Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the seventh year in a row, the rain begins at dawn on Conscription Day. The line of conscripts and volunteers stretches across the four roads to Meropide College of War, disappearing into the forest surrounding it. The majority of them would be joining the Infantry, others would learn the art of healing or become scribes. Few would ever dare to have the courage to volunteer for the Rider’s Quadrant, but the chance to bond with a dragon and develop a signet to wield magic far outweighed the promise of an untimely death.

Wriothesley grimaces as he surveys the rain-soaked valley beneath him. He had arrived quite late in the morning from the Montbrun outpost at the war-torn front lines, delayed by intermittent weather and the everchanging windy mountain passes. Earlier, when he passed over the crest of the mountain behind him, he felt a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him as the College came into view. It was an ugly and stout, dark tower that rose between two mountain peaks, wrought from stone and metal. Fireproof, dragon proof, siege proof – you name it, that’s what Meropide was.

He picks his way through the underbrush until he merges with the end of the line on the north road. The travellers in front of him look sodden from the change in weather and eye him warily, recognising the battered fur lining the collar of his cloak. Few of them came on horseback like him, and most of them are weary Mondstadters and bitter Fontainians from the north – the ones most greatly affected by the war.

The ride from the front line had been six arduous days of travelling south through the northernmost mountain ranges of Mondstadt and the deep, flooded valleys of Fontaine. The guilt of leaving his squad at the frontlines wore off after the third day; their bodies were probably littered across the Snezhnayan border by then.

When Wriothesley left his squad to become a dragon rider, his subordinates reminded him that the rain was what got most of the candidates on Conscription Day – that thirty percent of them wouldn’t make it past the first test. The seventy percent chance of living was promising, but Wriothesley knew it would only dwindle from there. Only a quarter of the candidates would never make it to graduation.

The shadow of Meropide looms closer as the line moves and Wriothesley begins to catch the first whispers in the wind. Fragments of wonderings: I wonder what Snezhnaya is like. Embers of a long searing anger: we are just cannon fodder. I’d like to see the King and his precious children die with us. His ears prickle as the word he had been hoping not to hear weaves its way between the raindrops. Colonel.

They know he’s here.

There’s a thick sense of unease that itches its way over his damp skin. He grips the reins between his fingers tighter, feeling every tiny wrinkle in the leather slip against his skin. The hood of his travelling cloak obscures his face, but the insignia embroidered upon the right shoulder of his shirt leaves little to the imagination.

After a soggy hour, he finally passes through the gates. The courtyard is full of people, each sorting themselves into their respective quadrants. A throng of blue-robed healers absorb their new conscripts, ushering them out of the rain and into the entry to the Healer’s Quadrant. A quieter band of green-robed Scribes huddle between the cloisters, some sobbing over their water damaged tomes, others eyeing the Infantry conscripts with apathy and the line of boisterous Rider Quadrant candidates with undisguised distain.

Wriothesley remembers the first time he entered Meropide over a decade ago, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a cut lip. Infantry training was tough, but it meant a guaranteed meal, a bed to sleep in, and a ‘glorious’ death on the battlefield after three years training. Some people just needed those three extra years of living, Wriothesley somehow stretched it into twelve against all odds.

On the other side of the courtyard, the remaining candidates for the Riders Quadrant were lined up with hardy expressions or looks of obscene confidence. Wriothesley could tell just from one look as to whether they’d last the first year of training. The stocky brunette boy, dead in a week; the girl with cropped raven hair, she wouldn’t pass Parapet; the ginger with a mean streak, he’d survive as long he didn’t go looking for trouble.

They were all dressed minimally, despite the weather, with singular bags hanging from their shoulders. Whatever they could carry across the Parapet, they could keep during their time at the Quadrant. No one would risk bringing too much. Each candidate, freshly twenty years old, faces still soft with whatever youth remained in them – a stark contrast to Wriothesley’s weathered thirty-two years of pure survival – and hardly ten of them looked hardened enough to kill one another.

In truth, the Rider’s Quadrant was nothing but a bloodbath. They’d kill one another to weed out the weak, to get a better chance at bonding with a dragon, or simply because they liked it. It meant that whichever Riders survived to graduation would be the hardiest band of soldiers to ever grace the ranks of Teyvat’s army. They’d each live a short time before dying tragically at the claws of the Snezhnayans and their gryphons.

Conscription and volunteering age for Meropide was twenty years old, no earlier, no later. Wriothesley had broken that rule twice: once fourteen years ago when he was in desperate need of a bed and a meal, and now, after turning down his promotion where he would inevitably wither away behind a desk.

His hand slides down to the leather satchel resting against his hip to feel for the wrinkled, and likely waterlogged, parchment of the exemption letter, signed by Headmaster Furina herself. He was aware that Furina had seen him in combat, leading charges into battle and regaining lost ground. Being impressed by his years of service to Teyvat, she had offered him a promotion to the highest rank an Infantry soldier could be granted, Brigade General. He could not think of anything worse than being sent to work a cushy desk job when the real work to be done was out there on the front lines. In that moment, his long-controlled insolence bubbled to the surface and he refused the promotion, instead claiming he’d be more useful to Teyvat volunteering for the Rider’s Quadrant at Meropide College of War. To his surprise, the Headmaster responded with a definitive nod of her head, then sent him an exemption letter the next day,

He hands the reins of his horse over to the stable boy and pays him a scant handful of Mora mixed with some meal coupons he had been saving up. The boy grimaces and raises a brow, to which Wriothesley levels with a stern look, and the boy stiffens like a rod. He sheds his soaked travelling cloak and throws it over the saddle before heading back to the line of volunteers for the Rider’s Quadrant. He’ll never see that cloak again and he feels sufficiently naked without it. Wearing a cloak whilst crossing the Parapet was a guaranteed ticket to an early grave; the wind could do unexpected things up there.

The whispers come in full force now that everyone with half a brain can see his rank embroidered on the shoulder of his shirt. A few concerned faces murmur to friends “what’s one of the colonels doing here?”, others know exactly who he is, hissing “it’s the Iron Wolf!” beneath their breaths. Wriothesley sighs and pushes his soaked hair out of his face, feeling the coarse strands where it’s started to grey prematurely. They’ll probably be calling him the White Wolf by the time he graduates – if he doesn’t die first.

When he joins the line of candidates, an unnatural hush immediately falls around him, making him feel even more out of place than before. At least this time at Meropide, he wasn’t just all blood and bones, he had gained a considerable amount of muscle, and even a touch of pudge on his stomach. He couldn’t be pushed around as easily now.

The line of candidates moves slowly as people begin to climb up the tower to the Parapet, buzzing to secure their enrolment in the Rider’s Quadrant. The Parapet was a thin bridge of masonry, almost the width of a boot, slick with algae and decorated with crenulations. It was challenge enough on a normal day, but in the rain, it was a death wish. Not only was it twenty metres above the courtyard, but it straddled the gap between the Rider’s Quadrant and the rest of Meropide. And the gap between the two sections of the College was at least a fifty metre drop onto sharp, jagged rocks.

Wriothesley isn’t sure how many victims the Parapet had already claimed this year. He watches a lithe woman with strangely pink cropped hair just about hop, skip and jump across the parapet with surprising ease. A boy follows her, stiff and timid, moving like he’s as old as a twisted oak. A single gust of wind is all it takes to send his arms waving about. He falls with a shrill scream that Wriothesley is all too familiar with. The sound fades quickly and everyone around him tenses as they hear the snap of bones and squelch of split flesh echo from the bottom of the chasm. The children around him have hardly seen the cruelty of death on this scale with their own eyes.

“Forty-six,” a boy, four heads in front of him murmurs helpfully. The sheer ridiculousness of the number starts to settle on Wriothesley’s conscience. Forty-six deaths in a day was a considerable loss on the front lines, and here he was watching hundreds of people tempt fate just to have a chance at becoming a dragon rider.

As if the heavens weep for the loss of a single dream-filled candidate, the rain briefly picks up in intensity. Over the next hour, more volunteers fall to their death, and the hopefuls around Wriothesley become desensitised to it, most of them now more worried about trying to keep their teeth from chattering too loudly than falling to an early death. The nervous chatter dies down the closer he gets to the wall.

The girl in front of Wriothesley starts climbing the wall up to the Parapet, keeping a steady pace as she wedges the tips of her boots between the decently sized gaps in the stone. She makes it look easy — and it should be easy. She uses the still remaining tangles of ivy to haul herself upward when she can’t find a good foothold.

Wriothesley steps up to the challenge, taking a deep breath before feeling between the smooth edges of the stone for a grip. He heaves himself up with ease but feels his stomach swoop as the tip of his boot slips against the stone, unable to find sufficient space for a foothold. It would have been easy if Wriothesley didn’t wear his heaviest pair of boots. The soles are far too thick to fit between the gaps in the masonry, giving him absolutely nothing to hold himself up on. There’s no chance he’s going to ditch them and go barefoot for the rest of the year.

Murmurs stir up behind him as he hesitates. Heat rushes to his cheeks, clouding his mind as he attempts to analyse his options. He wedges the steel plates on the tip of his boot soles into the gaps and starts climbing. He makes it about halfway when the steel screeches against the stone, fingertips tearing as he fights to keep his grip. He can’t quit now.

He clenches his jaw and returns to climbing, now holding almost his entire bodyweight up just by his fingers. He’s a lot heavier than he used to be, but he manages, despite some unceremonious slipping where he can’t quite brace his feet against the stones. The ivy makes the remainder of the climb much easier, and he hauls himself over the ledge with a relieved gasp slipping from his lips.

The girl in front of him looks back at him with a quirked eyebrow, probably wondering what an old bastard like him is doing volunteering for the Rider’s Quadrant, especially if he’s already out of breath. He straightens himself up and forces his breathing to level out. The last thing he needs is to appear weak. It would draw unwanted attention to him, like a moth to a flame. His turn on the Parapet is fast approaching.

With every step forward, he begins to doubt his own dexterity. The boots he’s wearing may not fit on the parapet now that he could see how truly narrow the masonry was. He’s just watched young men, built similarly to him, plunge to their death because a stiff breeze had knocked them ever so slightly off balance.

The young woman in front of him is visibly shaking — from nerves or the cold, Wriothesley couldn’t even begin to guess. Her hair, which would normally look blonde, is mousey and drenched, hanging uselessly behind her. Usually, Riders keep their hair short, or at least tied tightly back. This girl certainly has a death wish.

Normally Wriothesley would love nothing more than to reprimand someone in the interest of saving their life. He’s very used to telling his troops off for improper attire or dull blades or looking left when they should have been looking right. But amongst the Rider’s Quadrant, individualism was rife and the last thing Wriothesley wants to do was stir up trouble before he even has a chance at getting in. He stands there, like an idiot, waiting, chewing right through his lip.

The blonde girl steps forward onto the parapet and immediately, a gust of wind blows thick, wet straps of her hair into her face.

Fuck it. Wriothesley’s seen enough death for one day.

He leans forward and taps her on the shoulder. “Wait,” he calls out over the howl of the wind and rain.

The girl turns around with a scowl that Wriothesley barely registers. She’s gorgeous, deep sapphire eyes with delicate lips, despite the rest of her screaming ‘drowned rat’.

“You need to tie your hair up or cut it off,” Wriothesley states firmly. She curls her lip and rolls her eyes.

“For the last time, I’m not cutting my hair off. Jeez, you people,” she growls indignantly, turning away.

Wriothesley rolls his eyes and starts unravelling one of the wraps around his wrist. He bites the fabric and tears half of it free. He taps her on the shoulder one more time and she turns around, ready to give him an earful, but stops when she comes face to face with the frayed fabric.

“Tie it up,” he orders. “Out of your face and nothing loose that the wind can catch on.” She looks at the strip of fabric with disgust for a moment, then concedes, taking it and winding her hair into a loose bun.

“Happy now?” she seethes before turning back to the Parapet.

“Ecstatic,” he replies bluntly.

He doesn’t ask for her name; he doesn’t want to know it in case she falls like so many others have that came before her. She straightens herself up and begins to cross. Wriothesley doesn’t even dare to breathe as he watches her every move, afraid that if he exhales too strongly, it might blow her straight off the slick masonry.

His heart stops when she her foot slips a fraction, her arms waving madly to rebalance herself. He can’t watch, forcing his eyes shut.

There is no scream. No snap, crack or squelch.

Wriothesley opens his eyes again to see the girl has made it across in one piece. She was certainly as agile as she looked. He sighs in relief, almost feeling light as air for a moment, but then he remembers, he needs to start crossing the Parapet now.

When he steps out onto the narrow masonry. All the warmth he had accumulated from being under cover immediately dissipates as the rain hits him. His boot overhangs the stone on either side and the algae makes him slip if he doesn’t centre his weight right above it. He takes small steps, keeping his knees bent and shivering as the rain washes away his confidence. This is a mistake… This whole thing is a very big mistake.

Below him, he can see the blood drenched rocks at the bottom of the valley where countless bodies lay shattered like broken crockery.

“What’s wrong, Colonel? Scared?” Some guy snickers. A smattering of giggles erupts from behind him, and he feels the blood rush to his face.

Yes. He’s scared… Though, he refuses to dignify those brats with a response, and instead focuses on re-centering himself. His stomach twists itself into knots, making nauseating waves of anxiety ripple through his body.

He clears his mind and stills his shaking frame. He takes himself back to an ambush he led on a Snezhnayan outpost on a moonless night. He took a squad of archers to flank the fortress from the rocky outcrop towering over it. He remembers the rush of air he felt before he opened the glider he was given. He remembers the panic rushing through him as he blindly navigated the featureless space between the outcrop and the roof of the outpost. He remembers the crunch of snow underfoot as he landed, the way he had to balance himself on the ridge of the roof and stay steady until the diversion called the enemy soldiers out from the barracks.

He wasn’t scared then. He sure as shit shouldn’t be now.

If he could do that in the dark, he can do this in the rain.

He exhales, feeling more solid in his own body now. He walks forward without issue, balancing himself, shifting his weight every time he feels himself start to waver. He’s about two thirds of the way across now.

But there’s a rather thick patch of algae he’s about to step into.

He steps out gingerly, keeping most of his weight on his back leg. All he can hear is the rain and his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He shifts forward and shit—

He’s slipping.

He doesn’t flail, he keeps his centre of gravity as low as possible and catches himself on the stone, winding himself in the process. Everything hurts and he can barely breathe. At least he’s still alive now. Someone else behind him has gotten impatient and is already starting to cross the parapet.

“If you don’t get a move on, I’ll fuckin’ push you off,” some dickhead shouts.

Wriothesley pushes himself up and gives a sly smile, memorising the details of this kid’s face. Strong jawline, cropped blonde hair. He’ll be sure to rough him up a little later.

He takes the last third of the parapet a little too quickly, wobbling here and there before his feet finally hit solid ground. He sighs with relief, begging his heart to stop beating so hard and fast.

“Name?” The rider to his right asks in a dull tone. When Wriothesley turns to her, a stupid grin splits across his face, elated that he’s made it in alive. The rider in question is a third year, with dark purple hair cropped into a wavy bob of sorts. She scowls as soon as she makes eye contact with him, finally taking in his features.

“Wriothesley,” he responds.

“You’re certainly not twenty,” she remarks, lips pealed back. “Abandoning your duties at the front line? Who the fuck let you up here?” She is in no way delicate about it. Wriothesley sighs and produces the roll of parchment from his satchel. It has the official seal of Meropide’s Headmaster holding it closed, with two blue ribbons melded into the wax.

“Headmaster Furina provided me with an exemption.” He hands the rider the scroll and she unravels it, scanning the text with furrowed brows.

“Either you’re excellent at forgery or you have a death wish,” she sighs, shoving the parchment back into Wriothesley’s hand. Her expression is quite severe, with narrow, resentful eyes.

“Just the latter.”

“L-last name?” The scribe sitting in the rider’s shadow asks quietly, quill at the ready.

“Don’t have one,” he states with a shrug.

“I nee—”

“We need one for record keeping purposes. This isn’t Infantry,” the rider quips, nearly baring her teeth. The scribe shrinks further into her shadow.

“Just put Colonel down then,” he sighs, turning to leave through the archway. The rider’s hand shoots out and pushes Wriothesley back by the chest. When he turns back to the rider, her expression is alight with something ghostly and electric.

“You’re no longer a Colonel here. When you crossed that parapet you left everything behind. You’ll find that respect must be earned here,” she seethes. Her tone strikes like a whip and Wriothesley can clearly see the whites of her eyes with the way she looks down on him. “Am I clear, cadet?”

Wriothesley nods, wincing at the instant demotion and ignoring the way his heart flutters with a sick mixture of fear and admiration. The rider rips the embroidered patch from the shoulder of his shirt and tosses it aside. He watches it fall ungracefully to the stone into a wet heap.

“Put Wriothesley for my last name.” The Scribe scratches out the record and awaits the remainder of his response. “Jean Michel Jaque Christian.” The Scribe’s eyes widen. “The sixteenth,” he adds, with an unruly smile.

“Smartass,” the rider spits venomously. “Follower?” she grits out quietly, realising she’s forgotten to ask.

“No.”

Fuck the gods. He doesn’t believe in that shit.

🌊🐉🌊

The courtyard of the Rider’s Quadrant feels small as the remaining first years file in, already flocculating into groups. Most of them are buzzing with excitement despite the never-ending rain, others pale and trembling after the adrenaline crash. Second and third years remain in their own groups, carefully eyeing off the new first years like they want to eat them or collect them — Wriothesley isn’t sure which it was.

The courtyard itself is round, with several concentric rings of pavement radiating from the fountain in the centre. The dark stone is slick and shiny with fresh puddles as the rain starts to ease up. The walls of the Quadrant are thick like the bastions on the front line and outposts. Which, for a moment, seems strange to Wriothesley as Meropide is located further from the border and not in need of such protection. The dark rock and steel bracing is scratched up, with deep gashes running along the top edges. He belatedly realises they’re built that way because they’re perches... for the dragons.

He scans the crowd for that blonde girl who passed the parapet before him. She’s a little challenging to find, as most Riders tend to dye their hair due to the lax uniform restrictions.

Fucking individualism, Wriothesley remarks to himself as he finds himself walking toward the wrong blonde for the fifth time. Eventually, he gives up and shuffles toward the back of the crowd, hoping he stays out of sight, out of mind for a little while longer.

At the front of the courtyard, there’s a lectern on an elevated podium. It’s made from dark Mallow wood, with two dragons entwined with one another carved intricately into the stand. Their eyes barely glimmer in the dull light, but the hue of the stones tells Wriothesley they’re condessence crystals – gems only found in the Fontaine and Natlan regions of Teyvat.

Flanking the podium are who Wriothesley assumes are the professors. Some of them he knows from previous battles, like General Ei and former General Zhongli before he retired to teach at the college. General Ei is a very severe looking woman, face always cold and void of most emotions. She’s known to be one of the most powerful Dragon Riders in the history of Teyvat. Professor Zhongli, he had seen in battle as a General during his early days in infantry. He had aged significantly since then, eyes losing that sharp look about them, but his air of dignity seemed mightily intact despite his stringy, wet hair. Headmaster Furina is nowhere to be seen, and that makes Wriothesley somewhat nervous.

He doesn’t recognise the remaining professors. The line-up consists of a very hardy looking woman with bright red hair and as many scars as Wriothesley, an incredibly short woman draped in green scribe garb, a boyish looking man who seemed to have spent the night before with a few too many bottles of wine, and at the very edge of the podium, standing back from everyone else is a tall man with perfectly white hair and a sense of calm about him that seems unnatural. His eyes are shut, and his head is bowed, almost like he’s meditating or sleeping upright.

Something about the last professor struck Wriothesley as quite odd; his hair is long and not tied back, his skin is far too fair and flawless for a rider, yet he still wears rider black. His complexion makes him look as if he’s made from porcelain – the antithesis of a Dragon Rider...

“I see you’ve got your eye on Professor Neuvillette,” a familiar voice sounds from beside him, but with warmth that had not been there previously. Wriothesley tears his eyes away from the podium to find that blonde woman from before. She looks a bit livelier and more open now that the stress of the parapet is over.

“Who?” Wriothesley blurts without a second thought.

“Professor Neuvillette. I hear he’s the resident dragon studies master,” the girl says carefully, raising her eyebrow slightly.

“He wasn’t teaching when I was last here,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “Haven’t heard of him or seen him at the front lines.”

“Apparently, he only goes wherever Headmaster Furina goes. And she rarely has time to visit the front lines. He’s a bit of a mystery,” she explains. “I’m Navia by the way. You must be the Colonel everyone keeps talking about.” She holds out her hand to shake his. “Iron Wolf, is that what they call you?”

“No, don’t call me that here. It’s just Wriothesley.” He shakes her hand, and she squeezes it in a tight grip. He gives a short huff of laughter and smiles.

“Okay then, ‘just Wriothesley’. Pleasure to meet you.” Navia smiles sweetly. “Thanks be to Clode that I met you.”

Wriothesley snorts. Clode, the god of luck, had nothing to do with this.

The young woman, Navia, seems quite well mannered when she’s not inches away from sudden death. They turn back to the podium in wait for the Headmaster’s address.

As the rain eases to barely a drizzle, Headmaster Furina finally makes an appearance, the crowd applauds her without enthusiasm and Wriothesley joins out of sheer obedience.

“Welcome, welcome!” Headmaster Furina calls out in a brightly theatrical voice. Some of the first years recoil at this, where the second and third years remain unfazed. “Congratulations to the three-hundred and seven of you who have passed the first test — the Parapet! You are now cadets of the Rider’s Quadrant.”

The first years break out into cheering, celebrating their own success. Wriothesley remains still and Navia only smiles humbly beside him.

“One hundred and sixteen of you, unfortunately, did not succeed,” Headmaster Furina continues in an overly sorrowful tone. “May the follower’s souls be commended to Niennë.”

At least half the formation murmurs the sentiment under their breath in an unintelligible wave of sound. Their prayers went to Niennë, the goddess of death, one of the four gods of the followers. Wriothesley cares not for religion, along with at least a quarter of the Quadrant. It’s a choice.

The names of the dead would only ever be read the next morning for the reading of the death roll and never mentioned again. There was no honour in such a death. Only a quarter of the new first years were expected to survive until graduation. From there: the rest would be lost to the war with very few exceptions.

“Now begins the real test,” Headmaster Furina gestures to the six hundred-or-so Riders in the courtyard. “Your superiors will test you, push you to your very limits to whittle away your imperfections, your peers will hunt you to weed out the weak, and you will adapt or die!” The Headmaster seems far too expressive to be giving such a grim speech, it instils a feeling of unease amongst the first years. Wriothesley can feel Navia step a bit closer to him and swallow the build-up of her anxiety.

“If you survive until the day of Threshing, you will be bestowed with the honour and challenge of being chosen by a dragon, to bond with them and become Riders. Then we will see how many of you will live to join the Riders of Teyvat!” Headmaster Furina flourishes her arms in a wide gesture, leaving the crowd with the weight of an awkward silence. The empty air soon becomes punctuated with hushed voices and whispers. As if she’s used to this, Headmaster Furina continues, sweeping her hand to the professors behind her.

“The professors will teach you, but it is up to you to put that knowledge to good use. Discipline falls to your Squad Leader, and your Wingleader will have the last word. If I have to get involved,” she laughs darkly, the glimmer in her eyes is enough to make Wriothesley squirm. “You’ll regret ever volunteering for the Quadrant.”

She claps her hands with finality and says, “Wingleaders! I leave the rest to you.” With that little trill, she struts off to the side, disappearing to gods knows where. The tension that had built in the crowd during the Headmaster’s speech diffuses suddenly and four third years step onto the podium.

Despite her over-the-top nature, Wriothesley remains indebted to Headmaster Furina. But seeing her off the battlefield had Wriothesley starting to question his own sanity. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

“I am Clorinde Magloire, Wingleader of First Wing,” the woman that Wriothesley faced off after Parapet shouts. Navia bristles beside him. At least the two of them had one thing in common: not part of the Clorinde, Master Duellist of Meropide, fan club.

The man next to Clorinde straightens himself up and calls over the crowd. “Alhaitham Zahir, Second Wing,” he calls out, rather boredly. He’s tall, handsome and well-muscled despite his laid-back mannerisms.

The woman beside him clears her throat and calls out. “I am Ningguang Tian, Wingleader of Third Wing.” Her voice is calm, yet strong, and she holds herself with all the elegance one would never expect from a rider.

The blonde woman next to her steps forward, her hardy expression faltering only for a moment, but Wriothesley can see right through it. “And I am Jean Gunnhildr, Wingleader of Fourth Wing,” she announces with confidence. “We will now read out the names and positions assigned to the new first years.”

The entire Riders Quadrant formation split the cadets evenly between four wings, with three sections each. Each section would have three squads of around fifteen cadets, starkly different to how Wriothesley was used to Infantry formation being organised.

