woman backs off.

Bodhi’s hand brushes yours; a wordless offer. You take it, hoping he won’t mind that your palm is sticky with sweat.

As the riders spread over the mats, Bodhi leads you to the edge of the room. “Wanna stay and watch a little? Or go?”

Clinging to his hand more tightly, you continue to wordlessly stare straight ahead, too overwhelmed to even shrug. Your heart is still beating too fast, breaths coming shallow. All you know is you need him to stick right to your side, to keep holding your hand and make sure no one else tries to talk to you. If anyone does, you fear you will sink to the floor and start sobbing hysterically with your hands clamped over your ears.

Bodhi leads you to a bench near the door. With Violet’s squad focused on their sparring, the distance between you and them is just big enough to feel safe. You huddle close to your cousin even so, grateful when he slings an arm around you to better let you snuggle into his side.

The more you focus on your still-uneven breathing, the worse it gets; therefore, you discard the breathing exercises you’re supposed to do in such situations and turn your attention instead to watching the riders sparr, hoping the distraction will help you calm down.

Violet is on the second-nearest mat to your left with the woman who tried to talk to you, whom Bodhi explains is Squad Leader Rhiannon Matthias.

She was just trying to be nice by inviting you to join them, he tells you. You know. Like all the newly-arrived riders, she doesn’t know you, doesn’t know how much you struggle with social interactions and that you prefer to be left alone. It’s why you’ve become even more reluctant than usual to venture outside the family wing, which Xaden has declared off-limits for everyone but his most trusted friends: you don’t want to be perceived at all, much less for everyone who knows your brother to see what a pathetic mess you are in comparison.

You bite your lip. Xaden would scold you for talking badly of yourself, even if it’s only inside your own head.

Pathetic probably is too harsh a word. Still, it’s hard not to feel like a failure sometimes, when you’ve achieved absolutely nothing in life so far while Xaden is not only an outstandingly powerful rider but also the leader of a revolution. At your age, he had already taken charge and saved the marked ones from execution. The cadets now learning of your existence without knowing anything else about you will likely expect you to be similarly heroic, and be sorely disappointed.

Xaden says it’s silly to think that way. He says you cannot possibly hold the both of you to the same standards when your circumstances are so very different, says he wouldn’t be faring any better than you are if he had to deal with the same things as you — the pain tormenting you every second of every day, the fatigue and light sensitivity, the insecurity, loss of speech and panic attacks. He says simply living with all that is impressive all on its own, that you don’t have to do anything special to be just as brave and strong as him in your own way.

You kind of believe him — he wouldn’t lie to you about something like that, but that doesn’t mean others would agree with him. After all, your pain isn’t visible. None of the things that make your life so hard are.

It shouldn't matter what people think, and you’ve often been proven no one cares half as much as you do about all this stuff. Nonetheless, you’re painfully aware what your life must look like to an outsider: a spoiled girl, sheltered from all danger and hardship to laze around in the comfort of her well-protected home while others risk their lives to keep it that way. And would they be entirely wrong to think so? You’re unwell, not lazy, and if you knew a way to make yourself of use in the war against the venin, you would, but there’s no denying you are indeed enjoying the privilege of a very sheltered life, nor that Bodhi and Xaden pamper you every chance they get.

Is that why Rhiannon had looked so sceptical — because Bodhi’s protective reaction to her invitation came off as excessive?

You turn your face into his shoulder, stifling a frustrated groan as you try to force your thoughts off this path. It won’t do you any good to speculate about how someone may or may not have perceived you. If you dwell on it too long, you will only drive yourself mad.

Bodhi nudges you. When you lift your head, he holds out your bottle to you, already unscrewed.

You take it and sip at the water, more to please him than anything else. Stress has effectively rendered physical sensations like thirst or the throbbing of your head into distant background noise.

“What did she mean about only running the mountain trail in class? Why doesn’t the professor let them fight?” you ask to have something else to think about.

“It’s so everyone can adjust to the thinner air at this altitude,” Bodhi explains. “You’re not bothered by it because you never leave, but someone who isn’t used to it will get winded a lot faster than is normal for them, so the professors decided not to let us fight challenges for now.”

Oh. You never considered how the altitude might affect visitors, despite being theoretically aware that Aretia’s location high upon the Cliffs of Dralor means the air here is less oxygen-saturated than in lower regions. It never feels thin to you, except when you’re having one of your panic attacks.

“So they’re sparring even though they’re supposed to take it easy?”

Bodhi shrugs. “They aren’t the Iron Squad for nothing. Besides, it looks like they are taking it easy.”

You doubtfully sweep your gaze over the pairs on the mats; to you, they all seem to be pummeling each other with vigor. Riders must have a different definition of taking it easy than you do.

“Iron Squad means they’re super strong and badass, yes?”

You vaguely recall Xaden telling you about the distinction, but not what criteria a squad has to meet to earn it.

“Mhm, you could put it like that,” Bodhi chuckles. “It means they were the squad to lose the least members between Parapet and Threshing. Pretty sure this was also the second year in a row they earned that patch.”

“I see.”

You sit in silence for a minute, until Bodhi asks whether you feel better. You nod.

“Good. Do you want to keep watching? Or should we go have a snack?”

“Snack.”

Your cousin grins. “I was hoping you’d say that. Come on then.”