“First Wing, Claw Section, Squad One: Callirhoe Dubois, Jeht Ufairah Hindi,” Clorinde begins reading off a sheet of parchment. She works through Claw Section, Squads One, Two and Three, then starts to read off the names for Flame Section. “First Wing, Flame Section, Squad One: Bennett Ziegler, Charlotte Moreau, Kaeya Alberich, Kirara Komaniya, Heizou Shikanoin, Navia Caspar.”

Beside him, Navia stiffens at the mention of her name and hesitates before she begins to walk toward where Flame Section are stationed, sorting themselves into squad formation.

Caspar, he tosses the name up in his head. The space beside Wriothesley starts to feel cold. Navia throws a pinched look over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd. Caspar… as in Callas Caspar’s family, from The Spina di Rosula? His stomach drops uneasily, he’d heard talk of the Caspar family not long ago. Informal news tends to take much longer to reach the border. Could befriending Navia be a mistake?

“Nilou Iravani… Wriothesley,” Clorinde sneers from the podium. He’s immediately pulled from his thoughts, locking eyes with Clorinde for a split second before she continues to read out names. “Xiangling Mao.”

He’s unsure if he wants to celebrate that he’s in the same squad as Navia or if he wants to throw himself from the Parapet because Clorinde is his wingleader. It solidifies for him that even if he survives first year, it’s going to be the worst year of his life – and that would be saying something.

He sighs to himself and reluctantly joins Navia in squad formation.

“You seem… angry,” he whispers to her, keeping his eyes forward.

“I am,” Navia replies simply.

The two of them stand there as the remaining first years are sorted into the four wings, consisting of Claw, Flame and Tail Sections, each with their own Section Leader. Each section is further divided into three squads, with their own squad leader.

He chances a glance at Navia again once the squad placement ordeal concludes. He has to do a double take when he notices the glint of unshed tears in her eyes. It looks like her entire world has shattered and crumbled in on her, but as soon as she notices Wriothesley’s gaze, she sniffles and clenches her jaw, erasing any hint of weakness from her expression. She just looks angry now, not in the heated sense, more the vengeful, calculated way.

“Is it Clorinde you’re upset about?” he asks as the section leaders and squad leaders begin to introduce themselves.

“I hate her. I take it you’re not a fan either,” she seethes under her breath.

“No.” He tries to ease the tension with a half-hearted smile. “You’ll get used to her in time.”

“It’s personal, for me.” Navia’s jaw clenches.

He nods and chews on the inside of his cheek, not probing any further. “We’ll give her hell then.” Perhaps befriending Navia isn’t the mistake he thought it may be.

“Correction to squad assignments,” Wingleader Jean Gunnhildr calls out across formation, effectively silencing the chatter. “Cadet Freminet De Hearth, please move from Fourth Wing, Tail Section Squad Three to First Wing, Flame Section, Squad One to swap with Cadet Kirara Komaniya.”

Wriothesley’s blood runs cold and murmurs spring up around him, disgusted tones hardly disguised. Fourth Wing seem pretty happy to be rid of this Freminet guy, who walks with his head bowed over to Wriothesley’s squad.

“No freakin’ way,” one of the first years near them complains. “We’ve already got two De Hearths in our squad, and two Marked Ones.”

Wriothesley briefly chances a look behind himself and Navia to find a second and third year marked with the Natlanese rebellion relic, then across from them a set of (what must be) twins with the De Hearth treachery relic. He doesn’t miss the way the Marked Ones narrow their eyes at him, knowing full well the role he played in the story of their marking.

The youngest De Hearth, Freminet, stations himself on Wriothesley’s other side in their squad formation, eyes glued to the ground. He shifts uncomfortably with the proximity. De Hearths, traitors, every last one of them.

Clorinde stations herself at the head of First Wing and begins her speech. “In case you’ve forgotten already, I am Clorinde Magloire, third year, duelling champion, leader of First Wing. If you think you’re here because you think you have what it takes to be a Rider, think again. Most of you don’t have what it takes, and you will die. Don’t go walking around thinking you’re invincible because I will not hesitate to remind you of your own mortality,” Clorinde announces, pacing back and forth in an almost bored manner. “These are your section leaders, Dainsleif Ahlström for Claw Section, Lumine Travelis for Flame Section, Halfdan Solheim for Tail Section,” she gestures to the two platinum blondes and silvery blonde at the front of each section.

“By Varnari, Queen of the Gods, they really popped those three out of the same factory, didn’t they?” Navia whispers from beside him, and Wriothesley responds with a tired nod. The other Section Leaders in Second, Third and Fourth wing all look different from one another compared to the First Wing Section leaders.

“Take a look at your squad. As per The Codex, these people are the only ones you are safe from here.” Navia glances up at Wriothesley appreciatively and nods, likely grateful that she would not have to face the possibility of being killed by him. “Everyone else is free game but choose your fights wisely.”

The Codex of the Rider’s Quadrant states that Cadets weren’t allowed to kill their squad members, probably the one rule Wriothesley was most grateful for — aside from the other rule that it was an executable offence to kill a cadet while they were sleeping.

“Working together rather than against one another statistically increases your chances of not dying. So don’t be a brainless moron,” Clorinde concludes. “Squad leaders, introduce yourselves.”

When Wriothesley looks around at the Flame Section surrounding him, he notices many of the cadets keep glancing between him and the three De Hearths in the squad. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he stands out in the crowd, being so tall, but he’s never felt so… old in his life. He can hear his own bones creak as he shifts on his feet. Some of the Riders stare at him in wonder and with respect for his service and achievements in the Infantry. Others eye him with the same distain as Clorinde did, like he was a liability to his wing, his section and his squad.

Across the crowd, he accidentally locks eyes with a particularly feisty looking ginger. The guy smiles wickedly, like he’s just found a fun new game, a new peak to summit, a new challenge to crush. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t bother him, but now, it sends a shiver down Wriothesley’s back. He feels less safe here than he ever felt on the battlefield moments from death as Snezhnayans on their gryphons circled overhead. The cadets here look at him and see nothing but an older, weaker man.

He hopes that Navia doesn’t see him that way.

When Wriothesley tunes back in, he’s not sure what he’s missed, but he can certainly tell the wind has picked up. The gusts gain intensity, rhythmically flowing through the courtyard. Murmurs pick up amongst the first years, but the second and third years remain unfazed.

The only warning Wriothesley gets is the self-satisfied quirk of Clorinde’s lips before four huge shapes crest over the bastion wall, flaring their large wings as they land. Everyone in formation turns to face the four terrifying dragons that screech and roar in unison to announce their arrival. Wriothesley’s breath catches in his lungs and a few of his squad members scream in surprise – one of which now requires a new pair of pants. The dragons are each about 8 or so metres tall – maybe more, he can’t tell as they tower over the formation on the high walls. One brown, one green, one turquoise and the last, a rather large and vicious looking black dragon.

Hot air rushes over the crowd as the dragons crane their necks to get a good look at the new cadets. Then, the scent of sulfur rises in the air and his anxiety peaks. He’s seen dragons this close before, but always gave them a very wide berth in the interest of his own continued living. Most of the first years here have never seen a dragon up close in their life and are now realising just how deep in the shit they are now. He reaches forward and grips Navia’s bicep tightly.

“Don’t move,” he hisses.

All four dragons lurch forward and bright heat bursts from their jaws, flowing right over their heads in a torrent of flame. Wriothesley feels the skin on his cheeks instantly dry from the searing radiant heat and Navia stays rooted to her place in front of him. Shrill screams echo across the courtyard through the flames and continue even after they dissipate. He chances a glance around him to find everyone physically untouched, but many of them mentally shattering.

Navia shifts and he grips her tighter. In the same moment, a girl screams and darts across the courtyard to the archway where the Rider’s Quadrant connects to the rest of Meropide. Another boy joins her, eyes wild with desperate fear. The black dragon growls and swishes its neck, aiming toward the two cadets who are just about to make it to freedom.

“Look away—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before the black dragon releases a torrent of flames right at the two. There’s hardly a scream from them before their bodies crumple into nothing but charred ash and a black scorch mark. More screams and then the stench of charred flesh wafts toward them. A few cadets double over and vomit, others clam up as a sickly pallor washes over them.

“Does anyone else wish to forsake their cadetship?” Clorinde prompts. She is met with utter silence.

The formation stews in the stomach churning quiet for a few moments longer before General Ei steps forward and shouts, “dismissed!”

It takes a moment for anyone to start moving again. Eventually, the formation disperses, and the cadets start to file out of the courtyard and into the citadel of the Rider’s Quadrant.

He leans down to whisper to Navia. “I missed our squad leader’s name, and where we’re supposed to be going.”

She takes a moment to respond, wetting her lips as she tries to hastily work through the trauma of watching someone burn alive in front of her very eyes.

“Short guy up front, golden hair, long plait. Aether… Travelis… I think Lumine Travelis must be his twin sister, or something,” Navia recites as calmly as she can. They follow the crowd of first years down a flight of stairs.

He’d once seen a set of twins in the same squad stationed along the border. Two brothers from Liyue. He remembered them very well for two things: one, for how bloody a battle would become when they would fight to protect one another, and two, for the mess they left behind when one had been promoted to private and the other had not...

He hopes the undoubted sibling rivalry between Aether and Lumine won’t be the throat slitting type.

Chapter Text

As for where they were going, Wriothesley’s question is answered for him when they file through a set of doors. It opens to a large room with plain beds arranged in rows, covering every single available space. A quick headcount had him guessing there are about 80 beds in the room, twice what was normal for infantry, but they had more rooms with less beds. Not many people were happy with this configuration, disappointed murmurs filled the air very quickly.

“First year dorms, First Wing only in here. The other wings have their own room just like this one. You survive Threshing and bond with a dragon, you’ll get a room to yourself upstairs,” Clorinde announces. “Don’t like it? Tough shit. Pick a bed, dump your stuff and we’ll go to the meal hall.”

Everyone files through the room, claiming whatever bed they want, but sticking close to their squad mates. Wriothesley picks one of the beds at the back of the room, nearest to the window – a quick escape if required. Navia picks one two rows down from him.

“And if I catch anyone stealing anything from another Cadet, it’ll be execution by dragon fire, as per The Codex. So don’t even think about it unless you wanna get real cosy with Niennë,” Clorinde reminds them before disappearing through one of the doors.

Wriothesley dumps his bag on the bed and the items inside clink together. He’s never had much, so it wasn’t difficult trying to pick what to take and what to leave at the Montbrun outpost where he was stationed less than a week ago. A glance over to Navia tells him that she certainly had a difficult time whittling down her possessions into what could be carried across the parapet. She was well off, he could tell by her high-quality clothing, the delicateness of her features and her enunciated speech. But it was almost impossible to tell if she had any combat training whatsoever.

He strolls over to her, keeping a wary eye out for anyone who was already keen to fight on the first day. The troublemakers, thankfully, are preoccupied with fighting over which bed they want. Navia turns to him and her jaw drops in surprise. His eyes dart around, and he checks behind himself; only empty space and nothing on his shirt.

“Sorry,” Navia apologises, pulling out the scrap of fabric keeping her hair tied back. She holds it out to Wriothesley. “Thank you for letting me borrow this.”

“Keep it,” he shakes his head. “I have no use for it now.” She gives a strained but appreciative smile and quickly plaits her damp hair and secures the end with a bow. Wriothesley notices as her fingers work through her hair that the nails are short and her palms are calloused – she’s either trained to fight or just works with her hands often, strange for someone of the wealthy Caspar family.

“Let’s continue the tour,” she sighs. The rest of First Wing files out of the dorm room and joins the stream of the remaining first years as they walk to the meal hall. They’re much quieter now, humbled by their new living conditions.

The hallways in the Quadrant are narrower, but more intricately detailed than the infantry quadrant. The masonry of the archways is dark and curved with the twisting bodies of stone dragons and the cornices are gilded with golden and bronze metals that gleamed in contrast with the matte black stone. It seems rather dark inside, but the mage lights lining the walls bathe the interior in a cold, blue glow.

They filter into the meal hall where the second and third years are already eating lunch and join the back of the queue for meals. The scent of the hall is overwhelming in comparison to the outposts and meal tents along the border. Mouthwatering roasted meat, bread slathered with butter and herbs, the wafting aroma of spiced soups – it’s all too much. Wriothesley has never eaten food like this before in his life.

“Gods’ balls, if I’d known the Riders ate like kings three times a day, I would have volunteered sooner,” Wriothesley whispers to Navia with wide eyes. His voice comes out thick, dampened by the copious amount of saliva he’s suddenly produced.

“What?” He can’t tell if she didn’t hear him right or she didn’t understand what he meant.

“Nothing.” He immediately fills his plate with as much food as he could feasibly balance and follows Navia with her half-empty plate to their squad table. “Caspar, right?” the thought from earlier finally comes back to him.

“Yes?” Navia answers, with a sigh.

“As in Caspar, associated with The Spina Di Rosula?”

“Yes. That’s me.” She seems rather unenthused by his deduction.

“Oh,” he remarks. “I owe The Spina a great debt, specifically Callas Caspar. I haven’t seen him in… a while.” He refrains from outing himself by revealing his age or guessing which of the rumours are true. “I’m not sure what’s happened recently.”

“He was a great man,” Navia whispers with more sorrow than Wriothesley expected. “He was my father. He… he was innocent.”

“I’m sorry to hear. He really was an uncommonly kind man.” Though his heart sinks and his stomach twists uncomfortably with a short wave of grief and curiosity, he’s too hungry to pry further. He digs in and lightly elbows Navia to encourage her to do the same.

Wriothesley shovels food into his mouth and has to stifle a moan because by the gods, it is the nicest food he has ever tasted in his life. So full of flavour that it makes his eyes water.

“I am absolutely electing to have kitchen duty as my daily chore.”

Navia rolls her eyes with a sigh. “You know you have to be up an hour earlier than everyone else for that?”

“Don’t care. It’ll be worth it,” he says with his mouth full.

Navia grimaces and shifts further along the bench, away from Wriothesley. A moment later, she shifts back, nervously keeping her head down. No one else has joined them at their table yet.

“I think I’ll take whatever chore that’ll get me furthest away from Clorinde,” she grumbles, side eyeing Clorinde from across the meal hall.

“If you want to get away, you could elect to return and deliver the texts borrowed from The Archives,” a soft voice suggests. Both Wriothesley and Navia look up from their plates to where a second year climbs into the seat in front of Navia with a flat expression. “It’s the chore I elected for last year.”

Navia’s brow softens and she nods agreeably. She extends a hand to the girl, courteously. “Thank you. I’m Navia by the way.” The girl across from her hesitates and bites her lip before extending her hand to shake Navia’s.

Wriothesley is quick to realise why the young woman in front of them is a little taken aback by Navia’s unrestrained greeting – she’s marked by a geometric relic on the right side of her face: traitor, a De Hearth. Trust a member of The Spina not to judge a person by their misdeeds. Wriothesley is not so infallible either.

“Lynette,” she says plainly before tucking a stray strand of ashen hair behind her ear. Her eyes dart to Wriothesley momentarily and she nods, keeping her gaze down. He needs no introduction, and she certainly wants absolutely nothing to do with him but is clearly willing to endure his presence for Navia’s prospective friendship.

For a moment, Lynette’s eyes rest in the space between Wriothesley and Navia and she shares a knowing look with whomever she locks eyes with. The stillness of her violet irises draws a cold itchiness to Wriothesley’s back. He peers behind himself, and his skin immediately prickles as he meets a pair of slate blue eyes across the room, cold and deep as a frost glazed lake, curtained by ginger hair.

He sets his fork aside, appetite evaporated. He is so fucked.

🌊🐉🌊

“Soraya Farzan, Stanley Eckhardt, Suki Kawaguchi,” Headmaster Furina’s shrill voice continues reading off the death roll. It’s not even finished and Wriothesley is certain it’s the longest death roll he’s ever heard in all his years of war. Every single name on that list was someone who could have been sent to infantry to fight. Instead, their potential is wasted and their bodies and belongings burnt. There was no greater dishonour than failure when it came to the Rider’s Quadrant, Wriothesley just wished death wasn’t the price everyone had to pay.

Headmaster Furina ends the death roll with a flourishing “may their souls find solace amongst the stars, and the followers souls be commended to Niennë.” A chorus of voices around Wriothesley repeat the chant with moderate enthusiasm whilst he remains silent.

He would never tell anyone, but Wriothesley had lost his faith in the stars long ago.

“And to think this year was about average...” Navia comments solemnly, pressing her fist against her sternum. She looks to be on the verge of tears as she briefly passes through each stage of grief in a matter of moments. He tentatively stretches out a hand to pat her on the shoulder, wanting nothing more than to remind her to save her tears for someone who actually matters to her. One of the worst things you could do in Meropide was allow your empathy to control you.

Today, all of the first-year cadets are matching the rest of the Riders in the standard issue black uniform. Many people have already customised their uniforms as the second and third years have. Wriothesley doesn’t want to draw unwanted attention to himself and left his uniform as is, just glad that the shoulder of his shirt now only displays a patch with one star to signify he is a first year.

Formation breaks without warning, scattering the cadets throughout the courtyard like sleepy ants. The first years keeping awkwardly quiet in comparison to the second and third years. Lessons are due to start quite soon, so Wriothesley shuffles along with his squad as the third years lead them back through the corridors until they arrive at a large open room with windows overlooking the valley below. Various pieces of exercise equipment are stationed along the back wall and the floor is covered in a thin layer of woven reeds.

Professor Mavuika, the one with flaming red hair, parts the sea of cadets and walks in, gesturing to the space.

“Welcome to the sparring gym.” She turns to face the cadets with a sharp smile, arms outstretched. The skin of them is criss-crossed with a number of pale and dark lines. Wriothesley’s squad assembles to the left of the door and Professor Mavuika flicks her bright eyes across them in an almost dragon-like manner.

The Professor is one of the few people that Wriothesley finds truly intimidating based on appearance alone. Tall, broad, dense with muscle and a glare that could curdle milk. Her short and bright red hair curls upward at the ends very slightly, but her fringe sits straight over her forehead. Fine lines and spots of age mark her face between the scars that run along every exposed measure of her skin. She claps her tawny hands together and calls out in a low voice, “Second years, show the first years how to set up the mats. It’ll be your responsibility to set them up from tomorrow onwards.”

The second years let out a mixture of groans and quiet cheers as they file into a storage room on the other end of the room. She levels the first years with an individually scrutinising gaze that makes Wriothesley’s skin crawl, judging each and every one of them, searching for faults and weaknesses. She jerks her chin up to dismiss them and Wriothesley gladly walks away to pick up the end of a mat that one of the second years is dragging behind them. He seems a little too... fragile, to be a second year.

“Oh,” the second-year gasps, quickly turning around. The first thing that comes to Wriothesley’s mind when he sees the young man’s face is trickster – he almost misses the geometric relic marking the left side of his face. His eyes are wide and youthful, burning with a vivacious kind of magic Wriothesley is altogether unfamiliar with. The young man’s mouth curls at the ends with something darkly mischievous. It’s unsettling to say the least. “Why thank you,” he chimes with a friendly smile. Wriothesley clenches his jaw at the kid’s prim and proper accent. This must be the second De Hearth in the squad.

He responds to the blonde second year with a wary grunt and helps him carry the mat over to line it up in the grid that the other first and second years are creating. They roll out the mat together and the blonde kid straightens himself up and dusts his hands off like the mats were dirty to begin with. They didn’t look too bad at all, only a few light bloodstains.

“Lyney,” the short kid says, extending a hand toward Wriothesley confidently. He hesitates before resigning himself to a firm handshake. The kid, Lyney, hardly winces. He doesn’t like this guy already. There’s just something off-putting about him and it certainly isn’t the relic. “Bit far away from the front lines, Iron Wolf.”

Wriothesley cringes and takes his hand back from Lyney’s grip.

“Clorinde would cut your head clean off if she heard you saying that,” he warns before stalking off to join Navia’s side. As much as he despises Clorinde, she had a point about Wriothesley and it seems that everyone is also scared, if not wary, of her. There is no rebirth without the death of the Colonel and the Iron Wolf.

“We’ll start off with some warm-up exercises and drills, then in half an hour to an hour, I will pair each of you first years up with a second or third year for hand-to-hand combat to see what your skill level is,” Professor Mavuika instructs, voice growing in volume over the gasps of terror and sickly cheerful laughs that arise from the squad. Wriothesley instantly feels a dozen sets of eyes on him and his skin prickles. Beside him, he hears Navia draw in a sharp breath.

“Oi!” Professor Mavuika booms, snapping everyone’s attention back to her. “Before you all get too excited, it’s hand-to-hand only, yield before someone really hurts you and, second and third years, do not use your signets, I want a level playing field. If I see any of you killing your squad mates, you’ll have to fight me during Challenges.” Her seething voice is enough to discourage Wriothesley from even thinking about fighting her. He’s seen her in action atop a dragon during his early years of the war, cunning and brutal in the most poetic fashion possible. She’d been regarded as a master of combat up until she lost her leg in battle, ultimately retiring to become a professor at Meropide. Even as he looked closely, he could barely notice any abnormalities in Professor Mavuika’s gait as she shoos the squad away into groups.

In two weeks, Challenges would start, where over the course of six weeks, each cadet would be allocated another cadet to fight. It was basically a chance to prove their worth and win their opponent’s weapon. Though it was strictly discouraged, you could still kill your opponent during the fight, which remains moderately terrifying to Wriothesley – they would never do such a thing in Infantry training.

The warm-up and drills lead by Mavuika are easy enough for Wriothesley to follow for the first half hour without so much as breaking into a sweat. He can see most of the second and third years also keeping up easily – some a little sweatier than others. The first years are a different story altogether. Half of them are shaking and red in the face, the other half are in various states of contemplating whether they should have chosen Infantry over this.

Wriothesley laughs to himself at the thought of Infantry being easier than this. He remembers times where they trained him so hard he’d throw up and his entire body would ache for days after intense training sessions.

Beside him, Navia is faring better than most of the first years. She’s shaking and dripping with sweat, but she keeps her jaw clenched and her breathing as consistent as possible. Wriothesley has to hand it to her, the sheer determination she seems to have would likely be what would pull her through to second year. Beyond that, it would take much more than just determination.

At the front of the group Professor Mavuika looks quite pleased with herself as she watches the naive first years unravel before her very eyes. She continues to call out and demonstrate all kinds of exercises, making corrections wherever she spots them, which is quite often.

They finish with a plank of undisclosed length, where Professor Mavuika warns that the first three people to fail will be sent to clean the bathrooms by the meal hall after lunch.

It was enough motivation to get the stragglers to try to outlast one another. After what feels like five minutes, but was certainly less than that, Wriothesley’s entire body begins to shake uncontrollably. It started off as a mild tremor thirty seconds in but accelerated throughout his entire body at an exponential rate, now affecting his every single muscle. The strange itching feeling of eyes passing over him constantly distracts him, but he dares not look up, keeping his eyes trained on the puddle of sweat beneath him.

He’s at least safe from becoming part of the bathroom clean-up crew, but his body is finally giving in. The last thing he wants is to confirm his squad mate’s suspicion of him being a liability due to his age. The moment they catch a whiff of weakness on him, it would be like dangling meat in front of a pack of street mutts – he’d watched them tear one another apart for scraps when he was younger. Something of a similar sort would happen here.

It’s not just his squad mates staring, he feels like someone is watching him from the other side of the room. He can feel their gaze burning into the side of his face, but he does not dare to look up. It could be anyone watching: the Headmaster, a professor, or that redhead who already seems to have it out for him.

“And down,” Professor Mavuika announces and the remainder of the group collapses into the mats in a sweaty tangle of their own limbs. Wriothesley drops to his stomach like a boulder, weak and shivering. Almost everyone around him drags themselves to their feet; some without difficulty, others with the murmur of complaint. He pushes himself up, clenching his jaw tightly as his entire body protests against the movement.

“Alright, I’m going to pair each of you up for some light sparring, then we’ll watch each pair fight. I don’t want the Healer’s Quadrant getting busy on their first day, so go easy on each other unless you want a clueless first year doing a shit job at your stitches. No one cares if you don’t win,” Professor Mavuika recites disinterestedly. “I don’t care what your names are, I’ll learn them when you earn my attention.”

She starts walking through the group, pairing first years off with second or third years that seem to be somewhat within the same skill level – if one ignored the vastness of the experience gap between the two.

“You,” she points to Navia, “Go with Lyney.” Wriothesley can see Navia suspiciously looking Lyney up and down before following him to one of the mats. “You,” Professor Mavuika points to a short girl with a soft pink bob, “with Lynette.”

Lynette, the girl he’d seen at lunch yesterday – and the final De Hearth – gives a disappointed sigh and walks away with the girl practically skipping beside her, already chatting her ear off, asking all kinds of invasive questions. Wriothesley turns back to face the professor, but within thirty seconds, a loud ‘oof’ sounds from the other direction. He glances back to see Lynette holding the first year’s arm in a twist after evidently having just thrown her to the ground.

“Wriothesley.” He jumps at the sudden mention of his name. Professor Mavuika had hardly mentioned any of the other first years by name. He turns back to find a self-satisfied smile curling across the professor’s scarred lip, making him gulp nervously. “You’re with Scar.” She gestures to a third year beside her who looks ready to kill... or to spit on him – he’s not sure which.

Scar comes up to about Wriothesley’s sternum, but still manages to tilt his head and eyes in a way that makes him seem like he’s looking down on Wriothesley. His dark eyes are filled with a centuries’ worth of bitterness, orbiting around something Wriothesley can’t quite place a finger on. Scar cracks his neck and turns brusquely to storm over to a free mat.  

As he follows Scar, he searches for Navia amongst the group and finds her locked in a hold with Lyney’s hands tightly fisted in her hair. She swings her elbow out and clocks Lyney across the cheekbone and he yelps, letting go. Once Navia regains her composure, she quickly scuttles over to Lyney, apologising profusely. If there’s anything a Rider learns not to show, it is kindness. Wriothesley looks away when Lyney flips like a switch, knocking Navia down with a quick and effective strike.

He comes to a stop across from Scar when they reach a vacant mat. Wriothesley finds himself staring down at the mat’s surface like he’s seeing the pit of his own grave before him. How hard could it really be? He had a decade of real-world experience on these twenty-something year-olds.

Across the mat, Scar is watching him expectantly, venom brewing on his tongue. He seems like the kind of person that fights angry and the way around that was to stay calm and redirect their energy.

“Funny name: Scar,” he mentions lightly, hoping to defuse the situation. “Don’t seem to have a single one on you.”

Scar chuckles darkly, greatly entertained by the comment. “I’m not named for what I have. I’m named for what I give.” He has a husky, but sickly-sweet kind of voice and his eyes gleam as he adopts a fighting stance.

“Alright then.” Wriothesley mirrors his pose, thighs aching under his weight. He launches forward, but springs back as he expects Scar to leap at him. And he does, striking at Wriothesley in a whirlwind of different attacks, dripping with concentrated rage. Wriothesley blocks the first two, scrapes by on the third, but not the fourth, fifth or sixth, as Scar slips right through his defences into range, earning him a whirling kick to the knee and two punches to the side of his ribs. The air races out of him and he falters, off balance.

This guy is fast, faster than anyone he’s ever faced off before. He hardly stands a chance of landing a hit. It feels like a set-up, making him look weak and out of touch compared to the rest of his squad. He grits his teeth and draws his focus to keeping Scar as far from him as possible, since he’s the one with the height advantage.

The fight feels endless; every time he finds an opening in Scar’s blind rage, it disappears in the blink of an eye, replaced by the sour bloom of pain across Wriothesley’s skin as Scar slips through the tiniest cracks in his defences. His only saving grace being that Scar is bird-boned, having hardly enough weight behind him to make anything hurt for long. He can feel eyes on him once more, digging into his thick skin, tearing at the fractures in his façade.

He finally lands a heavy kick to Scar’s side, sending his thin frame sprawling across the mat. But, where he’d expected to hear a thump, he hears nothing. His opponent’s body only grazes the mat before swooping back up to his feet in a gust of wind. Before Wriothesley can call out, Scar twists in the air, higher than someone of his height could realistically jump, and kicks Wriothesley square in the jaw.

His teeth clack together and his entire face blooms with stinging pain, as if he’s just dived face-first into a meadow of nettles. His vision blacks out for a moment before something weighty collides with the back of his head, sending him crashing down into the mat, blood dribbling from his lips.

“What are you? Fuckin’ forty-five?” Scar spits while he straightens himself up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes. “Weak.”

“Fuck you,” he chokes back, spitting a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the mat. “Mavuika said no signets.” He’s sure Scar used his signet – probably air wielding – during the exchange, and he could get away with it until it was all eyes on them. How many other second and third years are using their signets against the first years? he wonders bitterly.

“You’re a disgrace to the Rider’s Quadrant,” Scar teases with his husky voice, lip curling with disgust. “Go back to Infantry.”

Between the reflexive thoughts of I’m going to kill this punk and how dare he speak to me like that, Wriothesley feels the hot prickle of shame ripple through his body. Perhaps Scar isn’t entirely wrong.

🌊🐉🌊

“I yield, I yield!” The girl pinned under Lynette’s knee shouts; voice distorted by how she’s contorted in ways Wriothesley doesn’t think arehumanly possible. Lynette eases up with a shrug and walks off the mat to stand beside Lyney. The two seem unsurprisingly joint at the hip.

“Up you get, Charlotte,” Professor Mavuika calls out. “You’re fine.”

Charlotte reluctantly picks herself up and limps over to the side of the mat furthest away from Lynette. Across the mat from him, Scar stares Wriothesley down like he’s mentally detailing each and every way he’d love to kill him, but laments that he cannot follow through without breaking the Codex.

“Wriothesley and Scar, you’re next.”

Wriothesley steps up to the mat without hesitation, clenching his jaw to bite back the irrational fear that rises in his throat. Scar matches his movements, legs spreading comically wide as he attempts to cover the same amount of ground with his short limbs. Someone behind them stifles a snicker regarding the height difference between the two. Scar pays it no mind, setting his stance low and wide, skin practically crackling with the energy he’s holding back. Wriothesley cracks his neck and wrists, feeling a rush of relief after the audible pop they make.

“Make it quick, you two. We’re almost out of time,” Professor Mavuika directs, despite seeming more interested in this sparring match than the others. Scar chuckles beneath his breath and murmurs something along the lines of too easy before whipping forward to strike at Wriothesley without warning.

He counters Wriothesley’s block, feinting right and twisting to kick him in the back of the knee. He buckles but manages to elbow Scar in the head as he stumbles, quickly regaining himself and maintaining distance as Scar stumbles back, teeth gritted.

Scar grimaces, eyes flaring with rekindled rage and his hair flutters around in an ephemeral breeze. Professor Mavuika grunts a warning and the air in the room stills before Wriothesley darts forward, taking advantage of the brief moment of distraction.

He misses a weighty punch to Scar’s head, skimming the side of his skull as Scar just manages to block the full blow. But now Scar is in his space, too close for comfort, ducking and weaving between the swing of Wriothesley’s fist to jab him in the stomach. He keeps his left arm close, blocking in the tight space as Scar’s fist rockets up toward his face. Pain arcs across his cheek as his vision flashes white on the left side.

He stumbles back, desperate for space, but Scar is latched onto him like a tick. The bubbling heat of rage starts to rise from his chest as Scar frustratingly slips in and out of range in a flurry of blows and failed locks. He’s survivable, but Wriothesley can’t lose to this guy in his first fight, not while everyone’s watching.

He takes hit after hit and just barely grazes Scar each time he tries to close the fluid gap between them. In the corner of his vision, he can see Professor Mavuika becoming increasingly frustrated with the two of them dancing around one another – he certainly shares her frustration. All he needs is one solid hit and this little shit would be out of commission, since Scar can’t use magic to cheat this time.

It only occurs to him now that he wouldn’t bleed out and die if he lost, the only thing he’d be risking was his pride and perhaps a minor injury.

He plants his feet solidly and bares his teeth, releasing a growl as he launches himself forward with all the strength his beaten thighs can manage. Scar punches him straight in the nose with a sickly crack, but that’s all. Wriothesley wraps his arms around Scar and brings him down with him. They hit the mat with Scar pinned beneath him, all the air rushing out of his body at once under Wriothesley’s weight.

Wriothesley takes advantage of the split-second reprieve to scramble into a better position and hook his arm under Scar’s chin. He pulls the arm close to his body, locking Scar in, but not cutting off the air supply just yet, guessing this is where Professor Mavuika would draw the line. Scar writhes in his grip like a fish out of water, kicking and striking in any direction he can manage.

“Yield!” Wriothesley commands, voice rising above the crowd around them.

“Never,” Scar’s weak voice grits out as his movements slow momentarily.

“I said, yield!” he booms, louder this time, causing the squad around him to step back from the mat.

He tightens his grip just enough for the pressure on Scar’s throat to become uncomfortable – if he presses any harder, Scar will have a measly six seconds to yield before passing out. Professor Mavuika opens her mouth to call an end to the match, but Wriothesley can’t hear what she says as a vice-like pressure on his arm causes pain to fire all the way up his forearm to his shoulder. He shouts in pain, loosening his grip on Scar’s neck and his vision flashes white when something solid connects with his chin, whipping his head back.

In a single moment, he’s on his back and there’s pressure on his chest. His world jerks side to side in a blur as Scar’s fists connect with his face. He shoots his hands up to block the incoming strikes, but nothing seems to make much sense in the blurry haze coating his senses. He’s not sure he hears Navia calling out to him in that moment, but what he does hear clearly is Scar’s vicious tone cutting through the air.

“I yield to no one.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Professor Mavuika booms, stepping closer in a red blur. The weight on Wriothesley’s chest disappears, as if Mavuika has grabbed Scar by the collar and yanked him away.

Wriothesley sits himself up, despite the dizziness that sends him leaning sideways and wipes his face with the back of his arm. Everything stings and his face feels wet. He rubs his jaw and blinks hard, hoping for everything to come back into focus. One glimpse at his blood-soaked arm and he very quickly understands what just happened.

Scar had bitten him. Hard enough to break the skin and leave a deep impression of his teeth in Wriothesley’s arm. It wells with blood, dribbling up Wriothesley’s forearm before gathering at the point of his elbow and dripping onto the mat.

A pale hand reaches out toward him in an offer for help. He brushes it away with his uninjured arm and drags himself to his feet. He keeps his eyes down as Professor Mavuika gathers everyone around her, unwilling to face the mixture of disgrace and disappointment he expects to see in his squad mates’ eyes.

“First years,” she begins. “This was your first taste of what Challenges are going to be like in two weeks’ time. But instead of pitting you against your superiors, you will be fighting the first years in other squads.” A sigh of relief murmurs its way through the group. “Make no mistake, it won’t be any easier than this. By the time I’m done with all of you, you’ll be wishing I wasn’t such a good teacher.”

Two weeks until Challenges. That would be two weeks Wriothesley would have to learn how every first-year fights and what their weaknesses are. He turns to his side, looking for Navia, and finds her standing behind him, tight jawed. Two weeks he has to teach Navia to fight properly.

“If you lost your fight against your superior today, it means you will die out there if you are ever involved in melee combat. You have until the end of the year before you even have a chance to leave Meropide, if you don’t die before then,” Professor Mavuika reminds them.

Her message is clear; adapt or die.

Chapter Text

“Someone please accompany Cadets Wriothesley and De Hearth to the Healer’s Quadrant,” Professor Mavuika adds tiredly. “First year De Hearth, not the twins. Dismissed.”

The squad disperses to pack up the mats and Wriothesley looks down at his arm once more. Before he starts walking around leaving blood trails everywhere, he unwinds his wrist wrap and uses it to cover the wound. Leaving it uncovered would be like waving a bright red flag and big sign that says ‘weak idiot’ in front of everyone’s faces.

“Come on, grumpy,” Navia sighs beside him. Before he can arc up about it, Navia pats Cadet De Hearth on the back and nudges him forward. “You too, sad sack.”

Cadet De Hearth – or for simplicity sake: Freminet – winces as he stumbles forward, clutching his arm to his chest. It’s dislocated or broken from one of the earlier fights. Navia, herself, isn’t in the best shape either, but he can tell Lyney had held back during their fight.

The two of them follow alongside Navia as she weaves through the corridors toward the courtyard at the other side of the Quadrant, Freminet keeping his distance from Wriothesley. They cross through the courtyard and end up at an archway in the fortress wall.

Besides the Parapet, there is only one other way into the Rider’s Quadrant; a narrow bridge that runs over the gorge between the two sides of the fortress. The bridge is far less terrifying than the Parapet, but the sheer drop on either side is still enough to unnerve most people. Wriothesley had never crossed the bridge during his time in Infantry training, so he didn’t expect the sharp whip of the wind to almost knock him over as they step through the archway.

Freminet makes a noise of discomfort and tucks his chin to his chest as they cross, the blonde bangs that cover the relic on his cheek flutter about. Wriothesley on the other hand finds it rather refreshing after getting his balance back, feeling the wind wick away the heat of anger and shame from his skin.

Once there’s two walls either side of them, Navia lets out a deep sigh then hesitates where the corridor intersects with another. Without saying anything, Wriothesley walks just a little further in front of her, hoping she takes the hint. He’s been to the infirmary in the Healer’s Quadrant numerous times before. Neither Navia nor Freminet have likely ever stepped foot in any other part of Meropide.

“That Scar guy has an awful temper on him,” Navia huffs with distain.

Wriothesley chuckles darkly. “You’re telling me.”

“I honestly thought he was going to kill you there,” she says more seriously. They turn another corner.

“I think he just killed whatever pride I had left after volunteering here...”

Freminet bristles beside him for a moment, before speaking quietly. “Lyney and Lynette said that he’s the squad’s best fighter.” His eyes are cast downward. Both Navia and Wriothesley slow their pace momentarily.

“That doesn’t make me feel much better.” Wriothesley rolls his eyes and continues walking. “Gotta fight dirty where you have to, I suppose.”

They come to a stop in front of a large doorway with two intricately carved wooden panels slightly ajar. The stench of bitter herbs and vile tonics wafts through the gap like a miasma. Navia wrinkles her nose and turns to Wriothesley.

“I’ll see you in battle brief,” he says, waving her off before she can say anything. The last thing he wants is for her to watch him be tended to. He pushes the doors apart and strolls in. Freminet follows timidly behind him.

“See you,” she says without enthusiasm.

Inside, the stench of herbs is as overwhelming as Wriothesley remembers. It’s unlike the Healer’s tents he’s used to on the frontline, which stank of coagulated blood, seared flesh and rot. The infirmary is mostly empty, given classes have only just started up again. Only a few people lay in beds from long-suffering illnesses contracted over the summer break.

A timid looking young woman turns away from a patient’s bedside to face Wriothesley, her deep blue eyes widening as he approaches. She turns back to her patient and whispers something quietly to which she receives a weak groan as a reply. The chair she’s seated on whines as she pushes it back across the stone floor. The girl wipes her hands on her blue apron before addressing Wriothesley politely.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” she asks, sweet as honey, voice wavering like an autumn breeze. Her curly pigtails bounce as she bows her head briefly. To Wriothesley, she seems nervous, likely a first year, or a second year that hadn’t quite gotten over the whole human interaction factor of Healing. He clears his throat quietly and glances at Freminet standing in his shadow.

“This one’s broken his arm – dislocated it – something... I dunno. I trust you can treat him.” He shrugs and steps aside to push Freminet toward the girl. The two of them side by side look more like siblings than Freminet does standing next to Lyney or Lynette. Same eyes, same meekness. Most of the De Hearths aren’t blood related anyway.

“Oh dear, what’s your name?” she asks in a motherly tone, suddenly forgetting her anxieties. The young De Hearth must be miles less intimidating than Wriothesley.

Freminet replies almost inaudibly, and the Healer says her name is Barbara. She ushers Freminet toward a bed, already fussing over his arm. Freminet winces as she pokes and prods, diagnosing away.

“Is Professor Baizhu still around?” Wriothesley asks, mulling about. He casts his eyes over the shelves near the back, looking for an antiseptic, gauze, suture thread and a needle. He’s done his own stitches a few times, but they always turn out rather horrifically. He’s got three poorly healed ones criss-crossing his left arm, courtesy of his own handiwork.

“Yes, he’s still teaching,” Barbara replies.

The corner of Wriothesley’s mouth lifts with the hint of a grin. He and Baizhu had been quite familiar with one another over a decade ago. With Wriothesley constantly in and out of the infirmary with various injuries and Baizhu stitching him back together – in a very literal sense. There’d been some near-death catastrophes back in his day.

Professor Baizhu is a rare case, a Rider by trade, Healer by choice. As a Rider, his signet – the magic from the bond formed between dragon and rider – manifested as Mending. It was one of the rarer kinds of signets, meaning he could speed up the body’s own healing process. He could heal broken bones in a half hour but couldn’t take away the pain of the process. The scar that ran down the inside of Wriothesley’s right thigh, Baizhu had mended in less time than that, preventing him from bleeding to death when he was dangerously close to doing so.

The only thing everyone knows a Mender cannot do is bring back the dead. Whether it was a skill issue, or just taboo to cheat Niennë, the goddess of death, Wriothesley didn’t know, nor did he care.

“Is he busy?” he asks.

Barbara shakes her head. “Surprisingly not. I can have someone fetch him if there’s something you need to speak to him about.” Her eyes haven’t left Freminet’s arm, deftly working to position it correctly. Wriothesley opens his mouth to downplay the severity, but Barbara speaks again. “Mister, uhh...?”

“Cadet,” he hesitates a moment. “Wriothesley.”

Barbara’s brows twitch curiously for a moment. It’s not every day one comes across someone in their thirties only ranked as a cadet. “Cadet Wriothesley, you seem rather strong. Could you please come here and hold Freminet still for a moment?” she asks politely. “I’ll fetch Professor Baizhu for you after.”

Wriothesley shrugs and closes the gap between them, wrapping his hand around Freminet’s thin arm. The kid starts to babble nervously. “Freminet, calm yourself, dear. It’s just dislocated, I’m going to relocate it. On three.”

Both Wriothesley and Freminet suck in a breath as Barbara’s hands wrap around Freminet’s wrist and just under his elbow.

“One...” Wriothesley can feel Freminet tense in anticipation. “Two.” Pop!

Freminet grunts in shock as Barbara sets his elbow back into place without warning. He releases a breath when he realises the whole process was nowhere near as bad as he thought it would have been.

“There you go. Always works best to skip one,” Barbara chirps with a soft smile. Wriothesley releases his grip and pats Freminet on the back, watching his chest heave as he tries to reset his breathing to normal. “I’ll go fetch Professor Baizhu for you, Cadet Wriothesley. What did you need to speak to him about?”

“I’m an old friend, he’ll recognise my name,” he says, then holds up his bloody arm. “And some stitches wouldn’t hurt.” Barbara pales at the sight of his arm and gives a curt nod before gliding out of the room.

“Don’t fret, I’ll be back with a pain remedy for you, Freminet,” she calls over her shoulder.

The room falls silent for a moment, punctuated by Freminet’s uneasy breathing.

“Doing alright there, buddy?”

“Uh-huh.” Freminet nods, sweaty strands of his straight fringe sticking to his forehead.

“Mm, sure,” Wriothesley sighs, sitting himself on the end of the bed, beginning to unravel the blood-soaked fabric around his arm. A deep, throbbing ache surfaces once the wound is uncovered. He redirects his thoughts elsewhere to distract himself and lands on Freminet, the odd-De Hearth-out, a glaringly obvious weak spot in their line of defence. Few trusted the De Hearth family since the treachery and Wriothesley certainly was not one of them.

“Lyney and Lynette, huh? You close with them?” he prompts, side-eyeing Freminet.

Freminet hums in response, refusing to meet Wriothesley’s eyes. He draws his legs closer to himself, away from him. “They don’t seem to like me much.” He fixes Freminet with a piercing stare. “Neither do you.”

Freminet’s gaze remains downcast, but Wriothesley can see his jaw clench and unclench as he cooks up a response. “And that makes us special?” he mumbles. “As if we’d like someone who was with the bastards that butchered our elders and threw the children to the wolves.”

“I had no part in the punishment for the Treachery, but I see your point. I can’t help but feel this is personal. What’s House of the Hearth got against some old Infantry Colonel?” Wriothesley asks, keeping his tone even as Freminet grits his teeth and remains silent. The mere mention of the De Hearth treachery and resultant ‘Natlan Rebellion’ style aftermath seemed to hit a nerve with Freminet. Having your foster parents sentenced to death and siblings forced into the Rider’s Quadrant to prove their loyalty to Teyvat would certainly leave someone very sensitive to the subject; much like Natlan’s Marked Ones.

“Your faction had some nerve trying to kill the King,” Wriothesley chuckles to himself to break the silence.

“Cut off the head and the body rolls,” Freminet mutters beneath his breath, like an automated response.

An answer rises in his throat, but Freminet’s words make it hard to speak. He sits there, staring at the young man for just a moment.

“Wriothesley!” a familiar voice calls out jovially, cutting through the tension like a blade through fine mist. Wriothesley pulls back immediately, straightening himself and allowing a pleasant smile to crack through his intimidating façade.

“Professor Baizhu, my old friend.”

Baizhu strides across the room with a pleased smile softening his features. He’s still sporting the black Rider’s uniform and his green hair flits behind him in a messy half-up-half-down style. Signs of age are etched across his features, more prominent than what Wriothesley expects after a decade apart. Baizhu seems... unwell to say the least.

“Imagine how overjoyed I am to hear that you’re still alive given your penchant for receiving every possible injury under the sun,” Baizhu remarks in a vaguely mocking tone. He claps his hands together and strides toward Wriothesley to throw an arm over his shoulder for a brief hug, slapping his back. He gestures for Wriothesley to take a seat on the other side of the room.

“Got something new for you.” He holds up his arm and sits on the other bed. “First bite injury at Meropide – not from an animal, unfortunately.”

Baizhu chuckles in a musical fashion and makes trip to the supply shelf at the back of the room before laying out the items on the table beside him. He takes a seat and Wriothesley notices the grey streaks threading through Baizhu’s hair and how the clarity of his eyes has dulled since he last saw him. They seem slightly milky. It’s like looking into a mirror – two of Meropide’s finest, ageing before their time as the war saps them of their youth and vitality.

“Hah, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen one of those here,” Baizhu remarks, wiping the wound clean. “I’m truly surprised to see you back here at Meropide – and not just because you’re still alive.”

In the background, Wriothesley spots Barbara returning to Freminet with a tonic. He doesn’t know what exactly to tell Baizhu.

“Just needed a change of scenery,” he sighs. “Volunteered for the Rider’s Quadrant,” he adds quietly.

Baizhu freezes midway through threading the needle, eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

“I knew you had a death wish, my dear friend, but you really do seem hell-bent on pushing your luck.” Baizhu shakes his head and returns to his task.

“You’re one to talk,” Wriothesley finds himself saying, the words slipping through his grasp before he can catch them. Baizhu pauses for a moment, chewing on his lip.

“I suppose you’re right.” His voice was absent of anger, quite accepting of a truth he would have found hard to swallow a decade ago.

Baizhu finishes the stitches in silence and wraps the wound. He gives it a light pat to signal he’s finished.

“Thank you,” Wriothesley says. “I’ll see you soon – most likely.”

“You will,” Baizhu croons.

“Oh, shut it,” he laughs dryly. “Everyone here is trying their best to kill me.”

“No, you will see me again,” Baizhu crosses his arms. “In three days time, to get those stitches out.”

Wriothesley rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Alright, old man.”

🌊🐉🌊

Hundreds of eyes dart in their direction as the door to the hall squeaks on its hinges when Wriothesley pushes it open slowly. They find roughly the entire quadrant crowded into the Battle Brief hall. Freminet freezes, pinned under their gazes, but Wriothesley rolls his eyes and does his best to ignore them all as he crosses over to the section where most of First Wing’s first years are seated. There’s no room next to Navia, but she waves at him.

“Nice of you to join us, Cadets,” Professor Zhongli greets from the elevated section of the hall, evidently in the middle of a lecture. The sarcasm in his tone is hard to detect, but present, nonetheless. Wriothesley mutters a quiet ‘apologies’ before wedging himself between two first years.

The weight of Professor Zhongli’s piercing gaze is enough to make the back of his neck prickle. His bright eyes linger on Wriothesley for a moment longer before he returns his attention to the crowd in front of him.

After a few moments of listening to Professor Zhongli drone on about what the purpose of Battle Brief was, Wriothesley realises it is quite similar to the Military Tactics class that’s taught in Infantry. Beside the professor is a Scribe with three or four missives tucked under her arm, likely filled with the latest non-classified information from the frontlines. Each day, both the Scribe and Professor Zhongli would share the latest intel and prompt the cadets to respond to it as if they were out in the field.

The main difference between the classes is that this one has a magnificent map of Teyvat mounted to the wall behind Professor Zhongli. The map stretches all the way from Liyue and the islands of Inazuma in the south-east, to the rainforests of Sumeru in the south-west, the canyons of Natlan in the west, all the way north to Fontaine and Mondstadt. The deserts of the Eremites are to the far west and the tundras of Snezhnaya lie north. Beyond them lie The Barrens – desolate land, completely uninhabited.

Along the entirety of the border, it names each of Teyvat’s outposts. Hundreds of red and orange markers are smattered across the border with Snezhnaya. Quite a few orange flags and the odd red flag dot a long the borders of Natlan. The border of Sumeru and the southernmost points of Liyue are much less heavily guarded, only having a few orange flags. Inazuma only sports two flags in total, lucky bastards.

Wriothesley has never travelled to the south-western borders, not even during Infantry rotations. He rarely heard news from those outposts. With his skills in battle, he’d always been the first to be assigned along the Snezhnayan border. Of course he was nowhere near as valuable as a Rider, but they moved him like a rook rather than a pawn.

“Now that we are all familiar with what content will be covered in Battle Brief each day,” Professor Zhongli breaks from his monotonous recitation of information that the second and third years seem thoroughly bored of. “We will now discuss an attack at the border last night, carried out north of Brightcrown Canyon at Mayhorn Village. The wards north of the village faltered and allowed a drift of gryphons to attack, causing twenty-three fatalities.”

A sudden silence falls across the first years. It must be the first time they’ve heard of the wards faltering, which they seemed to be doing more often since Wriothesley first began his service at the northern border. Without the wards, gryphons can channel magic, similar to the way dragons do, but they couldn’t develop a signet from their bond with their rider, which was why dragons are regarded as far superior in battle.

Wriothesley’s mind wanders. Did he know anyone at the outpost near Mayhorn? It was quite far east, nestled in the mountain range that divided the tundra of Snezhnaya and the windswept hills of Mondstadt. Three of his soldiers in his squad were moved further east two months ago. Were they still alive?

“The Riders at the Ethelside Outpost arrived just over an hour after the skirmish began, successfully repelling the attack,” the small Scribe beside Professor Zhongli reads from the missive in her tiny hands. Wriothesley missed her introduction, she isn’t one of the scribes he’s familiar with from his time in Infantry. Her eyes are bright green, but her hair is strangely white for her age – she seems an odd mix of youthful and aged with wisdom beyond her years.

“Now, first years, what questions would you ask about this event to inform something such as a battle strategy?” Professor Zhongli directs, opening up the floor. The first years, all seated in the front sections murmur amongst themselves, too anxious to be the first to ask someone as intimidating as Professor Zhongli.

He knows Zhongli is old, the oldest Rider in the quadrant, having been retired for almost as long as Wriothesley had been in service. During Wriothesley’s first time in Meropide, General Zhongli was known as one of the best generals Teyvat had seen in decades, before General Ei rose to her fame.

A first year on the other side of the room raises her hand and Professor Zhongli nods.

“Did the Riders sustain any casualties?” A green-haired girl from second wing asks in a shy voice that wobbles in a similar way that Healer Barbara’s did.

“Two dragons were injured, one rider killed, and three others injured,” the Scribe recites evenly. Both her and Zhongli nod in approval. Wriothesley can see the way a lot of the first year’s shoulders loosen up now that some brave soul decided to break the ice with the infamous Professor Zhongli.

“Have the wards returned to functioning as normal?”

“Yes,” both the Scribe and Professor answer in unison.

“Do they falter often?” Another voice asks. “And do we know why?”

“Not often, but it has been happening more in the past five or so years. We don’t know why,” Professor Zhongli answers.

There’s a handful of questions buzzing around Wriothesley’s mind, all were what he would usually ask if he were informed of such an attack near the outpost he were stationed at. Were reinforcements required? How long would it take to get there on foot or with cavalry? How risky was the path to take on foot, if required? What supplies were needed in the village for recovery? Did they have enough infantry at the outpost to carry what was needed? Did they even have the supplies required? How would they get the supplies there since dragons refuse to carry anything but their own rider? Did the village need to be evacuated? The questions went on and on and at that point he wishes his Logistics Lead, Markus, was beside him.

“What altitude is the Mayhorn Village at?” Navia’s gentle voice pipes up behind him.

“About three thousand metres,” the Scribe answers with a nod, like she’s encouraging her train of thought.

“That’s a little high for Gryphons to be flying, isn’t it?” Navia sounds like she is unsure, but when Wriothesley turns back to watch her, he can see the way her eyebrows are pinched in thought. The scribe nods in response and Navia uncrosses her legs to lean further forward. “Then it’s a little unusual that a drift of Gryphons would attack in a situation where they would be at such a disadvantage.”

“Yes, you’re quite right. Cadet?” Professor Zhongli prompts, crossing his arms.

“Caspar.”

“Cadet Caspar, that is certainly an interesting observation of yours.” A few snickers ripple through the front rows, but Professor Zhongli casts an intense gaze toward their origins. “The Snezhnayan’s motivations for this attack are unclear at this moment.”

“Could it be—”

“Let someone else ask a question, Cadet Caspar,” Professor Zhongli interrupts, holding a hand up. Wriothesley glances behind himself to see Navia scowl and bite back a curse.

“What was the condition of the village?” someone near Navia asks, steering the conversation in a different direction, something more along the lines of what Wriothesley wants to ask.

“Ransacked,” Professor Zhongli states simply.

“Bastard Snezhnayans can’t even respect the damn trade agreements... Always wanting more and more,” the guy beside Wriothesley hisses beneath his breath. Wriothesley rolls his eyes and raises his hand a little before speaking.

“Is aid required to be delivered to Mayhorn and if so, how accessible is the road from the Ethelside? I understand the conditions of the mountain pass in that area can be challenging – even deadly – to navigate at this time of year,” Wriothesley finally asks.

A few heads turn his way, including Professor Zhongli’s and the scribe beside him, causing his skin to prickle uncomfortably. Fiery yellow eyes pin him to his seat and the Professor adjusts his gloves before breaking his gaze with a sigh.

“Such a question would be the correct approach within a lesser quadrant, such as Infantry or even the Healers,” Professor Zhongli begins in a dark tone. “Cadet, I’m sure you are aware that you no longer hail from Infantry. I will grant you this single kindness today and remind you that it is therefore expected of you to think like a rider from now on.”

The blazing heat of shame rises in Wriothesley’s cheeks and his stomach twists uncomfortably as he feels hundreds of eyes turn to him. The Rider’s Quadrant seems dead set on beating the solider out of him in the most public way possible.

“Yes, Professor,” he answers through his teeth. Though he is unwilling to meet the Professor’s eyes as he speaks, he forces himself to anyway. Cowardice is not something he would ever allow himself to succumb to.

“Very well. We’ll now open to questions from second and third years,” Zhongli directs with a curt nod.

Almost an hour later, Wriothesley leaves the hall with his jaw and fists clenched, making a beeline for the sparring gym. He strides against the tide of cadets and riders, not caring who he brushes shoulders with. He desperately needs to find an outlet for the rage that’s been bubbling inside him all day, threatening to spill over the edge.

“Hey, Wriothesley!” a voice calls from behind him. He turns around, a little too quickly. Navia seems taken aback by the tight set of his jaw and the wildness in his eyes.

“Are you coming to lunch?” She asks over the hustle and bustle, still somehow sounding hopeful. It’s like a cool summer breeze that rolls over the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath and nods.

“I’ll see you in twenty.”

There was a punching bag down in the sparring gym that desperately requires his undivided attention.

🌊🐉🌊

24 years ago

The hunger was all-consuming. It muddled with every thought, coalescing into a great fog of shameless desperation that lay over the entirety of his short existence in the streets of Fontaine. Buried beneath the façade of a perfect city, lay the unsightly hidden streets and sewers of the Fleuve Cendre; a place that he could never call home, but had no other choice than to do so.

The water was cold and wretched smelling, reaching up to his ankles as he skimmed his hands along the bottom of the drainage channel. It was too dark to see what was lodged in the debris, but he could feel whatever he found with his waterlogged fingertips. The only things he had picked up so far after hours of searching was a single cog and a rusty bolt – not enough to get more than a single bite of bread.

His heart rate spiked as his fingers brushed against something sizeable. Excitement built as he wrapped his fingers around the width of the object, and he pulled it up out of the water. His heart sinks, realising it’s only a soggy plank of wood wrapped in all kinds of debris. He left the channel with a heavy sigh, searching for a beam of light that pierced through the darkness to reorient himself.

A few hundred metres up the gentle slope, there was a grate in the roof that allowed a sizeable patch of light to filter through the darkness. He trudged toward it, shaking with exhaustion and struggling to keep his grip on the wood plank as it kept slipping from his weak little fingers. When he reached the patch of light, a glint of something caught his eye. He swung to the left, chasing the sight only to find it disappear into the dark water.

Panic rose in his throat, almost blinding him. The plank dropped into the water, and he bent over, hurriedly feeling around until his fingers caught on something – anything – whatever the shiny thing was. He paused the second his fingers brushed against something thin and solid.

A bracelet.

He pulled it out of the water and immediately thrusted it into the light, heart swelling as his suspicions were confirmed. It was a bracelet indeed, made of small gold beads. Nothing too lavish, perfect for not attracting unwanted attention. He could eat for weeks with this, better yet, he and his two friends Celeste and Micah could eat for a week.

He stuffed the bracelet into his pocket and continued the arduous hike back to the central cistern of the Fleuve Cendre. It took longer than expected, given he had to stop multiple times along the way to catch his breath, but he made it back.

“Hey!” a familiar voice called out as he crashed down into a heap of boxes to recover from his walk.

“Micah,” he replied weakly, as the other boy scuttled over and sat himself down beside him.

“Did you find much today?”

“No,” he lied, shaking his head. “Just this.” He held out the cog and rusty bolt only, not wanting to tell Micah of the bracelet until he had exchanged it for food. Micah was someone he wanted to trust, but they hadn’t gotten that far yet as it was hard to trust a fellow orphan down in the Fleuve Cendre. He’d betrayed a few of his friends almost a year ago out of a manic and desperate stroke of hunger.

“Aw,” Micah sighed with sympathy. “Here, you can have one of the springs I found today.”

He shook his head in refusal, pushing away the closed fist Micah held out to him. Fatigue weighed on him like a crate of goods, pressing him against the earth and squeezing the life from his bones.

“You go ahead. I’m gonna take—” He yawned long and hard. “—a nap.”

Micah hummed an unintelligible response and left, leaving him to succumb to exhaustion. He made sure to keep his hand stuffed in his pocket, vicelike grip on the bracelet, to make sure no one would steal it from him while he slept.

He woke an undisclosed amount of time later when a merchant started to unload the small cart he’d managed to manoeuvre through the tunnels, tossing sacks of grain with a heavy thud. Trying to remain unseen, he skulked away, following the well-known path up the ladders into the Court of Fontaine.

The manhole cover had luckily been pushed to the side far enough for him to squeeze through the gap without much trouble. The light outside was so bright it burned his eyes, even as he squeezed them almost fully shut. He stumbled around blindly for a moment before he found a spot to sit and allow his eyes to adjust and the dizziness to pass. His fingers slid into his pocket, momentarily grasping for the bracelet to make sure it was still there.

The cramped marketplace closest to the city walls was his best bet for selling the bracelet to someone who had a pinch of mora to spare. He set off, hardly wasting a moment, even as he passed by the wide canals and noticed the glimmer of giant fish scales swish in the dark water. Normally, it would have been one of life’s greatest pleasures to sit by the canal without a care in the world and watch the huge things lazily swim through amongst the algae and lily pads, but today he had places to be and a painfully empty stomach to fill.

The marketplace was filled to the brim with shopfronts and tents, all as brightly coloured as one could manage with faded marquee fabrics, and filled with fruits, spices and the odd collection of second-hand homewares. He kept his hands to himself as he trudged through the narrow walkways, weaving around people and barrels and the deafening shouts of vendors.

“Bulle fruit, bulle fruit! Half dozen for a thousand mora!”

“Mint bunches, a hundred mora!”

“Fresh fish, two hundred a fillet!”

The jeweller he had once stolen from, perhaps a year ago, and had beaten the ever-loving daylight out of him, was in a different corner of the market. The likelihood of the jeweller remembering his face was gut wrenchingly high, but he had to at least try here before he wasted hours hawking the bracelet to whichever well-off women passed him by.

“Sir,” he called out, keeping his hands politely clasped in front of his body. The jeweller’s neck snapped toward him and peered through his spectacles owlishly. “I have a piece of jewellery that I would like to sell.” He kept his voice as clear and as proper as he can manage. “Would you be interested?”

The jeweller quirked a brow at him and lowered his spectacles with a suspicious squint.

“You, of all people, are in possession of a piece of jewellery?” the jeweller asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir.” He lifted the golden chain from his pocket to show the jeweller, trying to keep his face as straight as possible. His eyes darted to the bracelets on the table and caught a glimpse of the price tags on a few of them. “Five thousand mora,” he stated proudly, undercutting the jeweller’s current price by two thousand mora.

The jeweller’s expression wrinkled like a date the moment he saw the bracelet and twisted further when he looked the kid up and down. His heart sank, but he did not let it show in his face, biting the inside of his cheek to keep calm.

“Not a chance. That’s stolen and we both know it. I’m not risking my reputation on you, little rat. Now scram, before I call the Gardes!” the jeweller hissed, shooing him away like he was a stray dog.

As offended as he was, he’d rather not chance pushing it any further with the jeweller; the man was flighty on any ordinary day.

With a deep groan, he resigned himself to wandering the marketplace, stopping any woman with a glint upon her wrist or ears. It was an exhausting afternoon, filled with “hello madam”, “my, how this bracelet matches your dress”, “such delicate wrists you have”, “I’m sure you have a wealthy husband that furnishes you with a generous allowance”, “a quick polish, and it’ll look good as new”, “five thousand mora, that’s all I ask”, “four thousand—please, come back!”

Finally, he was lucky enough to intercept a moderately wealthy young girl, perhaps a year older or younger than him – he could never tell, the wealthier children all tended to look older and taller than the ones he was around. She smiled delightfully, flashing a set of small, pearly white teeth, and curtseyed, saying that she would go retrieve her coin purse from her father.

He watched her scuttle away, stomach prickling with anxiety and excitement. The girl tugged on her father’s coat, and he pointedly ignored her until her tugging became unbearable. The two exchanged unintelligible words and from the distance, it was looking hopeful until the girl pointed his way. The moment her father laid eyes on him, disgust practically burning a hole through his skin, he knew he needed to run.

“Gardes, Gardes! Get that boy! He’s a thief and he’s harassing the women here, and my young daughter,” the father cried, flinging his daughter behind him to physically separate her from the situation.

The Gardes nearby needed no further instruction, they had been eyeing him off like hawks, waiting for someone to complain. In a panic, he gulped a mouthful of air before taking off in whatever direction provided the least amount of resistance. The Gardes footsteps thundered behind him as he weaved through the crowds, stalls, tight alleyways, stacks of boxes, garbage. They were catching up to him, shouting at him – they were all well fed with their cushy salaries. He was starting to feel faint, the edges of his vision darkening and his head felt light as air.

Just a little longer – that’s all he needed to scramble down one of the open drains in the street and scamper back to the safety of the Fleuve Cendre.

“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice chirped from the back door of a house he’d just passed. “Hey you, come hide here!”

He skidded to a halt, ruined shoes slipping in the mud caking the back alleyway. He turned fast enough to almost throw himself off balance entirely. The Gardes were just about to round the corner when he squirreled away toward the voice, diving through the opened door onto a solid but messy floor. The boy who called out to him shut the door in a swift movement, and the two held their breaths until the Gardes bustled by.

In the dim light of the hallway, he met eyes with the boy, a tad grimy, but fed and dressed decently. The boy extended a calloused hand and helped him up from the floor wordlessly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, stumbling back a little as the physical activity started to catch up with him.

“’S okay,” the boy shrugged. “You’re not one of Matron Poirot’s boys, are you?” he questioned, unable to hide the scowl in his tone.

He shook his head quickly, backing away to lean against the wall. Thin grey strips of sunlight peeked through the gaps in the weatherboard walls. A grey square splashed across the floor from the window at the end of the hall, illuminating the faded rug beneath it. The house was quiet, save for the muffled voices of four – perhaps five – children talking to one another elsewhere in the house.

“You got parents?” the boy asked, tone more amicable this time. He shook his head again and felt his bony knees begin to buckle under his weight. “Come, I’ll take you to mother.”

The boy walked ahead of him and lead the way through the modest house until they came to a kitchen filled with the scent of wood smoke and freshly baked bread. There, a woman with long brown hair and sweet green eyes, bustled about the kitchen until the boy called for her attention.

“Oh, Edd,” she greeted the boy with a tight smile. “Who’s this?” Her eyes darted straight to him, going right through his skin, searching every crook of his body down to his bones in only a moment. The boy, Edd, shrugs.

“He’s hungry. Can we keep him?” Edd asked, hopeful. “He doesn’t have parents and he’s not one of Matron Poirot’s boys. There’s a spare bed in our room. Please, it’s been so long since Rin was adopted.”

The woman breathed in deeply, contemplating the idea as she continued to pull him apart with her gaze. He felt uneasy, unsure of what to do in this situation, unable to keep his eyes off the loaf of bread behind the woman, mouth filling with saliva.

“Perhaps,” she began, but quickly pointed to Edd to silence him. “If you take responsibility for him. Teach him the rules and his role in the house and I’ll let him stay.”

Edd cheered in agreement, a sharp contrast to the silence beside him. “Thank you, mother, thank you!” In his excitement, Edd turned on his heel and ran out of the kitchen, calling to his (likely foster) siblings about their new resident. The woman turned to the bench behind her and cut two slices of bread.

“You will call me mother. The man whom you will call father will return at supper time,” she said as she buttered the two slices of bread. “Sit.” She turned and gestured to the wooden table in the centre of the room, placing the two slices onto a chipped wooden plate. He didn’t dare move a muscle, no matter how hungry he was. “Sit,” she said once more, sharper this time.

He tiptoed toward the bench seat and sat himself down at the table, keeping his body turned toward the woman.

“Do you have a name, boy?” she asked, watching him timidly grab a slice of bread, which still had the barest hint of warmth lingering at its centre.

He shook his head and gingerly bit into the bread slice. Instantly, his senses were overwhelmed, fresh fluffy bread, topped with the creamiest butter he had ever tasted in his entire life. Tears began to well in his eyes and he shook his head in response. He had a name once; it was long forgotten now.

“Fen. We’ll name you Fen,” the woman declared with a nod of her head. “You talk?” He nodded but she turned away before she could catch it.

“Yes,” he finally whispered, voice cracking from dryness, exhaustion and the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

“Yes, mother,” she corrected, returning to her ministrations at the woodstove.

“Yes, mother.”

And so began his life as Fen.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley wakes well before dawn despite sleeping so deeply he, thankfully, didn’t dream. Every layer of muscle within his body aches right down to the bone as a week of riding and the labours of yesterday finally catch up to him. No one else in the dormitory hall seems to be awake yet, but next week, when chores begin for first years, there’s sure to be others awake for breakfast duty.

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and wrestles his aching body into a sitting position, stifling a pained wince as his nerves scream beneath his skin. The mattress squeaks a little, likely waking up a few of the light sleepers nearby, and he gets changed into his uniform. He picks up his boots and tiptoes through the rows of beds until he’s out in the hallway, dimly lit by the flickering blue mage lights. The buckles of his boots jingle as he secures the leather around his lower legs.

It’s odd not having anything to do until after breakfast, so he finds himself meandering through the halls of the Rider’s quadrant, trying to get a better idea of the layout.

He passes through a round, open space glowing in the day’s first hint of sunlight. Wriothesley looks up to see that the space indeed has a ceiling, a tall glass dome with golden branches converging to a single point in the centre. There are six stone dragons perched uniformly around the perimeter of the space. Each carved from glistening marble and finely detailed where each scale and tooth were individually shaped by the sculptor. They are almost life sized, towering above the space with glistening eyes made of precious gems from each nation of Teyvat. The statues represented the six dragon dens: red, green, turquoise, brown, blue and black, and therefore the six nations of Teyvat: Fontaine, Mondstadt, Liyue, Sumeru, Natlan and Inazuma. It pays homage not only to the unification of Teyvat 500 years ago, but also the first bonding of dragon to rider.

Wriothesley had heard tales of the majesty of the Dragon Rotunda at Meropide but had never had the chance to see it until now. It was marvellous beyond words, the most beautiful thing in the entire ugly College.

He spends the remainder of dawn sitting in the centre of the Rotunda, taking in every detail of the sculptures and basking in the silence. Dragons, although utterly terrifying, had fascinated Wriothesley since his days as an Infantry conscript, but he never had the chance to volunteer for the Rider’s Quadrant in those days, convinced his simple life would amount to nothing.

When the buzzing of voices on the other side of the quadrant begin to filter through the stone walls, Wriothesley abandons his meditation for some breakfast, intentionally picking a table far away from the De Hearth twins and Clorinde. When Navia appears, a little bed headed, he beckons her over. She smiles tightly and joins him with a plate modestly full of fruits and an oversized mug of coffee.

“My goodness, you look like you’ve seen better days,” Navia practically sings with a teasing chuckle. She looks bright as a sunrise, infinitely more resilient to long hard days due to her youth.

“Oh, shut it,” he grumbles, shovelling a forkful of Tripes du Port – one of the hearty breakfasts available this morning – into his mouth. He can’t stay mad long; the food tastes too good.

“Have some coffee, you’ll feel better.” She slides the giant mug toward him and the dark contents almost slosh over the lip. His face twists in disgust as the stench hits his nostrils full-force.

“Get that vile stuff away from me,” he grumbles, pushing the mug back toward her. Navia’s brows twist in confusion but she thankfully laughs it off.

“Pity they don’t have tea here.” A smile cracks across his lips as she guesses right, and he nods. “I really thought you’d be the type to have their coffee black as the abyss and whiskey neat as it comes.”

“We all have our vices, Navia,” he sighs, feeling significantly less grumpy now. “But yes, I take my whiskey neat.”

“What was wrong with you yesterday? After Battle Brief,” she clarifies.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I shouldn’t complain,” he says out of habit.

“You know I’m not going to dob you in for anything you say, right?” She lowers her fork and looks at Wriothesley pointedly, quirking a brow. “You don’t have to be so serious all the time, Mister Colonel.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. I just don’t like that I’m being singled out because people know who I am. It’s aggravating and frankly somewhat... embarrassing,” he whispers that last part. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” she replies with a wry smile. “We have Dragon Studies today. Perhaps Professor Neuvillette will be a welcome change for you, since I doubt he knows you already.”

Wriothesley shrugs a little and nods, returning to his breakfast. Navia’s plate is woefully undernourishing for a cadet, so he slides her an extra egg, slice of toast and two sausages. The moment she looks like she’s about to pipe up in refusal, he levels her with a knowing glare that silences her.

An hour later, Wriothesley starts to think Navia might be right about Dragon Studies being a welcome break from scrutinising eyes. They’re packed into a room with cadets from other sections in Second Wing, seated in concentric semi-circles around an elevated pool of water in the middle of the room. It’s an odd setup in comparison to the classrooms for history and physics (which he has not taken yet), but there must be a purpose.

The room hushes to silence when Professor Neuvillette enters, long silver locks flowing behind him in an ethereal cascade. Wriothesley’s breath catches in his lungs. He tracks the Professor’s motions, fascinated by his elegance – something he has hardly seen outside of the way the nobles of Teyvat and ballroom dancers hold themselves. Professor Neuvillette is not a noble of any kind, instead he seems shrouded in unnumbered layers of mystery.

“Good morning, Cadets,” he greets, tone deep as the inland sea and words enunciated to perfection. An eerie calm settles over the room as all heads turn toward where Professor Neuvillette stands behind the basin. Goose bumps prickle up Wriothesley’s scarred arms at the deep timbre of his voice. A strange feeling bubbles around in his chest as he awaits the Professor’s next words, like he’s leaning over the edge of a sheer cliff, hoping for the hand of a god to materialise and pull him over the edge.

“Welcome to first year Dragon Studies. This is likely your most important class this year, prior to Presentation and Threshing. I’m sure death by dragon fire is likely the least appealing death to suffer, so be sure to pay attention.” At those last words, his piecing gaze shifts to a brunette cadet whispering to the blonde girl with a spiky ponytail beside him. The brunette silences, biting his lips anxiously as the Professor’s gaze does not shift from him. “Cadet?”

“Cadet Yip. Gaming Yip,” the brunette responds, voice quivering uneasily. He keeps his eyes trained at the Professor’s feet, too timid to look him in the eyes.

“Very well, Cadet Yip, since you do not feel the need to pay attention to the opening lecture, you clearly must be very well versed in this topic. Will you take us through the six types of dragons and their place of origin?” The Professor’s tone isn’t cold or dark, rather the opposite, it’s warm and inviting, yet it still has a commanding quality to it.

“Um. Yeah... sure,” Gaming nods hurriedly, scrambling for a coherent thought in that clearly scattered mind of his.

“Yes, Professor,” Neuvillette reminds him.

“Yes, Professor.” Gaming takes a deep breath and begins to recite his knowledge. “There are six nations of Teyvat, each the home of a dragon den where the hatching grounds are located. Fontaine is home to the den of the blue dragons, Liyue the brown dragons, Natlan the red dragons, Inazuma the black dragons, Sumeru the green dragons and lastly Mondstadt home to the turquoise dragons,” he pauses, then adds, “commonly confused with blue or green dragons.” Gaming remains standing, red faced and wringing his hands together until the Professor nods in acceptance, allowing the cadet to sit down.

“Good. Each dragon is unique in their own right; however, each type of dragon will have traits influenced by the customs in the den of their origin. These traits are important to remember as they will influence how you act around dragons at Presentation and how you approach dragons at Threshing.” The Professor clasps his hands behind his back and slowly paces around the basin in the centre of the room as he lectures. Wriothesley notices he walks with a slight stiffness somewhere in his body – likely an old battle injury – and notes the black and silver cane resting by the desk at the front of the room.

The cadets in the room flip open their notebooks and begin to hastily scrawl down notes as the Professor talks. The scratching of quill on parchment fills the air and Wriothesley belatedly realises he is one of the only people in the room not taking notes – he doesn’t even own a quill, inkpot or notebook. Surely the Professor would single him out for something obnoxious like that, much like he did to chatty little Gaming Yip.

“We will be covering the typical personality traits of each dragon type at a later date, but as an example, could anyone tell me a typical trait of a brown dragon and why that would influence your approach to such a dragon?” The room falls silent, and no one dares to raise their hand until Navia sighs with reluctance and raises hers. The Professor nods and briefly eyes Wriothesley beside her. The piercing pearlescent gaze is enough to make his stomach drop and the world around him feel incredibly distant for a brief moment.

“Brown dragons of Liyue often deal in absolutes, therefore it would be wise to approach them without fear or apprehension,” Navia states as the entire room trains their eyes on her. “If you start to approach them, do not hesitate or back out of it.”

“Very good,” Professor Neuvillette nods in approval, drawing his gaze from them and returning his focus to the rest of the room.

Wriothesley leans to the side and whispers, “How do you know all this shit?”

“It’s a secret,” Navia replies quietly. She turns to the side, giving Wriothesley a pleading look. “Don’t tell anyone, but I trained to become a scribe my entire life. My guardians, Melus and Silver, refused to allow me to train for anything else, as my father had directed.”

She was right to demand secrecy of Wriothesley – it’s why she was never trained to fight, why although she possesses a decent amount of strength, she’d never learnt how to throw a punch. Shit, if anyone knew, they’d have her guts for garters in the first week of challenges. Before Wriothesley gets too in his head about it, he forces his attention back to the Professor, not wanting to miss a moment of his speech.

“If there is one thing I want you to take away from today, it is an understanding of the motto of the Rider’s Quadrant. ‘A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead’,” the Professor recites. A few cadets stiffen at the reminder. “Forming a bond with a dragon is not for the faint of heart; the bonding ties your soul to theirs and you must trust them to the very core of your being. Should your dragon die, your body and soul are forfeit. It is my hope that the lessons I teach you will guide you in understanding dragon-kind and the price that comes with gaining access to magic.”

The room stills. The cadets hold their breath in unison, feeling the full weight of their desires on their shoulders likely for the first time. The skin on Wriothesley’s arm prickles at the reminder. Professor Neuvillette’s gaze sweeps the room, as if his grave eyes could instil a sense of responsibility into every cadet present. He continues after the moment passes.

“Now, as most of you may understand, dragons are an inherently secretive species, therefore, what we know today is only a fragment of the full picture. In consideration of that, this week’s focus will be on the topic of what we are most knowledgeable of: dragon physiology.” The Professor steps back behind the pool of water in front of him and raises his hand over it, closing his eyes.

The rippling sound of water cuts through the utterly silent room and almost every cadet comically leans all the way over the writing benches in front of them. The water in the basin starts to draw itself upward in four viscous points. Each stream of water snakes upward against gravity until they curve to meet in the centre. Neuvillette remains stock-still, manipulating the water until it shapes the body, neck and tail of what appears to be a dragon. The wings sprout out of the body until the surface of the outstretched wings is nothing but a thin sheet of water, rippling and trembling as it attempts to maintain its form.

The finished product is a spiny dragon, wings outstretched and spiked tail arcing through the air beside it. The whole thing stands at least over a metre tall and two metres wide in front of Neuvillette. Wriothesley suddenly becomes aware of his slack jaw and unblinking wide eyes.

It’s obvious now that the Professor’s signet is water wielding. Not only that, but he has an unimaginable level of control over his signet given the detail and stability of the dragon mimic he’s just produced. Wriothesley imagines such a power would mean the Professor should be on the front lines instead of in a lecture room. Perhaps his defensive and offensive capabilities aren’t as useful as Wriothesley imagines they would be.

When Neuvillette’s eyes finally open, they’re trained directly on Wriothesley, without even having to search for him in the room. A chill runs up his spine as the Professor’s harsh gaze leaves him. He can’t help but think he’s done something wrong.

Before the thought can eat away at him, he focuses on the dragon mimic in the centre of the room, mesmerised by its delicate beauty. He wants the image burned into his mind, something he’d be able to contemplate before sleep to bring himself peace.

“You will all have to forgive the lack of colour, for I am not an Illusionist. This dragon is a blue Morningstar tail as you can see by the club-like tail and presence of sharp spines. Cadet Yip has helpfully reminded us that blue dragons hail from the land we call Fontaine. His common name is Wave Piercer, but only I know his true name, as I am his bonded rider.” A murmur ripples through the room and the mimic begins to waver. “There are one hundred and forty-two dragons willing to bond this year—”

The murmur erupts into chaos and Wriothesley feels a hot sweep of panic pass through him. If there are far less dragons willing to bond than cadets… it would mean that Threshing – the day the dragons choose their cadet to bond with – this year would become a bloodbath. Wriothesley’s no good at math, but there are at most three hundred first years and less than half the number of dragons willing to bond. He knows the cadets are more than willing to kill to better their chances of bonding with a dragon.

The dragon mimic in the centre starts to lose shape, collapsing in on itself as chaos rumbles throughout the room.

“Silence!” the Professor calls out, slamming a fist on the desk behind him. The usual warmth of his tone absent, eyebrows knitted together, lips pulled back with tension as he tries to restore clarity to the model. The moment silence falls, the mimic restabilises, and Professor Neuvillette regains his composure. “Yes, there are less dragons willing to bond this year, as there have been over the past five years. Only the dragons have control over this, do not fret yourselves with things that are out of your control, for it is a waste of time and energy.” The atmosphere of the room settles but remains silent with an underlying tension.

“Now,” the warmth of Professor Neuvillette’s tone returns, “Wave Piercer is a little larger than the average dragon at twelve metres in height. Most dragons are eight to ten metres tall, all with near impenetrable scales. Can anyone name the two things that are known to easily pierce dragon scale?”

“Other dragons and Snezhnayan crossbolts,” a voice at the back of the room calls out, tone level and disinterested. “And gryphons, at just the right angle,” the cadet adds, “totalling three.”

Wriothesley swings around in his seat to face the voice but immediately regrets it when he locks eyes with that feisty looking ginger from the meal hall. His expression hardens when he meets Wriothesley’s eyes and the corners of his jaw twitch as the muscles clench and unclench. Something wild in his normally distant blue eyes stirs and Wriothesley hurriedly looks away in the interest of self-preservation.

“Ah, Cadet Tachelli, pleasure to see you again. You are correct.”

Cadet Tachelli doesn’t return the Professor’s sentiment, only huffing in response.

Wriothesley’s eyes dart to Navia, the all-knowing, and before he can open his mouth to ask, she’s already whispering to him.

“He’s a repeat.” A beat of silence. “If you’re not chosen by a dragon at Threshing, you can repeat the year or give up.”

He doesn’t like the sound of either of those options. The repeats are the ones Wriothesley should be looking out for most. They have a year of training on everyone else here, and the desperation to kill for a dragon come Threshing.

Unwisely, he turns back to Cadet Tachelli, meeting his jaded glare once more. It reminds him that failure in the Rider’s Quadrant is not an option for him.

🌊🐉🌊

If there is ever anything Wriothesley has wanted to do for the rest of his life, it would be to stay in Professor Neuvillette’s lecture forever. Yet, despite his gluttonous siphoning of dragon-related knowledge, the overwhelming urge to leave the room bears down on him like a tidal wave. Cadet Tachelli’s unceasing stare burns through the back of his uniform.

Whatever he did to upset or offend the repeat, he sure as shit isn’t going to stay back to find out. The moment Professor Neuvillette claps his hands to conclude the lecture and dismiss the cadets, Wriothesley is out of his seat and brushing right past Navia. The feeling of being watched clings to him like honey and feathers.

“We’re leaving,” Wriothesley mutters behind him. Navia’s head snaps left and right before she shoots up to her feet, closely tailing Wriothesley.

“Evidently,” Navia chirps, tone sharp with annoyance. “Why the hurry?”

“Walk in front of me.”

He side-steps once they’re out of the room and gently shoves Navia in front of him. For all he knows, Tachelli’s grievances could be with the Spina rather than him. They’re almost around the corner of the corridor when he feels someone far too close behind him. The skin-crawling feeling of it makes his the hair on his forearms rise.

By the time he turns around, fist clenched, ready to crack that ginger twit’s skull in half, it’s too late. His feet are swept out from under him and his fist glides over the top of cadet Tachelli’s head, colliding with the stone wall with a sickening crunch. His knuckles burn as the flesh over them tears against the stone. The earth slips from beneath him and he stumbles forward.

“Little shit, what do you w—”

There’s no time for talking. Tachelli comes flying at him. The other cadets in the corridor step back as they watch the chaos unfold.

Unlike Scar, when Tachelli hits, it hurts. There’s both weight and power behind it, and the kid isn’t afraid to take a hit just to land one. Wriothesley’s teeth clack together as a failed dodge results in Tachelli’s fist catching his jaw in an uppercut. Blood wells in his mouth as he blocks another strike, deflecting his opponent’s momentum into the wall he’d just split his knuckles on.

If Tachelli felt pain, there’s no knowing it. The kid’s expression is stone cold, with wide unflinching eyes fixed on his opponent. It’s distractingly eerie, so much so that in a moment, Wriothesley’s fist is gracing off Tachelli’s cheek, then his own head is whipping sideways with the force of an unnoticed left hook.

“Wriothesley!” Navia — he thinks — shrieks.

White flashes across his vision and his ears ring fiercely. When he comes to, he can feel the weight of Tachelli’s forearm pressing against his neck and the rest of the cadet’s weight pinning his body to the wall.

If this kid meant to kill him, he would’ve done so by now. But here he is, eye to eye with this ferocious young man, self-satisfied grin splitting across his features.

“Didn’t think the Iron Wolf would be this easy to take on,” Tachelli gloats. Wriothesley bares his teeth with a growl and kicks Tachelli’s shin hard enough to almost break it. The ginger winces and eases off enough for Wriothesley to use the space to push him to the other side of the corridor, where he lands with a crash.

“Fucks sake, Ajax!” a familiar voice growls down the other end of the corridor.

Cadet Tachelli — Ajax Tachelli — braces himself against the wall with a lopsided grin, head tilted forward, eyes wickedly hooded by his brows.

“Come on, finish me, big guy,” Ajax groans, pushing off the wall to run at Wriothesley, leaping forward in a kick aimed for his diaphragm, but he catches the blow, sending Tachelli off balance. There’s a short groan that sounds as Tachelli crashes into the wall.

Wriothesley takes his chance to pin Ajax against the wall with his weight, shoving his shoulder into the space between Ajax’s shoulder blades.

Ajax wheezes as the breath is knocked out of him and Wriothesley seizes his wrists in a lock, leaving him trapped and defenceless. A ripple of fear, or maybe excitement, rushes through Tachelli’s body at the tenuous situation.

“You gonna quit fucking around and pull your head in, young man?” Wriothesley growls into Tachelli’s ear.

He’s only met with exasperated laughter.

“You’re lucky I’m unarmed, old man,” Tachelli sneers and whips his head back. The force of it smashes into Wriothesley’s nose and his vision flashes white. He jerks back and Ajax wriggles around to come at him again while he steps backward clutching his nose.

His fingers come back wet with blood and he barely manages to block another round of Ajax’s strikes until he pushes him back. Space, that’s all he needs to do what needs to be done.

“You’re unlucky I’m never not,” he grits out as Ajax runs at him once more. He steps back to brace for the impact, managing to swipe the small dagger he keeps in the top of his boot. As Ajax runs at him again, he leaves his abdomen unprotected and Wriothesley drives the knife into the soft flesh.

The wound isn’t deep, but he feels the hot blood trickle over his hand. Ajax’s steps falter and he backs off with a disappointed sigh.

“Wriothesley, what the fuck?” Navia gasps from behind him.

“Ajax, will you quit it!” Scar hisses from his left, closer now. “Learn to pick your damn battles.”

“Enough!” a low, booming voice cuts over the cacophony and the crowd glazes over in a stony silence. The sea of cadets parts around a silvery head of hair that practically glides toward them. Wriothesley trains his gaze on Professor Neuvillette, mindlessly wiping his bloody blade clean against his pants.

As the disappointment in Professor Neuvillette’s face sinks in, Wriothesley shoves down the childish urge to point to Ajax Tachelli and say ‘he started it’. Instead, he lowers his gaze, unable to meet eyes with the only professor who hasn’t tried to make an example of him in front of the entire quadrant – yet.

“I expected better from you,” Professor Neuvillette chastises in Wriothesley’s direction. “Both of you,” he clarifies, quieter. Before Wriothesley can work up the courage to even look at the professor’s feet, Neuvillette has already turned to retreat down the corridor. “Clean this up.”

“Scar, take Ajax to the Healer’s Quadrant,” a familiar voice orders, tone unsettlingly calm against the hammering of Wriothesley’s heart. His wingleader, Clorinde Magloire, steps forward to stand beside him.

Despite his better judgement, Wriothesley adds an acerbic “and fuck right off while you’re at it.”

Scar bares his teeth like he’s about to hiss something venomous when Ajax throws his arm over his shoulder. The sight is almost comical, given their height difference. Scar abruptly throws Ajax off and elbows him in the gut, right where he’s clutching his bloody wound.

“Take yourself to the Healer’s Quadrant,” Scar grunts and walks away, leaving Ajax doubled over in pain, visibly struggling to contain an agonised groan.

Clorinde casts a judgemental glance at the blade he’s holding as it captures a glinting reflection of the mage lights. “Any other volunteers?” she asks the crowd behind Ajax, in a provocative jest. It makes quite a few cadets tense at the sound of her voice. Someone sighs from behind the wall of people and pushes through.

“I’ll take him,” a blonde girl with a short, spiky ponytail announces tiredly, despite the easy-going smile on her face. Ajax throws a grateful arm over her shoulder but turns to eye Wriothesley with a promising sneer as he walks away.

Evidently, this won’t be the last time.

Wriothesley sheathes his blade and steps back to turn on his heels when Clorinde turns to him in a flash, gripping him by the lapel with surprising strength.

“You’re not off the hook, Cadet,” she practically spits, her eyes almost appear to be glowing, sending an uncomfortable chill down Wriothesley’s spine. “May I remind you that your place here must be earned. You don’t get to ride your own coattails, picking fights and acting like a real big dick swinger. You want to be a Dragon Rider? Fucking earn it, the right way.”

He isn’t sure is she wants him to answer her or not, so he just nods his head a fraction, remaining perfectly still otherwise. It’d be useless trying to argue his case with her; she’d made up her mind about him the moment he crossed the Parapet and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Clean up the blood you’ve needlessly spilled and then you can spend the remainder of your leisure time tonight polishing the silverware in the kitchen,” Clorinde instructs before pushing him back and storming off.

Hazily, he turns to Navia and mouths a simple ‘what the fuck?’ She shrugs awkwardly, brows knitted. Discipline of cadets falls to their wingleader first, before it escalates to Leadership. Despite Wriothesley not breaking the Codex, Clorinde clearly likes her Wing well disciplined.

“Must just have a stick up her ass,” Wriothesley whispers to her scratching the back of his head, trying to laugh it off but the sound falls flat with the adrenaline crash he falls headfirst into.

“You can say that again.”

🌊🐉🌊

When Navia hits the mat with a dull thud for the sixth time in the past fifteen minutes, Wriothesley has to take a walk. It scares him knowing that anyone in the Quadrant with a pair of eyes can take one look at how Navia handles herself on the mat and assume she is a liability to the wing. With a right hook, visible from halfway across the continent, she’s got no chance of winning a fight.

If he believed in the gods, he’d be sending prayers to Mar, the god of war, every five minutes, begging him to give Navia a chance at Meropide.

She’s incredibly smart, Wriothesley reminds himself as he walks back to the weapons shelf to peruse the selection of dummy weapons available. He can’t help but cast an eye back to Navia and winces as Xiangling catches her leg in a roundhouse kick, and pulls her off balance once more, slamming her down into the mat. Her issue isn’t a lack of strength, it’s a lack of control and intent behind it. No one seems to be volunteering to teach her, but then again, the first years in his squad all seem to have their own problems.

Freminet De Hearth seems to have already surrendered to his fate, hiding in the corner, hoping no one notices him (everyone has noticed). Charlotte Moreau might’ve eaten shit when fighting Lynnette De Hearth earlier that week but give the girl a dagger and she becomes everyone’s problem. Bennett Ziegler has fighting spirit but has already managed to knock himself unconscious twice whilst ever-patient Kaeya Alberich endeavours to correct his sword technique, even after Professor Mavuika had grown tired of demonstrating.

“Are you going to pick a weapon—” the sudden voice right next to his ear makes him jump. “—or are you going to spend the rest of the class ogling at your female squad mates?”

“Accursed gods…” he curses quietly, rubbing his chest to ease his heartrate. “You need a bell.” Turning to meet Clorinde Magloire’s unimpressed gaze, he regrets letting that last bit slip.

“Get back to training,” she says coolly, brushing past him. “You still have a long way to go.” As he opens his mouth to refute her claim, she speaks again without turning around. “Blocking with your face is not the sort of technique that’s going to keep you alive out there — or in here for that matter.”

Heat creeps up his cheeks as he tries to stuff down the roiling hot indignation that rises within him. Clorinde flashes a glance at him and her palm strokes along the hilt of the dagger sheathed at her hip. Clearly, the third years had been gossiping about his mishap with Scar.

“I’m not a one trick pony, if that’s what you’re concerned about, Wingleader.” He manages to keep his tone verging on friendly rather than indignant, but Clorinde’s shoulders tense. Breath bated, he chews on the inside of his cheek awaiting her response, but he doesn’t get one. Clorinde remains with her back to him, staring straight ahead. He follows what seems to be her line of sight.

Ahead of them, Navia manages to knock Xiangling down in a desperate attempt to regain control of the fight, only for Xiangling to pull her down too. Wriothesley doesn’t remember walking closer to them, wanting to intervene, until he almost runs into Clorinde.

“She fights like her father,” Clorinde whispers, voice damp and melancholy. A stillness settles between them, fragile like frosted grass in the first moments of dawn. Something swells up in his chest that he’d rather not unpack in front of his Wingleader.

“I know.” The peace shatters, but just the way it’s meant to. Clorinde twitches at this and crosses her arms over her chest.

“If you think you’re such a master of combat already, then teach,” she orders. Wriothesley nods and steps forward, all too ready to end the sparring match between Navia and Xiangling, but a firm hand on his chest stops him. “Not her. Him.” He follows Clorinde’s chin jerk gesture to Freminet De Hearth and Wriothesley’s stomach sinks like a rock tossed into a deep lake. “Get him through challenges and I might find it within my capabilities to have a scrap of respect for you.”

He turns to Clorinde, dumbfounded by both the challenge and her fucking audacity.

“Too easy?” Before Wriothesley can shake his head, her eyes harden, like the glinting flash of steel. “She dies, I kill you.”

The familiar cold prick of a blade bites into the skin of his abdomen and he steps back, stiffly. It’s not deep enough for Clorinde to have stabbed him, but enough for it to break the skin as she keeps the blade poised right where his liver would be if she drove the blade upward.

“I think you’ve made your point,” Wriothesley whispers, eyes darting around the room to see that no one has noticed him being held at knifepoint in the middle of a sparring class. “I accept.”

Clorinde lowers the blade, and he releases a hesitant breath, feeling a small trickle of blood soak into his shirt. Without a hint of remorse, Clorinde Magloire struts over to the third years, who are having a two-on-one sparring match, and swiftly turns it into a three-on-one exercise. Wriothesley doesn’t even want to look, having already seen the three third years just about tear each other to shreds, pushing one another harder and harder, coming closer and closer to doing some serious damage.

They never trained like this in Infantry. Sure, Wriothesley had his fair share of permanent marks from drill and sparring incidents back then, but these Cadets are vicious.

Much to his own dismay, he skirts around Navia — who is now locked in a one-sided fencing match against a more graceful Nilou Iravani — to sidle up next to the youngest De Hearth. He doesn’t stir from where he’s sitting, as if movement will break his spell of invisibility. The twins are off bugging Mavuika to let them practice throwing daggers at one another, despite the “safety restrictions” in place that forbid it during sparring.

“You know the longer you sit there, the faster someone’s going to end up killing you during Challenges,” Wriothesley murmurs, nudging Freminet’s thigh with the side of his boot. The kid flinches and hugs his injured arm closer to himself.

“I’m injured, why bother?” Freminet murmurs with a half-hearted shrug.

“Out there, if they see you’re injured, you’re going to become an easy kill. Anyone can tell you that. So instead of moping about—”

“I’m not moping!”

“—and waiting for them to read your name from the death roll, pick up a sparring baton and learn how to defend yourself while you’re out of commission.”

Freminet marinates on his words for a moment, jaw clenching and unclenching like he’s deciding whether to hit Wriothesley or tell him to fuck off.

“Why waste your time on me? I don’t even like you.” There’s no anger or bitterness in his voice when he says it, just gentle naivete like he’s a shy little sixteen-year-old instead of a semi-solid 20-year-old man. Wriothesley glances over toward Lyney and Lynette, who are now whispering amongst themselves, side-eyeing him when they realise, he’s watching.

“Don’t you want to grow old with them?” It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever let come out of his mouth, but for some reason he knows it’s the only way to get through to Freminet.

Freminet’s pale lashes flutter closed, and he sighs in defeat, slowly getting to his feet like his limbs are filled with lead. “Fine. Just go easy on me.”

There’s no inward cheer of victory that fires off in Wriothesley’s head at Freminet’s agreement. As much as it would be easier to get through the year having a scrap of his Wingleader’s respect, it would feel much easier on his conscience knowing that he tried to keep his squad intact.

🌊🐉🌊

For however thin and frail Freminet De Hearth appears to be, he is exactly that. At least the kid has what seemed to be two years of combat training under his belt. He knows how to move to avoid a hit, but when he strikes, there is no strength behind it, like he’s afraid he’d break himself if he hit hard enough. Much like with Navia, if Wriothesley believed in Mar, Freminet would be second on his list for prayers.

About ten minutes in, Freminet’s fringe is stuck to his forehead in dark strands and his lungs heave like he’s about to pass out. The sweaty pink blush of his cheeks has turned frighteningly pale and Wriothesley stops the moment he notices. Freminet takes a moment longer to realise, and hits Wriothesley square in the head with the sparring baton. The pain is bearable, but it does make him grimace and Freminet bites his lip, glassy blue eyes wide as saucers.

“Take a break,” he grunts, rubbing at his hairline where he can feel a small bump beginning to form.

“I’m sorry.” Notes of fear flutter in his voice as his voice and his knuckles go white as he anxiously grips the sparring baton, curling in on himself like he’s expecting Wriothesley to retaliate. He just shakes his head in response, hoping Professor Mavuika is going to call and end to the session and put Freminet out of his misery.

Moments later, they’re packing up the mats and Wriothesley manages to catch Navia rolling up another mat by herself. Her face is terribly bruised and there’s crusted blood around her left nostril.

“Rough time?” He cracks an innocent smile and helps her roll up the mat. She scowls, expression dark as murder.

“No, I’m having a great time.” Her voice is practically dripping with sarcasm, and she doesn’t bother looking at him.

“Look, I can make this a whole lot easier for you—”

“I’ll stop you right there,” she says, voice unexpectedly firm. Wriothesley’s mind screeches to a halt.

“I know you’re strong but—”

“Wriothesley, shut up. I don’t want your help.”

“What?”

“I said,” she dumps the mat back in the storage closet with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t want your help. Whatever you think you owe my father, you don’t owe me.”

The mention of Callas locks every muscle in Wriothesley’s body. Navia forges ahead but turns back with pursed lips, suddenly sober as someone staring down their own noose.

“Wriothesley, I’m happy to be friends, but I don’t want you to be my fucking babysitter. I don’t want to be drowning in a debt that I can’t clear. Better yet, as the great philosopher Cassiodor once said, ‘a lesson lived and learnt is worth a thousand lessons taught.’”

She turns quickly and marches out of the room.

Chapter Text

In late July, the Liffey Mountains are covered in a layer of slush, torturously slick and shimmering with a blinding glare. They had already lost Gravier to a rockslide when he stepped too close to the edge of the path and slid down the mountain face.

They couldn’t retrieve his body.

Wriothesley’s boots are wet. They have been for days and he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before he loses one of his toes to frostbite or trench foot — whichever decides to rear its ugly headfirst. Surprisingly, their cargo is still entirely intact, even after a run in with a rogue band of Snezhnayan Infantry in the mountain pass two days ago.

Command told him this supply run needed to make it to the Ethelside outpost, even if it was the last thing he did.

Dread looms in the pit of his stomach and the constant glare from the slush has taken a toll on his eyes to the point where it’s becoming difficult to see what’s ahead. He looks behind him to check the caravan — it’s fine — then turns back to keep an eye on the road ahead. The sun disappears behind the clouds for a good while, giving his eyes a break.

An icy northern wind picks up and his shoulders tense. He looks back to check the cargo and something whistles past his ear, thumping into his second in command’s stomach.

“Shit,” the curse slips past his lips in horror. “We’re under attack!”

Everyone draws their weapons, heads whipping around in a desperate attempt to locate their assailants. Behind him, Elodie clutches her stomach, brows knitted together in pain.

There’s nothing he can do for her now.

A blood chilling screech echoes off the rock face above them and sharp pinpricks of fear rake up Wriothesley’s arms. They're screwed, absolutely positively screwed.

“Gryphons!” he shouts, dumping his pack to yank his crossbow free. He loads it and holds as steady as his trembling body allows him. “Arche—”

He’s cut short by the crunching sound of two gryphons pouncing on the vanguards, crushing them in an instant under their great weight and piercing claws. He sets an arrow loose in their direction and it skims off the beasts’ beak with a crack. A few of his squadmates’ arrows find their home in the gryphon’s thighs before they beat their huge, feathered wings and take off into the sky with the vanguards still skewered on their claws.

The flier slashes their sword at whomever is still left standing beside gryphon, spilling hot, sticky blood across the brown slushy snow.

Two more gryphons approach from the south, heading straight toward their cargo. Wriothesley loads another arrow and draws his sword in his other hand, sparing a glance to Elodie.

“I’m sorry.”

“Go,” she grunts, on the verge of hyperventilating as she prepares to snap the protruding length of the arrow off. The blood around the wound is dark. She’s already gone..

“Protect the cargo!” he orders, sprinting for the crates on the carts. His squadmates flock around the carts and he leaps atop of one of the crates and pulls the trigger on the crossbow. His arrow whistles toward one of the approaching gryphons and gets stuck in an outstretched wing.

Seven heartbeats later, and they’re a hairs breadth away, not slowing. He can’t load the crossbow fast enough and there’s a massive fucking gryphon hurtling toward him — no time to utter a useless prayer before his inevitable death.

It hits him with more force than he’s prepared for, sharp claws ripping through his armour, shirt and skin. He can’t scream when his lungs feel like they’re being crushed and there’s nothing under his feet. His stomach lurches as he’s suddenly dragged upward, the ground falling away before his eyes.

He’s going to die; he’s going to vomit. In the burning heat of panic, his body flails helplessly with nothing but the air whistling around his limbs and he screams — shrieks — truly terrified to the bone for the first time in years. He’s going to be this gryphon’s dinner, he’s seen the way they’ve tossed up his brothers- and sisters-in-arms into the air and caught them in their beaks, skewering them and tearing their bodies to shreds mid-air and swallowing the pieces.

The crossbow is gone, but somehow, he’s managed not to lose his sword, despite the incredible urge to reach down and apply pressure to his thigh where the gryphon claw has torn through him.

Blindly, he hurtles his strength upward, praying that his blade doesn’t skim off the tough, almost scaly skin of the gryphon’s front leg. It hits with a dull thump, but there’s nothing more he can do than keep trying. He can’t die. Not today, not like this.

Tears blurring his vision, saliva chokingly thick in his mouth, he strikes and strikes and strikes until the claw around him finally loosens.

And he falls.

🌊🐉🌊

Wriothesley wakes with a gasp, shooting up in a panic, grasping for anything to steady himself. He’s still falling until his palms hit the sides of his bed and he grips the sheets tight enough to feel the fabric tear a little. Chest heaving and covered with a slick layer of sweat, he runs his palms across his torso and upper thighs, taking a panicked inventory of his body.

No cuts, no breaks. He’s fine.

“Dude, what the fuck?” someone in the bed next to him groans.

“Keep it down, fucking wimp,” another irritated voice grumbles.

There’s not enough oxygen in the dorm hall right now to keep his lungs working. He throws the covers off and yanks on a shirt, almost getting stuck in it as it catches on his damp skin. Without another thought, he throws the window beside his bed open and climbs out.

The drop isn’t far. He checked it on the first day, only two storeys. But it doesn’t stop his heart from practically hammering out of his chest when he lowers himself down. He’s supposed to let go, but he can’t, despite the agony that blooms in the joints of his fingers as he hangs there awkwardly for a few moments too long.

He screws his eyes shut and lets go.

The sickening feeling of gravity taking over hits him full force, but it’s knocked right out of his body in seconds as his feet hit the ground. Stinging pain flashes through his feet and up to his ankles and dissipates as the rest of him hits the ground with a lot less force.

Fucking nightmares – memories – whatever they want to be called.

After the vivid horror of falling to what he thought would be his own death, his memory is hazy after that point. He knows the Snezhnayans found him, still breathing, halfway up a tree. They took him and one of his squadmates as prisoners, marching them all the way back to one of their outposts. There, they…

He doesn’t want to even think about that. A shiver runs up his spine and his skin becomes clammy.

Suffice to say that he learnt a lot of Snezhnayan words from that period of time, before he was eventually traded back to his outpost in exchange for Snezhnayan prisoners.

He grits his teeth in frustration, body burning with embarrassment despite the cool twilight air. He’s not the kind of soldier that was plagued with night terrors and awoke screaming every night like some of his former squadmates did in the barracks. The screamers were made to sleep in the hallway whenever they were staying at an outpost, and their tents separated from the squad when camping.

Everyone who had served on the front lines had nightmares at one point or another. Wriothesley is no exception, granted, he’s had them a little more than most, given the shit he’s seen in his time.

Blithering gods, he can’t wait until after Threshing, when the remaining first years will finally get their own private rooms. It’s something he’s almost never had; the exception being after he was promoted to Colonel and earning a “private” tent when his squad was camping and occasionally a private room in certain outposts when the Riders were out. The privacy certainly made discreetly fucking a lot easier as an added bonus.

He rolls his eyes at himself before he starts to get too self-indulgent and breaks into a jog, hoping dawn will come soon enough and allow him to lose himself in kitchen duty.

🌊🐉🌊

He doesn’t see Navia for breakfast that morning. But, then again, he doesn’t let himself see many people at all, feeling like his flesh is being picked apart by every first year in First Wing whilst he eats his breakfast.

Halfway through the morning’s formation, his stomach starts rumbling and he regrets prematurely dumping the remainder of his breakfast. Freminet stands uneasily at his left and Navia silently at his right. He’s just glad neither of the two are going out of their way to avoid him at least.

The death rolls, on the days that there were one, have been sparse in comparison to Conscription Day. He doesn’t know any of the names that were read out and hopes it will remain this way until the end of Challenges.

Hesitantly, Wriothesley makes his way to history class — one of the classes he hadn’t paid much attention to during Infantry training. The atmosphere within the week’s previous class had been… tense, recapping the most recent history of Teyvat.

Entering the room, Wriothesley feels as if he’s walked through an invisible barrier, trapping stuffy heat inside the lecture room. Professor Venti is nowhere to be seen, but half the class is yet to arrive. All the Marked Ones in the room are huddled in small pockets at the room’s rear, expressions grim and vacant until they notice his presence. The weight of their gazes is enough to make him want to duck his head in shame, though, he’s done nothing wrong per say.

The rebellion in Natlan three years ago wasn’t something Wriothesley had to learn from a book or lecture like most of the cadets in this class. It’s something he doesn’t want to remember living through. A sentiment he extends with a trembling hand to the Marked Ones in the room today, even if it were only their parents who betrayed the union of Teyvat. They still suffered for it.

Killing Snezhnayans was one thing, but killing his countrymen felt like fratricide. The brief stint he spent away from the freezing mountains on the northern border was in the dry, rocky cliffs of Ochkanatlan, where he watched overhead as dragons clashed and the city burned to the ground.

He was there the day the leaders of the rebellion were executed, the day their children were forced to watch them burn, the day General Ei’s dragon seared the rebellion relic across the flesh of the eighty-six children of the leaders. Their skin now bears the sins of their fathers and all of Teyvat would know from a single glance that they are not to be trusted.

With Ochkanatlan, the centre of the rebellion, reduced to ash and the War College of the Sacred Flame decommissioned, all Natlanese students were forced to join the rest of the cadets at Meropide. All Marked Ones, once of age, would be conscripted to the Rider’s Quadrant as the only group of people who are not volunteers.

It’s a similar story with the De Hearth family — they were less of a family, more of an organisation. From a more central point of power within Fontaine, they funded much of the Natlan rebellion and twisted the ropes however they could. Once the rebellion was quelled, they turned to assassinating the King. When their plot was eventually uncovered, their leaders were executed, children branded and dispersed across the network of orphanages they were originally stolen from.

As with the Marked Ones, the De Hearths were also conscripted to the Rider’s Quadrant to prove their loyalty to Teyvat. If Wriothesley were in charge, it wouldn’t have been his preferred method of forcing loyalty out of those he had punished.

The class is a split between tension and curiosity as Professor Venti walks into the room. It must be a habit of his to walk in late, whether it was for dramatic flare like Headmaster Furina or he was simply… Wriothesley is three rows back and he can smell the faint waft of alcohol that emanates the professor. It’s not something he’d want to comment on, clearly the man has seen something that still haunts him the way the shadows beneath his eyes do.

“G’Morning,” Professor Venti greets, hopping up to sit cross-legged on the desk at the front of the room. “Instead of working our way back in time, I think we should start from where Teyvat began.” Despite his evident intoxication, the Professor’s voice remains steady despite its airy quality.

The tension in the room relaxes like a fatigued muscle, shaking and tender with a deep-set ache.

“In the beginning, there were many nations across the continent, each thriving, dying, rebirthing, warring and carving their own marks across the land. The east of the continent was home to the dragons, the west home to the gryphons. The realm fell into chaos a little over five hundred years ago when King Deshret of Akhtamun became the first gryphon flier, leading the three kingdoms of the desert to war against the east. They laid waste to Sumeru and the tribes of Natlan. Snezhnaya soon followed in suit, forming their own drifts of gryphon fliers to attack Mondstadt and Fontaine.”

The story flows out of Professor Venti like a well-rehearsed bedtime tale and Wriothesley finds himself yawning despite the narrative manner being slightly more engaging than previous lectures on the topic. He turns to Navia and is surprised to see her slouched back in her chair, arms crossed and looking like she is about to enter a deep state of dissociation if she listens to Professor Venti any longer. Not what he would expect from a studious young woman like her.

He quirks an eyebrow at her as the Professor continues.

“The destruction spread far enough that the dragon nesting grounds in Natlan and Fontaine were partially destroyed. Everyone knows that the last thing any sane person would do, is step foot in a dragon’s hatching grounds, let alone desecrate it.”

Navia snaps out of her stupor and sits up straight, leaning in a little closer.

“What?”

“Thought you’d find this stuff riveting,” he whispers.

“And that’s when the dragons chose the First Six dragon riders, the greatest warriors from the six strongest nations of the east. This brought together the ever-feuding kingdoms of Mondstadt, Fontaine, Natlan, Sumeru, Liyue and Inazuma to form the union of Teyvat to fight against the gryphons of the west. The First Six were the dragon riders who built this college. They bonded with their dragons and gained access to magic beyond that of the gryphon fliers, turning the tide of the war.” Professor Venti’s eyes are practically closed as he recites the information.

“This chain of events five hundred years ago allowed the kingdoms of the east to forge the wards that still protect our borders from invasion to this day,” both Navia and Professor Venti say at the same time. Wriothesley’s head whips back to Navia so fast it makes an audible crack.

“How’d you know he was gonna say that?”

To which Navia shrugs. “He’s quoting the introduction to Teyvat: the Building of a Nation, fourth edition,” she says it like it’s something anyone would know.

“You’re really no joke,” Wriothesley murmurs beneath his breath. “Look,” he begins timidly. “About yesterday—”

“Wriothesley, even if you did train me, I’d have nothing to give you in return,” she eyes him sharply at this, like she’s expecting him to say something despicable — which he doesn’t. “Besides, you have the opportunity to become the best in our year. I see the way everyone looks at you, like they’re scared of you or want to slit your throat on the spot, there’s really no in-between. You don’t need another distraction.”

Wriothesley sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly. By the accursed gods, the blood of Callas and Clementine Caspar doubtlessly runs through her body. She’s beyond stubborn and stupidly selfless.

“Offer still stands, even once it’s too late.”

🌊🐉🌊

Professor Venti, the absolute bastard, sends them on their way to Battle Brief with readings and homework to complete before their next class. The remainder of the week and the next passes without much fanfare. Ajax Tachelli seems to have learnt his lesson, still following Wriothesley around but maintaining a healthy distance. Wriothesley doesn’t offer any answers during Battle Brief each day and spends half his time praying that Professor Zhongli doesn’t decide to make his day significantly worse. Professor Venti’s classes, though somewhat interesting, become the bane of his existence with quizzes scheduled at the end of each week. It’s almost enough to make him regret returning to Meropide entirely.

Professor Mavuika’s training sessions are the highlight of his week now that he’s not completely at risk of being beaten (or bitten) by Scar. Freminet seems to be improving slowly despite spraining his ankle in the second week of classes. The other first years seem to mostly have their shit together. Heizou Shikanoin seems to have taken a liking to Charlotte Moreau, the hopeless pink haired girl. He’s been teaching her hand to hand combat. Bennet Ziegler has seen some improvement with Kaeya Alberich’s training, though, Wriothesley has provided more than enough advice to Bennett to last him a short lifetime. Nilou Iravani and Xiangling Mao are both competent specialists in their respective weapons, though they lack variety.

Lastly, Professor Neuvillette’s classes have been entirely riveting, as long as Wriothesley remembers to stop fretting over the Professor’s poor opinion of him.

There is, however, one substantial problem about Professor Neuvillette’s class… No matter how hard Wriothesley tries, he cannot remember enough of the content, no matter how interested he is. Visually, there is always a lot going on in those lessons. The watery mimics Professor Neuvillette creates are so fascinating, they drown out everything else going on in the room. That, and Wriothesley can’t help but find the Professor himself incredibly enrapturing. Ethereal in his beauty, aged like wine finer than Wriothesley can even imagine and unnervingly still, even when he slowly walked through the room.

Navia, ever the genius, would certainly laugh at Wriothesley’s predicament and tell him to just take notes during the lecture. However, there were two problems that arise from such a solution. The first being that Wriothesley doesn’t own a single scrap of parchment, nor an ink pot or quill; and there is no chance he can even take notes fast enough to keep up with the Professor.

And with that, the first week of Challenges dawns upon them.

Early on the Monday morning, the Challenges board is posted out in the courtyard and the First Wing dorm wakes in an anxious fit. Half the cadets jump out of bed, barely dressed and rush to the board. The other half of the dorm wake like the dead, slowly shuffling down to the courtyard like they are walking to their own executions. Wriothesley doesn’t care to look for his name on the board, he doesn’t care to know who he will fight later that week until he’s had breakfast. Even after breakfast, he doesn’t care much for it then either, mind too occupied with what on earth he’s going to do about his Dragon Studies class.

Once he’s finished kitchen duty, he settles for a reasonably sized serving of fisherman’s toast… and enough rolled omelettes to kill a small child. Navia joins him a short while later, expression violently grim. A few other first years from their squad join their table, similarly sour.

“Mornin’,” he greets, parting ways with three rolled omelettes to fill the empty space on Navia’s plate.

“Are you ever going to stop doing that?” she scowls but leaves the egg rolls on her plate. Wriothesley shakes his head, and Navia is seconds from voicing a complaint. “I’m going to get f—” He holds up a finger to silence her, knowing exactly what she’s about to say.

“It’s called gaining muscle, not getting fat,” he tuts. “Can’t have you passing out in the middle of a fight.”

“Why are you in such a good mood this morning? I just found out I have to fight fucking Kirara Komaniya today. Have you ever seen the way she fights? She’s stabbed three different cadets by accident since Parapet.” Navia whines, burying her head in her hands. “I’m going to have to offer my weight in gold to Clode at temple this week to stand a chance.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he sighs. “Just sounds like she needs to learn a little something called ‘control’,” Wriothesley sighs. “If you’re fighting someone like that, Navia, you just have to tire them out and then give ‘em a big whack to finish them off.” He shoves down the anxiety that threatens to make an appearance over Navia’s potential looming death. Killing cadets during challenges was strongly discouraged, but not against the Codex… ‘Accidents’ happen.

It's strange having been in Infantry so long, trusting any stranger in uniform to have his back, knowing he has theirs. Now, almost anyone can turn on him if they so choose. All in the name of forming a stronger graduating class.

Navia purses her lips, not fond of his advice, but she doesn’t indicate that it’s entirely unwelcome. She stabs her fork into one of the egg rolls on her plate and shoves it into her mouth without cutting it into smaller pieces. Then, with her mouth half full and fork pointed at Wriothesley, she says, “Easy for you to say. You only have to fight Thoma Glassner this week. He’s like the nicest guy in the entire quadrant.”

Thoma Glassner… Wriothesley can’t remember his face, he’s pretty sure the kid is either in Second or Third Wing, not that it matters. He’ll face him when it’s time. The only good thing to come out of challenges for him is that he can earn weapons from whoever he wins against. His personal armoury currently consists of whatever he could fit in his bag and carry across the Parapet (i.e., a set of heavy steel gauntlets, the short dagger in his boot, two other more intimidating daggers and the standard short sword issued to him from central command twelve years ago – or at least he likes to pretend it’s the original. It’s been remade so many times).

“Anyways, I haven’t been to temple in weeks, did you wanna come with?” Navia asks. “I’m sure you’re one of Mar’s favourites given all your glorious victories in battle,” she teases, trying to get back to her breakfast.

Wriothesley can’t help but scoff. “I don’t follow,” he says curtly.  A god of war didn’t get him where he is through boons and favour. Mar, the credit-thieving wretch, can rot in eternal damnation for all he cares. Navia sucks her teeth in a wince as she realises her misstep.

“My bad…”

Wriothesley turns to the other side of the table and leans back to catch Freminet’s attention, which takes a moment. The kid is well and truly spaced out until Charlotte whacks him on the shoulder once she’s sick of Wriothesley’s badgering.

“What?”

“Who are you against for Challenges this week?” Wriothesley asks quietly, Clorinde’s challenge still sparking in the back of his mind.

“Gaming Yip,” Freminet sighs anxiously. “On Thursday.”

“Alright. See me tonight in the sparring gym.” He turns back to Navia. “You’re welcome to come too.” She only chews on the inside of her cheek and mutters a half-hearted ‘maybe’ beneath her breath. Truly, he should be inviting the rest of the first years too, but there are some toes he isn’t entirely keen to step on. Namely Kaeya and Heizou’s toes.

🌊🐉🌊

“We are now nearing the end of our unit on dragon anatomy, so I will touch on a few important things before we finish for today,” Professor Neuvillette announces, clearing the image he’d constructed in the water basin. “Does anyone know that a dragon hatchling looks like?”

The room falls entirely silent and many of the cadets awkwardly exchange glances with one another. Wriothesley, normally would use this as an opportunity to nudge Navia into answering the question with her infinite wisdom, but today he’s too busy trying to keep himself together. He’s spent the first half of the class chewing his already very short nails down to nubs and the second half with his legs restlessly bouncing about due to the lack of remaining nails to chew on. Once or twice, Navia’s whacked him in the shoulder to get him to stop, but by now she’s given up, realising he either can’t or won’t stop.

“No one knows,” Ajax, still persistently in the row behind Wriothesley, answers tiredly. If the kid already knows the class content, Wriothesley wonders why he even bothers showing up week after week. By the sheer number of weapons competency patches on the kid’s shirt sleeve, he’d hazard a guess that Ajax spent the remainder of his initial first year at Meropide working through every available weapons competency (with exception the bow, as Wriothesley can’t see the patch for it anywhere else on his shirt) and decided to start fresh with his second attempt at first year.

“That is correct,” the Professor accepts, though he seems a little tired that the only cadet answering half his questions is Ajax ‘the Repeat’ Tachelli. “Nobody, including some of the best researchers in the field have ever seen a dragon hatchling. Therefore, not even I can show you what they look like. Now, there are no incorrect answers, but I will ask a few of you to put forward some theories as to why. Use what knowledge we have learnt so far.”

Professor Neuvillette slowly walks out from behind the basin at the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Wriothesley’s palms start to feel sweaty as the Professor draws closer and he desperately wishes he could come up with an answer to Neuvillette’s question to get himself back into the Professor’s good graces. He doesn’t miss the way Neuvillette’s pearlescent eyes briefly meet his as he observes the room.

“As there are no wrong answers, could it be possible that there are no dragon hatchlings at all?” Gaming Yip provides, with a sheepish smile. Evidently, he just wants to see how subtle he has to be with his humour to escape reprimand. A few cadets release an entertained huff of laughter – Wriothesley included, despite feeling like he’s tied himself in knots over the past hour.

“Well yes, there are no wrong answers,” Professor Neuvillette begins, the hint of a smile just barely breaking through his stony demeanour. “But there are certainly some ill-considered answers. Could anyone suggest some evidence that may help Cadet Yip understand the likelihood of his theory?”

Finally, Navia pipes up next to him, not very entertained by Gaming’s attempts at humour. “Because we have widely found evidence of dragon eggshells. They’re used in all sorts of things like blacksmithing and apothecary.”

“Excellent, Cadet Caspar. Any other theories?”

“Um,” Wriothesley says a little too loudly, without realising. Shit. He’s really put himself in the firing line now. He wracks his brain for anything he can remember from the past two weeks of classes. “Could it have something to do with…” His face feels red hot, and he desperately searches for Professor Neuvillette’s voice within his memories. Something about dragon nature… “The secretive nature of dragons?”

Professor Neuvillette is almost right in front of him, eyes locked with his and he nods in approval, but his insistent expression says he needs more. “Yes. Go on.”

“Uh,” he hesitates a little more, buying himself a few moments of time. What would happen if he had a kid of his own? He wants to laugh at the thought of it, he’d never want to bring a kid into a world that is this fucked up – what if he died in battle and orphaned the kid? “Because perhaps, the dragons are very protective of their young. Even though humans don’t really pose much of a threat. Not every human on the continent can be trusted, so rather than selectively trusting few, they eliminate the risk entirely.”

He hadn’t realised he wasn’t keeping eye contact with the Professor while he was speaking until a soft smile eases across the other’s features, pulling him straight back into the Professor’s grip. His body unwinds slightly, and he returns the Professor’s smile with a proud grin, which fades quickly as the Professor crosses the floor in a flurry of dark coattails.

“Very good, Cadet Wriothesley. Any last theories?”

“Well done,” Navia whispers to him, patting his arm. A crooked smile reappears on Wriothesley’s face for another moment as he allows himself to feel good for a split second. A few more cadets throw out some half-baked theories and the Professor nods along if they can justify their thoughts well enough.

“Thank you for indulging me with your theories.” Professor Neuvillette returns to the very front of the lecture room and picks up a piece of chalk. In curling, elegant script, he starts writing on the chalkboard at the front of the room. “I will give you until the end of next week to study for the assessment on dragon anatomy. It will be a short set of questions, but I would very much like for this knowledge to be ingrained in your minds as it is pertinent to your survival and eventual understanding of your dragon – should you bond with one.” The writing on the board is the assessment date, Wriothesley thinks. “In the meantime, I would like for you to write a paragraph on the following statement and hand it in prior to the assessment.”

Next to him, Navia scrawls down a copy of what’s written on the board. Wriothesley can’t tell if it’s too far away for him to see properly or the Professor’s script is just a little too… fancy, to read. He’ll have to ask Navia what it is.

“There is spare parchment on my desk if you need any. Dismissed.”

The room erupts into chatter, and everyone gets up to leave, but Wriothesley feels glued to his seat. He’s always hated assessments with a passion, especially these accursed “paragraph” things. Navia nudges him and is about to head off when she notices he hasn’t moved.

“Come on,” she groans impatiently. Wriothesley does manage to convince his body to let him stand up, but leaving the classroom is out of the question.

“I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“I’ll be outside then.” She leaves with the remainder of the cadets, filing out of the room. Ajax Tachelli even flashes him a glance upon exiting, but still Wriothesley doesn’t move. This is his one chance to ask the Professor to reiterate a few things covered in class that he cannot, for the life of him, remember.

As he approaches the desk chewing on the inside of his cheek, he wills his heart not to beat out of his chest. Approaching the Professor’s desk feels more tenuous than preparing to fight a drift of gryphons from the ground, without crossbolts or any other ranged weapons. By now, the room is completely empty, and Professor Neuvillette is clearing the chalkboard, making certain that Wriothesley will never see what he’d written down. He quietly tries to clear his throat, hoping he doesn’t end up scaring the Professor.

“Professor.” The word comes out wonky and strangled, before he collects himself once more, bright red with embarrassment. “Professor,” he says again, chancing a glance to see Professor Neuvillette’s reaction, only to find him still facing the chalkboard.

“Yes, Cadet?” his tone is cool as he turns around to scoop up the books and piles the rolls of parchment atop of the desk between the two of them.

“I— uh,” Wriothesley hesitates, heart skipping a beat.

“Take a breath,” Neuvillette instructs, turning slightly to the side to lean, what Wriothesley assumes is, his bad hip against the desk. Now that there’s hardly any space between them, all the breath leaves Wriothesley's lungs at this moment and as he takes in the beauty he has never been able to appreciate from so close up until now. Finally, he reminds himself to breathe and uses the most level voice he can manage.

“I really enjoy the content of your lectures,” he begins, thanking some god he doesn’t believe in that his voice does not waver. “And the delivery method,” he adds. “My memory isn’t very good, so I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions on what we’ve covered so far.”

“Go ahead.” The usual gentleness of the Professor’s earthy hum returns, melting the anxious ice surrounding Wriothesley’s heart.

“The spines on a Morningstar tail, what are they made of?”

“Keratin,” Neuvillette answers simply. Wriothesley repeats it under his breath, hoping that it’ll help him remember. “It’s the same material the claws are made up of. It is also the same material that your own nails and hair are made up of.”

Wriothesley’s eyes widen almost comically, and he looks at his own nails, bitten down to nubs. “But they’re so fragile… How?”

“That’s because your nails and hair are very thin. When keratin builds up in many layers, it is becomes very strong.” Wriothesley nods, appreciating that the Professor seems to mildly enjoy answering simple questions. “Your other questions?”

“Oh, uh.” He drops his hands back down to his sides. “The other questions were about how dragons clean their teeth, how the sulfur ignition system works – there were a lot of words in that one – and while I’m thinking about it, there’s stuff that I want to know that we haven’t talked about yet. Like the relationships between dragons and humans prior to Unification and the forging of the wards. And then I was thinking about how one actually manages to research dragons without being cooked alive.”

Quite proud of his phrasing (he'd rehearsed these lines a hundred times over in his head before uttering them out loud), he finishes is query with a tight smile; despite knowing in his heart he’s pushed his luck asking so many questions. The Professor's expression remains stony, but Wriothesley can see the minute analytical flick of his eyes as he decides whether or not to answer Wriothesley’s avalanche of questions.

“The answer to your first question, I can answer easily: charcoal, since dragons can easily make it themselves. They don’t clean their teeth the same way you and I may, but it’s similar enough to constitute as cleaning. The second, I can recommend you peruse chapter eight of The Anatomy of Dragons, full colour, third edition.” Without hesitation, Professor Neuvillette draws a copy of the book from the pile beside him on the desk and gives it to Wriothesley. “Your other questions, I cannot answer as easily.”

Wriothesley’s stomach drops through the floor at the Professor’s unchanging demeanour.

“There are simply very little texts within the Archives remaining prior to Unification, with exception of the accounts of the First Six. I don't think one could glean any useful information from such sources as the remaining accounts are heavily edited, translated and-or told second-hand. Their primary focus was the Unification, rather than the geopolitics of dragon-human interactions prior to the time,” Professor Neuvillette surmises, resuming his mildly softer lecturing tone, eyes glazed over and wandering across the room.

“Thank you.”

“As for your query regarding dragon research, I can answer it with this book,” he tugs another leatherbound volume from the pile beside him. He holds the book out to Wriothesley, and he takes it, running his fingers over the spines of both books in his hands.

“Is this one of yours?” he asks offhandedly, thumbing the embossed title of the dragon research book.

“No.” His response is quick and efficient; the answer is obvious, if Wriothesley had’ve taken the time to find the author credit on the cover. “This is volume was authored by Professor Kaori some years ago. I find it the most accurate portrayal of dragon behaviour amongst the other nonsense provided in the Archives. I have yet to publish any of my research yet.”

It strikes Wriothesley as odd. The Professor is very evidently one of the most renowned teachers and researchers in the field of Dragon Studies, he was bound to have published a lick of his research in the five or more years he’s been at Meropide.

“Why not?” he can't help but ask.

The Professor chuckles, uncharacteristically, and it almost sends Wriothesley stepping back in mild horror.

“It’s a work in progress.” The response is simple, not the long-winded answer he would expect from the Professor. There was a strange tone to it as well, something uncanny in the rushed manner of his speech. Two words float by in the back of Wriothesley’s mind.

Job security.

Not wanting to pry any further, he nods in thanks and wishes the Professor the best of luck in his research endeavours. As Wriothesley turns to leave, Professor Neuvillette speaks up once more.

“Cadet,” there is a short pause as Wriothesley turns around. “I trust you will return these to me following the assessment.” Wriothesley nods. “I also find it best to skip the introduction of Kaori’s work, it’s saturated with a little too much personal information.”

“Will do, thank you Professor.”

With that, he hurries out the door to find Navia waiting for him further down the hall. He can’t stop mulling over the books, caressing their smooth leather covers and worrying the corners between his fingers. The whole thing just makes him shiver and feel sick with what he’s just doomed himself into.

“You done playing teacher’s pet?” Navia quips once he’s within hearing range. Her eyes drift down to the books in his hands. She quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you as the reading type.”

“I’m not...”

“Alright.” Navia doesn't press any further, kicking off the wall to march down the hallway. “Come on, you're making me late for History.”

With an exaggerated eye roll, he follows after her.

Chapter Text

The afternoon of Challenges arrives slower than Wriothesley had hoped. He’s spent practically all of History class running his fingers across the covers of the books Professor Neuvillette has entrusted him with, and the remainder of his time is spent glancing over at Navia, who has torn her lips to shreds. They’re at the point where the normally soft pink flesh is now red raw and freshly scabbed.

They slowly make their way to the sparring gym, as if it can buy Navia more time to prepare for the absolute hell she’s about to face. Neither of them says a word to one another, not even when they arrive.

The room is crowded with cadets from other squads, sections and wings. Someone has already laid out all the sparring mats across the floor, each bordered by the challengers and their supporting squadmates. To accommodate for the extra cadets present, they had opened all of the windows that look out onto the valley, allowing a chill breeze to filter through the room.

Wriothesley doesn’t have to fight Thoma Glassner until tomorrow, and he has until Thursday to get the little De Hearth into… non-cannon fodder shape. But Navia has to fight Kirara from Fourth Wing. A few of his other squadmates, second and third years included, are scheduled to fight today as well, but against whom, he couldn’t care less.

Thankfully, (Wriothesley is still debating on that), Navia is scheduled second to fight, so they watch Heizou Shikanoin opt for hand-to-hand combat with a ghostly complexioned Liyuan boy. From his supportive squadmates, Wriothesley learns the kid’s name is Chongyun, when Heizou starts the fight with a left feint that suddenly turns into a close quarters high kick to the kid’s jaw that comes out of absolutely nowhere. Everyone winces when they hear Chongyun’s teeth clack together and he drops to the ground in three separate thuds.

Shikanoin stays put, assuming the fight is over as quickly as it started, but as he turns around, the pile of skin and bones named Chongyun stirs with signs of life. Heavy, aggravated breathing takes over as Chongyun climbs back to his feet, jaw clenched, lips set in a rabid kind of snarl. His eyes are practically blazing, with something cold that feels almost supernatural. The kid growls like a wolf and charges at Heizou, who turns around just in time to swoop out of the way of a flying kick to the head.

The fight quickly devolves into madness, the two somehow equally matched despite their completely different fighting styles. Professor Mavuika watches on, vaguely amused until blood starts to stain the mats. Eventually, Heizou finally wrestles Chongyun down onto the mat, pinning him with a knee to his back. He locks Chongyun in a tight chokehold, quickly making the icy haired boy tap out.

“Alright, Cadet Shikanoin wins. No weapons lost or earned in a fist fight, only dignity,” Mavuika surmises with a sigh. She flicks her chin up at Navia in warning, arms crossed. “Navia Caspar, Kirara Konamiya, please choose your weapons and step forward onto the mat.”

Navia rises to her toes and draws in a breath before bending down to open the satchel she carried in with her. He expects her to pull out something small, like a dagger, but to his surprise, she pulls out an ornate hatchet about the length of her forearm. The cheek of the hatchet is engraved with the twisting roses and solid anchor of the Spina Di Rosula logo.

“Shit,” Wriothesley murmurs, shifting from foot to foot as Navia steps onto the mat. Kirara does the same, brandishing two thin Inazuman blades that she twirls around with ease. “She’s going to lose that gorgeous hatchet…”

Navia stands with her feet spread the way Mavuika taught them to and raises her hatchet. Wriothesley doesn’t miss the way her arms shake with nervous energy and her throat bobs with an almost audible gulp. She really needs a shield in a situation like this, she could use her strength to an advantage that way rather than having half her body open to two incredibly sharp daggers.

“Begin,” Professor Mavuika announces with a gentle nod. Wriothesley can’t bear to watch, screwing his eyes shut and turning away until he hears the god-awful screech of steel against steel, and then a high-pitched shout of agony.

Fuck it. He can’t not watch.

When he opens his eyes, there’s blood streaming down Navia’s forearm and Kirara is about to leap in for another strike. Navia jumps back in time and swings the hatchet just right enough for the butt of it to redirect both blades away from her. She jumps to the side and just barely manages to escape having her back torn open when Kirara swiftly twists herself around, using the momentum of Navia’s deflection to guide her strike back around.

Navia stumbles back and bumps into one of the cadets framing the boundary of the mat and gasps when they push her back toward Kirara. Her hair is all over her face from being loosely tied back, likely unable to see exactly where Kirara’s blades come flying at her from.

“Navia, move!” Wriothesley shouts in a panic.

She barely blocks one dagger, and the next slices up the length of her thigh. Though the cut isn’t deep, Navia screams in a mix of pain and utter frustration. Despite the lack of available nails, Wriothesley’s palms are marked with angry red crescents from how hard he’s clenching his fists. He can see Navia’s eyes are wet and wide with panic. She swings down the hatchet and manages to strike across the back of Kirara’s hand, making her drop one of the daggers.

For a moment, there’s a spark of hope in her eyes (and Wriothesley’s too), but it all burns up like kindling the second Kirara sneaks behind Navia in a fast and snakelike move. In a second, they’re both on the floor. Kirara’s foot is pinned to the back of Navia’s knee and her free hand wraps around the base of Navia’s loose ponytail, holding her head up from the mat.

Navia squirms, just about throwing Kirara off her, but in the process, Kirara’s remaining dagger presses against her neck. Blood beads against the blade and Wriothesley stifles down a hopeless cry of ‘don’t move!’

“Yield!” Kirara shouts, teeth gritted, the hand gripping Navia’s ponytail is shaking terribly, a mess of blood and bone. Navia is smart enough to stop struggling, but Kirara does not ease her blade away from Navia’s neck. “Drop your weapon and yield.”

With a displeased grunt, Navia drops her hatchet and Kirara immediately lets go of her, straightening herself up with a huff. She then stoops to scoop up Navia’s hatchet with a pleased smile, briefly examining the craftsmanship of the hatchet before wipes her own blood off the bit with her sleeve. Navia slowly gets to her hands and knees, shaking terribly while she does it.

“Cadet Komaniya wins, taking the hatchet. Someone take Cadet Caspar to the healer’s station before we need to get a new mat,” Mavuika directs, indifferent to the carnage. Wriothesley surges forward without another thought, arms outstretched to pick Navia up.

She bats his arms away with a weak swing of her arm and gasps something that gets lost in her throat. Impatiently, he bites the inside of his cheek and waits for her to get to her feet herself. She limps off the mat and Wriothesley follows her, steadying her wavering weight and steering her toward the Healer’s station, which has been temporarily set up in the back room – the one with the workout equipment.

Navia sniffles angrily and her shoulders tremble terribly. Her complexion has gone pale and her skin clammy, not from blood loss – she’s not bleeding profusely – but likely from shock. He realises, belatedly, this was probably her first real experience of combat outside of training, a fight where she could have died.

“Are you going to throw up?” he asks, settling her down on one of the benches. The Healers at the station are busy with other injured Cadets, so he moves Navia’s good hand to apply pressure against the gash on her thigh, then wraps his own hand tightly around the dripping cut on her forearm.

“No…” It’s barely audible, but she sways and releases an unexpected burp. “Maybe.”

He looks over to one of the healers, a young girl with short pink hair and a perpetual pout, and gestures for her to come help as soon as she’s able. The girl scowls and finishes wrapping a bandage to then attend to Navia. Wriothesley looks around for a bucket and a blanket, finding one stashed away to the side and returns with them. He’s seen far too many cases of shock, especially in the mountains, to know that it can do a lot of damage if left untreated.

He drapes the blanket over Navia’s shoulders just in time for her to start puking her guts out into the bucket. Awkwardly, he pats her back and pulls the loose strands of her hair away from her face. There’s definitely a bit of vomit on his hands now and he tries very hard not to think about it.

“Oh, Navia,” he sighs quietly, more to himself than to her. “What am I going to do with you?”

🌊🐉🌊

After he walks Navia back to the dorm, Wriothesley doesn’t see much of her again that night. Normally, something like this wouldn’t bother him, but until today, he’d never seen someone so... ill adjusted to this kind of life. Usually, the kind of people who volunteer for the Rider’s Quadrant have at least two years of rigorous training under their belt. To Navia’s credit, she’s had at least six months of training that has barely managed to keep her alive thus far.

He leaves her a plate of egg salad from dinner at her bedside, hoping she’ll at least pick at it while he’s gone. Without a word and returns to the sparring gym to find Freminet anxiously waiting outside as if he’s awaiting his own execution.

“Come on,” he gestures, walking past with a huff. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was starting to feel two weeks of fatigue weigh upon him that evening.

Inside the sparring gym, a few Cadets are training together in preparation for the next six weeks of challenges they’re about to go through. Mostly it’s first years in a panic, realising from today’s events, they’re completely out of their depth. He walks past them without a glance, Freminet trailing awkwardly behind him, until they arrive at the additional room at the end, where the Healer’s makeshift station was set up earlier in the day. It’s been packed up and pushed tightly against the wall to leave room for cadets still wanting to utilise the equipment.

There are only two other people inside the room, and their eyes immediately fix on Wriothesley like two rishboland tigers spotting prey. It makes him stop in his tracks and draw in a sharp breath before he realises, the two people are from his squad, and therefore ‘by the Codex, cannot kill him’. Nonetheless, their eyes do not move from him as he steps further in, and his hackles raise in response. The two cadets in question are Second Year Chasca Vuka and Third Year Xilonen Baraka; the only two members of his squad with the Natlan Rebellion Relics winding up their arms. Once Freminet enters behind him, they both stare at the youngest De Hearth and exchange an awkward glance. Their relics are different from Freminet’s geometric one, being more organic in shape. Neither of them make any effort to hide the marks the way the De Hearths in their squad do.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He keeps his tone level, almost teasing, hoping the casualness might soften the blisteringly icy atmosphere of the room. Both Xilonen and Chasca clench their jaws, biting back whatever well-deserved venom they wanted to spit at him.

“I’d hope not,” Xilonen says flatly, looking down her nose at him. She returns to her squats, the muscles on her brown thighs bulging with effort as she rests a substantial amount of weight on the barbell across her shoulders.

“We were just leaving,” Chasca bites out, gathering her belongings with a sweep of her hand. Xilonen rolls her eyes impatiently and sets down the barbell with a heavy clank, calling out for Chasca to slow down.

“Well... That went splendidly,” he huffs, turning back to Freminet, who looks far more taken aback by the two girl’s departure than Wriothesley is. He expects that kind of anger toward him from the Marked Ones, however much it might rub him the wrong way.  

“Why here?” Freminet asks, awkwardly turning around in a circle as he takes in the room.

“Because you already sort of know how to fight. I can tell you were already taught you a long time ago. And we all know that you’d rather be at home tinkering away with books or alchemy or whatever smart person shit you used to do before this.”

Freminet doesn’t say anything to that, he only stands still and looks up at Wriothesley with those big, dull eyes of his.

“Your problem is that you’ve got no strength.”

Freminet goes to protest, but Wriothesley snatches his frail wrist in his hand and brings it right up in front of the kid’s face. He presses his thumb against the bone and without much force, it pops out of the socket. Freminet doesn’t even flinch in pain, he just stares at Wriothesley, rather offended by the action. He takes his hand back and pops the bone back into the joint.

“Your joints are basically made of rubber. That’s why you keep dislocating everything whenever you have to fight someone.”

“And lifting weights is going to help?” Freminet crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “That’ll just dislocate everything.”

“Look, yes... You’re held together by string and honey, so lifting anything heavy is just going to make you break into a million pieces. But at least if we start really small and I give you targeted exercises to do, you’ll build some muscle in the right areas to compensate for your shitty joints. I know I’m no genius but I know how to build a strong body, no matter the limitations.”

Freminet sighs and nods reluctantly. “And then we’ll do combat training so I don’t die during Challenges?”

“Yes, we certainly will.”

“And why are you doing this?” Freminet asks, crossing his arms with an ungrateful rise in his voice. “I don’t see what you have to gain.”

Wriothesley, stupidly, hasn’t thought of a reason other than ‘I’d like for the wingleader to stop looking at me like she wants to rip off my head and shit down my neck’, so he goes with the next best thing. Partial honesty.

“If I can keep you and as many of the others as I can in one piece, it means we have a diverse array of experience and all sorts of useful talents. That’s what makes a squad strong, not just fighting ability. A squad like that is a goldmine out at the border, so I hope you’ll forgive me for being self indulgent,” he shrugs with a charming smile. “Why won’t your older siblings train you anyway?” At the change in topic, Freminet instantly clams up.

“It’s the decree.”

“The one that says it’s a capital offense for three or more Marked Ones to gather?” he assumes. Freminet nods very slowly. “You can surely work something out, though. Right? Have them take turns training you.”

Freminet shakes his head and bites his lip. There’s something he’s not telling Wriothesley.

He wracks his brain for all the odd things he’s noticed about the kid and can only think of one thing.

“Has it got anything to do with why they swapped you with Kirara on Conscription Day?”

“No.” The kid’s cheeks immediately go pink and even if he refused to make eye contact with Wriothesley before, he’s even worse now, pointedly staring at the floor.

“You’re a terrible liar. Gods’ teeth, you’d’ve been a shit spy. It’s a wonder of nature how you survived House of the Hearth with that penchant.” Wriothesley aggressively rubs his palms against his face. “You wanna tell the truth or shall I work it out of you?”

He ushers Freminet over to one of the workout setups, all pulleys, rope, wooden benches and large hunks of tightly bundled wooden counterweights. The blonde looks utterly bewildered as he watches him explain each of the exercises in detail: where he should be feeling it, what should and shouldn’t be moving, which path of movement his arms should follow with all the different kinds of rope pulls. Wriothesley hands over to Freminet and guides him through the first few, correcting his posture and changing the weights when are were too heavy. Last thing he wants is for the kid to pull a muscle or dislocate something, again.

“One more set of these,” he instructs, hands on hips. Freminet, shaking and sweating profusely, groans like he’s just been told there’s no dessert. “Or, you can spill your poorly kept secret, and I’ll let you get away with only two more reps.”

Freminet’s eyes bulge out of his head, and he almost lets the weights crash down, lost in his own desperation for the torturous session to end. His elbow hurts, even though Wriothesley’s told him not to do anything other than light stretches on it. He does two more reps before almost collapsing onto the floor.

“Lyney and Lynette are in trouble with Aether,” he blurts, relief practically evaporating into the air as the words leave his mouth. “And Aether is in trouble with Scar. And Scar is in trouble with Clorinde.”

So many names, Wriothesley can barely untangle the mess in his head. What in the ever-loving fuck was going on? He levels Freminet with an expectant look, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. He’s gonna need more than that.

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this.” Freminet pauses and surreptitiously looks side to side like he’s sure someone is going to jump out of nowhere and scold him. “Lyney and Lynette asked Squad Leader Travelis to see if he could get me put in their squad, even though it’s against the rules. Aether’s pretty close with them, so he couldn’t say no, so he asked his sister Lumine, Section Leader Travelis if there was anything he could do. She said no, but then Aether brought it up with Scar, because he’s the Wing Leader’s Executive Officer.”

“Fucking hell, this feels like a children’s game of ‘whisper me this’,” Wriothesley remarks with a tired groan.

“You know what Aether’s like.”

Wriothesley scoffs. He certainly doesn’t know what Squad Leader Travelis is like. They’ve never sat down and had more than a very short conversation, but he gets the feeling that Travelis finds him a little intimidating. Freminet seems to get the hint from Wriothesley’s furrowed brows and elaborates. “Everyone loves Aether Travelis. Even the most fucked up, grumpy cadets, like our third years, Xiao and Scar, have a soft spot for him. So, Scar did what he knows best and convinced Clorinde to switch me into Lyney and Lynette’s squad.”

Wriothesley hardly manages to suppress the incredulous laughter that boils up in his throat. What on earth did Scar say to Clorinde, the stick-up-her-ass-rule-following-terror, to convince her to bend the rules so far it certainly could’ve gotten her killed.

“How?”

“I’m not telling you,” Freminet shakes his head and gets to his feet.

“In the interest of you staying in once piece, I think it’s best to tell me now. Unless you don’t mind gaining a lot more muscle than originally intended.” The threat is thinly veiled, and he can already feel his lips twitching with the desire to pull back in a snarl. He knows he’s being a bit of a hard ass, but if there’s anything that shits him off more than insolence, it’s things teased then left unsaid. “Three more reps for not telling me the rest.”

Freminet groans loudly and unrestrained, before returning to finish the exercise.

And at that precise moment, Xilonen, in all her scornful beauty decides to return to the gym. If Wriothesley was keen on worsening the tension between him and the Marked Ones in his squad, he would strangle Freminet right then and there out of frustration. But for now, he gently nudges Freminet back into the last exercise of the session.

“Still here?” Xilonen sighs. She has the kind of deeply relaxed feminine voice that can come off as mildly intimidating with the way she crosses her arms and cocks her hip. Wriothesley licks his lips nervously and maintains eye contact with her as briefly as possible.

“Yep. We’re finishing up shortly,” he nods to himself, then realises Freminet is about to pull a muscle with his poor form and rushes over to correct him. “Keep your elbows in line with your body. Yes. That’s it.”

When Freminet finishes the set, Wriothesley ruffles his sweaty hair and tells him to meet him here same time tomorrow night for leg day, provided he’s still in one piece after fighting Thoma Glassner tomorrow — which is highly likely, but one never knows what ill fate could befall them within the space of a day. Freminet murmurs something along the lines of a thank you and skitters off through the sparring gym like there’s rats on his heels.

Leaving Wriothesley and Xilonen alone in the room. The tension builds, twisting like a rope until it coils unnaturally, forming an awkward kink in the atmosphere neither of them want to touch. Wriothesley wants to stay and work out but also doesn’t want to spend the entire time being watched by Xilonen’s deadpan glare. He’s sure she probably feels the same, if not worse, about the situation.

“Uh,” he rubs the nape of his neck. “See you tomorrow.” It almost comes out like a question, but he stifles the upward inflection of his voice and calmly walks out. He’s got nothing against Xilonen, he just doesn’t want to make her feel like she has to share the room with a person who’s had a hand in having her parents killed…

“Mm hmm,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. For a moment, he considers sticking around to spar in the other room and let out some of the itchy energy inside him, but he opts to check in on Navia before forcing himself to sit down and at least try to look at the books Professor Neuvillette lent to him. 

🌊🐉🌊

24 Years Ago

Life in mother’s house was incomparable to the Fleuve Cendre. Fen woke up each morning that first week practically giggling as he remembered he was guaranteed a meal that day. He slept in a bed — a proper one, with four wooden sides and a fresh layer of hay on the bottom — with a warm woollen blanket that had only as many holes as he had fingers on his hands. There were six other boys in the room, all various ages, though all under twelve, and each had his own bed.

Edd introduced him to Ben and Lee, his ‘favourite’ brothers, on his first day. They seemed tired and spoke mostly amongst themselves, not that Fen minded. They slept in silence that first night, or at least Fen tried to sleep. His body was pulled taut as a wire and his heart leapt at every minute sound in the room, terrified that one of the boys would take his blanket or beat him to show him who was boss around there.

But the dreaded moment never came. The house was very different to the Fleuve Cendre.

Edd narrowly missed a punch to the face when he shook Fen awake only moments after he’d closed his eyes at the first light of dawn. The older boy (Fen assumed he was older as he was taller and had more meat on his bones) grumbled and muttered something about going downstairs and Fen followed blearily behind. They had returned to the kitchen where there were thirteen slices of buttered bread set out and thirteen small cups of a strong-smelling dark liquid. It smelled like burnt earth, just not as sour.

The boys took their plates and cups, saying “thank you, mother” to the woman sitting in the corner, drinking her own steaming cup of burnt earth. They sat around the hearth in the adjacent room as the remaining boys came downstairs, amongst a set of girls who silently floated down the stairs. When one of them finally noticed Fen’s presence, she turned to her sisters to quietly alert them too. Each of the girls gave him a wide berth and eyed him suspiciously. He set his cup and plate down and waved to them, shuffling around to pick himself up and talk to them.

“Don’t,” Edd warned sharply, and Fen froze in place awkwardly until he lost balance and sat back down with an unceremonious thud. “We’re not allowed to talk to the girls.”

“What?”

Edd repeated himself but made sure to bite through every single syllable to drive his message home. Some of the other boys stared at Fen in disapproval. It made his stomach drop terribly, like he was a rabbit surrounded by very hungry foxes.

“Why?” Fen asked, voice small and quavering.

“We’re just not allowed. Don’t even think about touching them,” Edd grunted. With that, the boys left him alone to eat his bread and choke down the lukewarm cup of burnt earth.

“Hey!” One of the boys shouted. “Give that back, it’s mine!” The group quickly devolved into a tangled mess of limbs, three boys on one, trying to wrench open one of the smaller boy’s hands as he desperately tried to bring it to his mouth.

“Let go, Ned!”

The kid, Ned, let out this guttural sound of hot desperation as he bit the other boy’s fingers.

“Boys, enough!” mother shrieked from the kitchen. “Do I have to put you in the hole again?”

As suddenly as it started, it stopped. The boys all reluctantly let go of Ned, who stuffed a piece of bread crust into his mouth, hardly chewing. Mother stepped through the doorway of the kitchen, hands on hips and a killer scowl plastered across her face. It worsened, when she spotted spilled brown liquid on the floor where one of the boys had knocked over a cup.

“Clean this up and get to work. I expect an extra hour from each of you for this mess,” mother seethes. She wasn’t nearly the scariest woman Fen had ever seen, but the way the boys stiffened and moved to clean up the mess, he knew she was the kind of woman who meant business.

Moments later, Edd led him downstairs to a large room with cobbled stone walls, shelves of materials that lined the walls and several benches covered in tools unfamiliar to Fen’s eyes. Edd called the space ‘the workshop’ and showed Fen each of the shelves, listing everything on them — none of which Fen would remember until much later.

The girls worked on the far side of the room, where they rolled out strips of plain fabric, cut them and sewed them together. They were making clothes, mostly simple soldiers’ or gardes’ uniforms, robes for the healers and patients. Each finished garment was flattened, then neatly folded before a girl sorted them into crates on the other side of the wall. The girls quietly whispered amongst themselves and constantly looked up to watch Fen as he was led through the room.

“And here’s where your station will be. Ned used to sort all the meka parts until Rin got adopted while we make the clocks with the spare parts,” Edd explained. He dumped a large wooden box filled with decommissioned and scrapped meka devices and parts, all in varying states of rusted, tarnished, dinted and crumpled. Fen’s eyes widened at the sheer volume of spare parts, which made him feel quite giddy.

He used to sell these whenever he could find them, just to get a bite to eat every few days. Now, he was sat in front of a whole box and could very well run away with to live off it for a good few months. Although, eventually he would have to return to scrounging around on the streets and in the sewers to stay alive. Running away wasn’t going to be a good idea, at least for now, while he had guaranteed food and a roof over his head.

“Use the tools here,” Edd gestured to the side of the worktable, “and break everything down into individual parts. Put anything that’s unusable into this box down here, clean and polish the rest. Then, when you’ve done that, you’ll need to sort each part into their tubs on the shelf. Got it?”

Fen stared at Edd blankly for a long moment, mind spinning with the sheer volume of information he needed to process. He swore his hands started to shake and he wasn’t sure why. Dumbly, he nodded to Edd, but the elder didn’t seem convinced.

“Just ask me, Ben or Lee for help. We’ve all been there,” he sighed and trudged to his own workstation where he started to sort through pieces under the bright light of a candle. Fen stood there for a few moments, raking his eyes across the workbench and nervously worrying the dry skin on the back of his hands.

The floorboards above him creaked and footsteps trailed toward the stairs he had descended not long ago. Mother descended the stairs and the children in the workshop all turned at once to focus on their tasks, not daring to look up, not even to greet mother, which Fen had stupidly done.

“Get to work, Fen. I hope I haven’t made a mistake by welcoming you into my home,” she warned with surprising softness. The dark meaning of her words was enough to send shivers up Fen’s spine, so he bent his head down and began to sift through the box. He had no idea how to take the meka scraps apart, so he pulled out all of the individual parts he could find and began to rub them with the cloth on the bench.

It didn’t make much of a difference, but Fen took the parts to the shelf and stood there, dumbly gazing at the sheer collection of parts and how many different ones there were.

“Fen,” someone whispered his name. “Fen.” They said again, and he turned, brows knitted. “Those parts aren’t clean. We can’t use them like that. Go back and clean the gold ones with the fluid in the yellow capped bottle, the bronze ones with the orange bottle and the silver ones with the blue bottle,” Ben instructed quietly, eyes flashing toward mother’s retreating silhouette. It was a lot to remember, but Fen bit his lip and nodded, retreating to the workbench to start again. “They colour coded it so it’s easy to remember.”

He had no idea how long he had to sit there cleaning and sorting parts, but by the end of it, his hands ached, and his skin was raw and tender from the cleaning fluids in the bottles and constant rubbing. Briefly, he thought of Micah and Celeste down in the Fleuve Cendre and wondered if they had eaten that day. Was this easier than spending all day scouring the freezing, stinky sewers for treasure in the hopes of scoring a meal? Only time would tell.

His thoughts were interrupted when a heavier set of footfalls sounded out above him. Everyone in the workshop froze for a moment before abandoning their stations to line up in two perfect lines in front of the stairs. Fen darted across the room almost a moment too late, and the man descending the stairs caught his movement.

The man was middle-aged, with brown slicked back hair that was streaked with grey at the temples. He had cool, grey eyes that swept over the children as he descended the last two stairs.

“Father,” each of the children quietly greeted him in turn as he walked past them, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of Fen, and he greeted the man more quietly than the of the children. With a sudden movement, the man turned to face him in one swift movement, heels clipping together.

“You,” the man called ‘father’ said brusquely and pursed his lips. Instinctively, Fen braced himself to be hit, but the blow never came. “New boy. You weren’t here yesterday morning. What is your name?”

“Fen… sir,” he added, eyes glued to the floor. It’s the name mother had given him.

“Very well, Fen. As long as you work well and follow the rules, you’ll have no trouble from me, boy.” Father reached out to ruffle his hair, but the movement made his stomach lurch with a hot flash of panic. Fen stepped back, curling away from father’s touch as if it were poison. The man drew his hand back and eyed him with something akin to contempt but said nothing more. He continued through the workshop, inspecting the goods set aside as complete while the children anxiously shifted around, chewing their stubby nails and exchanging glances.

“Boys,” father broke the trembling silence with a warning tone and heavy sigh. “How many times have I told you, the gear behind the front plate cannot be backward. It may function, but it does not look correct. Fix these now, or there’ll be no dinner for you tonight.”

Without another word, the boys rushed forward to unpack the crate of finished meka goods. Fen stood still for a few moments before realising he should at least return to his workbench. Father then sifted through the crates of clothing the girls had made. He separated two items and laid them out on the benches, making the girls stiffen.

“Ann, if you don’t cut off your loose threads one more time, I will cut off your other braid,” father quipped at one of the girls. She was blonde and only had one braid going down the left side of her head. The right side had been clipped short. “And this one… the entire thing is inside out! What a waste of material!” One of the other girls quietly whimpered and walked up to father with short, timid steps. “Hold out your hand.” The girl did as she was told, and father took one of the rulers from the girls’ workbenches and thwacked it across the back of her hand. A stifled sob escaped her lips, but no other sound formed after that when she clasped her good hand over her mouth.

“Fix these mistakes, then you may come upstairs for supper,” father announced and retreated back up the stairs.

Fen wiped the back of his forearm across his head, smudging a layer of sweat and dirt and grease. The workshop was warm and stuffy after a full day’s work, reeking of cleaning chemicals and the sharp taste of metal. He hoped he might be able to wash his face some time later that day — if the day hadn’t already ended.

Once the boys lowered their tools, Fen followed them upstairs where there were thirteen more slices of buttered bread set out and thirteen empty bowls in a stack. They lined up and brought their bowls toward the hearth in the kitchen where a large pot was suspended before the fire and mother ladled soup into their bowls.

There were no incidents during the meal, everyone was too tired to talk, and the girls ate lukewarm soup once they had returned from the workshop. There was still a lick of light remaining in the day, so once they had finished their meals, the children crowded around the door until mother returned from the kitchen and ordered them to line up.

One by one, she ran her hands down the children’s sides, checking their clothing and mouths until she was satisfied, they were empty. Now Fen understood why the children hadn’t nicked off with any of the spare parts to sell back to metal scrappers. His hands slid into his pockets as slowly and subtly as he could manage, sweat prickling on his brow again as he reached for the bracelet still within his pocket, curling his fist so tightly around it his fingers flared with pain.

He watched for a few tenuous moments where mother’s hands would graze against the children’s sides and determined the best place to hide the bracelet. Mother was two boys away from him, so he closed his eyes and pretended to let a sneeze build up.

Upon the (very convincing) sneeze he let out, he threw his body forward and managed to slip the bracelet down the front of his pants before righting himself just in time for mother to run her hands down his sides to check for stolen goods. It felt like oil had been slathered across his skin wherever her touch had been. He suppressed the violent shiver that threatened to roll up his body and followed the boys out into the warm evening air. They broke into a sprint the moment their shoes hit the pavement.

Fen was tired of running. He did not follow.

“Come on!” Edd snatched his wrist and dragged him along through the city streets, weaving through throngs of people, carts, market stalls, refuse and muddy gutters filled with stagnant water. Having had two things to eat that day, Fen was surprised to find himself keeping up with Edd, who was just behind Ben and Lee.

“Where are we going?”

“Down to the canals. We’ve got some business to settle with some of Madam Poirot’s boys.” Edd grinned wickedly. Ben and Lee cheered and cracked their knuckles.

Fen later came to find that ‘settling business’ just meant watching the three boys take turns having one-on-one fist fights with three of Madam Poirot’s boarders. They were bigger than Edd, Ben and Lee, but that seemed to be the only reason the three of them were struggling to put up a decent fight against the bigger boys. Edd had a bloody nose; Ben’s left eye was on its way to swelling shut and Lee was choking back tears as bloody saliva leaked from the sides of his mouth. Fen sat further away, feet dangling over the dark canal water, watching a big golden fish float about just beneath the surface.

“Fen, Fen!” Edd called then slapped him on the shoulder. “Come help us, Kuisel’s taken Lee’s shoe and won’t give it back. With a sigh, Fen abandoned his post at the canal’s edge and walked over to where Kuisel was holding up a battered shoe and his two brothers were holding Ben and Lee back. Fen took a deep breath and walked up to the three bigger boys, unerringly.

He got as close as he dared without raising a fist, which seemed to have confused Kuisel and his brothers. Without warning, he jabbed the boy on the right in the stomach with a sharp winding punch and did the same to the boy on the left. Kuisel stepped forward to clobber him, but he ducked out of the way, slipping between Kuisel and his brother. Fen kicked the back of one of the brother’s knees, making him buckle to the ground. The remaining two charged at him and pushed him back so hard, he almost skidded off the wooden deck that overhung the side of the canal.

His head bumped against one of the wooden posts and his heart hammered in his chest. His palms stung with fresh splinters. Kuisel charged at him, low and fast, face bright red and Lee’s shoe abandoned beside him. Fen drew in a sharp breath and kept himself sitting on the ground until Kuisel’s significant weight crashed into him. He flattened himself down to the ground and with Kuisel’s forward momentum, kicked him through the legs to keep him going.

With spectacular fashion, Kuisel toppled over Fen and tumbled gracefully into the canal below with a splash. His brothers scampered to their feet to peek over the edge of the wood where Kuisel had fallen. Fen took advantage of their distraction and scampered to his feet away from Madam Poirot’s boys.

“That was…” Edd stuttered, lost for words, mouth comically wide.

“Thanks,” Lee whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

“Don’t mention it,” Fen warned. With a scowl, he turned to retrace his steps back to the house for bed, only to stop in his tracks when a blood curdling scream struck up from the canal. Stupidly, Edd, Ben and Lee all rushed to the source of the scream and a chorus of at least three different screams echoed off the stone walls of the nearby buildings.

“He’s dead!”

Shatteringly cold ice cracked through Fen’s veins — he must have killed Kuisel, it was an accident, how was he to know Kuisel couldn’t swim? It was the boy’s own fault for not being aware of his own surroundings.

“Get me up, get me up!” Kuisel’s voice was nearly unrecognisable, shrill in the way only a child lost in the grip of terror would get. With a sigh, Fen walked back to the crowd of boys where the brothers were struggling to pull a very wet Kuisel up and out of the water. Edd, Ben and Lee all stood still as statues with ashen complexions.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to trace where the boys were looking.

“Ther—there’s a dead… dead b-boy!” Kuisel shrieked. “Near the drain.”

Fen peered over the edge of the deck, in the opposite direction to where he was enjoying the view and spotted a pale and twisted lump of bloated flesh near one of the large outlet pipes, bracketed by silt and tangles of weeds. Dinner churned unhelpfully in his stomach as he took in the sight. It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen, in fact, he’d seen quite a few of them in the Fleuve Cendre. Perhaps the dead boy had something useful in his pockets.

Fen lowered himself over the edge of the decking and swung over to the edge of the canal where he could walk along a narrow strip of silty land that abutted the stone walls of the canal.

“Fen, what the fuck?” one of the boys — he didn’t care which — shouted. “Don’t touch it!”

He walked closer and the full brunt of the smell finally hit him. His dinner burbled up from his stomach and spilled out of his mouth in a frothy, acidic stream that he really tried his best to choke back. He’d ventured too far to turn back now, so he continued over until he could crouch next to the boy’s body. His face was turned away, but Fen could tell he had been dead for a few days.

Gingerly, he slipped his fingers into the boy’s pocket and withdrew a scant handful of meka parts and a single mora coin. He pocketed them for himself and could hear Edd’s voice getting louder. Curiosity stirred in him now that the trip had proven worth it. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder and felt himself gag again as the bloated skin squished beneath his fingers. Turning the body over was difficult, given its stiffness, but he managed eventually, amongst the other boy’s horrified shrieks.

The dead boy’s face was bruised purple and dark chunks of coagulated blood clung to his throat like a necklace. His throat had been slit. His eyes were swollen shut, and his mouth was stretched wide with the horror of his last moments.

Above him, Edd shrieked and drew away. Then moments later, he released an awful, wet sob that sounded like his vocal cords were ripping apart. It was a sound that would echo in Fen’s dreams and memories for years.

“By the love of Niennë… That’s Rin.”

Chapter Text

Last night, Wriothesley got maybe one page through The Anatomy of Dragons, third edition, before his head began to protest and he set the book aside. His only excuse for that indiscretion would be that a good night’s sleep before a fight is paramount.

Navia shows for breakfast late. She looks awful, like she hasn’t slept a wink despite Wriothesley seeing her buried under her covers the four or five times he checked in on her, but at least now the colour has somewhat returned to her cheeks. She’s not particularly chatty and Wriothesley only puts a fillet of fish on her plate this time.

Since he didn’t see Heizou Shikanoin after his fight yesterday, he makes sure to congratulate him on his victory before he leaves for Formation.

At Formation, two names are called out for death roll, no one from his squad, but both deaths are from the first day of Challenges. Headmaster Furina does well to remind them that Challenges are for providing a taste of realistic combat in order for cadets to realise their own weaknesses and their squad’s weaknesses — and are not an excuse to kill each other. She cites, “control is just as important as strength, if not more.” With a pleased chuckle, she levels the fresh-looking first years and reminds them, “you first years will come to learn the value of this lesson if you make it far enough to manifest a signet.”

The reminder of the magic that they stood to gain if they survived past Threshing was enough to stir the grim looking first years into mildly better spirits.

Wriothesley has never put much thought into what it might be like for him to have a signet. If he can think about the future further than just the next day, dragons is all that occupies his mind. Seeing only in short-term is what’s kept him alive all this time, even if it’s taken him to some places he’d rather not have been.

But a signet, a manifestation of power within a rider, drawn from the bond between them and their dragon; it’s said to be dependent on the qualities of the rider, rather than the dragon. Would he get strength? Or wield shadows like the Third Year, Xiao Alatus, in his squad is rumoured to? Or—

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Formation suddenly breaks. Almost half the quadrant bustles down to the sparring gym. Today’s Challenges are scheduled for the morning. The last ones his squad has to attend are after lunch on Thursday.

Most of his squad are already there, helping to set up the mats. Navia is huddled in the corner and nervously casts a look to Wriothesley, as if she expects his fight with Thoma Glassner to be as bloody as her loss yesterday. Freminet stands behind her looking horrifically tired, wincing with every movement. He must be deliciously sore after the workout last night.

He doesn’t remember when he’s scheduled to fight, but it must be within the first portion of the sessions.

Two cadets he doesn’t know are called up to the mat and he watches them duke it out, bare knuckle style before one of them twirls to the ground, blood spraying out of their nose as they’re hit with a knockout punch.

“Cadets Wriothesley and Thoma Glassner, please step onto the mat,” his Squad Leader, Aether Travelis, calls out. Professor Mavuika is busy watching other Challenges, so the refereeing falls to one of the Cadets in a leadership position. Aether nods to him, expression mild but somewhat grave.

Thoma Glassner steps onto the mat, polearm in hand. He’s on the taller side, but lean instead of broad, with bright green eyes that look more friendly than menacing. It ruins the intimidation factor of his scowl far too easily, in addition to the black headband he wears to keep his blonde hair out of his eyes. His features are a bit of a mix. If Wriothesley had to guess, it’d be Mondstadt and Inazuma in the shape of his eyes and nose.

Choosing a polearm weapon in his fight puts Thoma at an advantage at range, but a disadvantage in close quarters. It’s a strategic move Wriothesley has to acknowledge is well thought out, since anyone who knows him or of him are well aware that he packs a punch if he can reach. A shield would be good for this fight, but Wriothesley finds himself without. Therefore, his next best option is his standard issue short sword in his right hand and his heavy steel gauntlet in his left to function as a shield.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see Navia shuffle around nervously, looking over his shoulders. Tracing her line of sight, Wriothesley lays eyes on the cadets bordering the mat on his left and stops when he finds a set of dead blue eyes staring at him behind the wall of cadets. Ajax Tachelli is watching him intently, sly smile curling the corner of his mouth. From anyone else, this kind of behaviour would be easy for him to ignore, but there’s something about Cadet Tachelli that makes him feel uneasy.

Aether signals the start of the fight.

Thoma remains remarkably still, battle ready, eyes sharply focused on Wriothesley, ready to anticipate his first move. It’s awkward, not the way Wriothesley fights, being on instinct alone. If he thinks too hard about where he’s going and what might happen next, he finds himself dangerously distracted.

He makes the first move, darting left to capture Thoma’s attention and immediately finding the sharp end of the stick whipping blisteringly fast toward him. He deflects the force of the hit upward with his gauntlet and ducks low to avoid the blade embedding in his head as it flicks upward.

Despite the looming threat of serious injury, he’s oddly calm as Thoma swings the polearm back around at him in quick, well-tempered strikes, each skimming off Wriothesley’s blade and gauntlet as he deflects every strike. His skin prickles every time the blade whooshes toward him, narrowly missing his body. Thoma is careful to keep him at a distance at all costs, likely hoping he’ll tire out or misstep to open up an opportunity for him to strike where it hurts most.

Everyone surrounding them on the mat steps back from the edges to avoid Thoma’s wide swings. The wider he swings, the longer he’s unguarded, the easier Wriothesley can close the gap between them.

He jumps as Thoma swings low, though, the hard pole of the weapon smashes into the bone of Wriothesley’s ankle, barely cushioned by the thick leather of his boots. He lands off balance, an uncomfortable pain jerking all the way through his feet to his hips. Thoma thrusts the polearm forward in a stabbing motion, winding the momentum of his whole body behind it. A flash of familiar burning pain slashes across the side of his hip as he deflects the blow away from the centre of his body, but just not far enough, still unstable on his feet.

A few stifled shouts echo behind him, his squadmates’ concern grows as he feels the bottom of his shirt grow damp. It’s not deep, just inconvenient. He grits his teeth in frustration and as Thoma spins around to flick the polearm in his direction again, he deflects the blow toward the ground with both sword and gauntlet with as much force as he can muster. He can see the way Thoma’s arms shudder with the force and his grip momentarily loosens.

Quickly, he stomps on the flat head of the polearm blade with his right foot and whips around with a left roundhouse to the pole, ripping it from Thoma’s hands. The kid is smart enough to back up far enough to avoid the swing of Wriothesley’s fist that comes a split second after the kick. The polearm helplessly rolls across to the right side of the mat and Thoma stands absolutely no chance of retrieving it without risking Wriothesley thwapping him with the flat side of his blade.

“I think now would be a good time to yield,” Wriothesley offers, holding his blade up and circling around Thoma until he’s between the kid and the polearm. Thoma’s adams apple bobs as he gulps with uncertainty. “You fought well.”

For a moment, Thoma weighs up the consequences of continuing the fight or escaping with his dignity still intact. Wriothesley’s got no intention of spilling blood unnecessarily when they’ve got the Snezhnayans and Eremites doing that for them on the borders.

“This fight’s not over,” Thoma grits out, expression hardening. “Drop your sword and we can finish this man-to-man.” The blonde raises his fists and rocks back and forth like he’s still got plenty of energy. Wriothesley knows by the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, it’s nervous energy. Trust a young cadet to feel the incessant need to prove himself, especially in a place like this.

With a sigh, Wriothesley throws his sword down and unbuckles his gauntlet, keeping a wary eye on Thoma in case he’s not an honour-bound man and decides to attack him whilst occupied. Briefly, Wriothesley spares a glance to Aether Travelis, who looks mildly bewildered but nods impatiently, just wanting the fight to be over.

Thoma Glassner made a mistake offering hand-to-hand combat. He may be quick and agile, but he’s not built to throw a punch, let alone take one.

The fight is over as soon as it starts. The blonde darts forward, closely guarding his face as he feints left, delivering a punch to Wriothesley’s ribs. The second Thoma comes into range, Wriothesley’s fist rockets across his body and cracks against the side of Thoma’s face. His knuckles ache as they smash against his cheek, teeth and nose much harder than he’d been aiming for.

Thoma collapses to the ground in a heap, eyes completely unfocused. His body is entirely still for one terrifying moment and a hideous swirl of nausea spikes through Wriothesley’s body as he realises he’s probably killed Cadet Glassner without meaning to. This was what Headmaster Furina was talking about earlier this morning. Control is vital.

An uneasy breath jerks through Thoma’s body as he comes to, barely a few moments after hitting the ground. He coughs and spits a rather thick glob of blood onto the mat and swears, then coughs some more and spits out a tooth. Wriothesley’s probably broken Glassner’s nose, but the kid’s not dead. That’s all that matters.

Thoma pushes himself up to a sitting position and Wriothesley doesn’t move, remaining out of reach. He could certainly finish a fight but knocking a man while he’s down, though there’s no honour in that. Glassner raises his hands and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘yield’.

“Cadet Wriothesley is the winner of this challenge. He may take Cadet Glassner’s polearm,” Aether announces while Wriothesley offers a hand to help the kid up. Thoma looks at him with suspicion and hesitates before reluctantly taking the outstretched hand. He hauls Thoma up, surprised by how light the young man is for his size.

“Call that a learning experience,” he whispers politely before clapping Thoma on the back — not too hard — and sends him on his way to the healer’s station to get his newly crooked nose sent straight.

Briefly, he scans the line of cadets surrounding him and spots the back of Tachelli’s head disappearing into the throng of cadets surrounding the other mats. Hopefully the easy win against Glassner has scared the prick off.

He turns back to pick up his sword and eyes the polearm with uncertainty. Polearm is not a weapon he has any kind of proficiency with, but there’s time to learn if he feels motivated enough. He picks it up and throws it up in the air a little, watching it spin on its axis briefly before it lands back in his hands, surprisingly light. With a shrug, he returns to the sidelines next to Navia, who looks positively disturbed by the fight.

Aether calls the next challenge, and Navia softly taps him on the back.

“Wriothesley…” she whispers uncertainly. “You’re still bleeding.”

Fuck. The sudden rush of adrenaline meant definitely forgot about that.

🌊🐉🌊

Within a few minutes, Wriothesley is patched up and ready to make his way to Battle Brief, not late this time around. He finds Navia seated near the front with a vacant seat on one side and a very nervous looking Freminet stationed on the other side of it.

Professor Zhongli is engaged in a very intense conversation with Scribe Nahida at the front of the room. She’s clutching a missive in her hand and even from this distance, Wriothesley can see the blue seal of the King on it. They’re too far away for any of their words to be intelligible, but Wriothesley can tell it’s a disagreement of some sort. Professor Zhongli’s expression remains stern and unyielding, shaking his head at regular intervals. He dismisses Scribe Nahida entirely as he steps forward to begin the day’s Battle Brief session.

“Good morning, Cadets,” he greets in an unnaturally warm tone, slightly higher in pitch than his usual deep rumble. It’s not quite the same as Professor Neuvillette’s smooth reverberating voice and the hint of sweetness that comes with his politeness. “No major events to report today.”

A relieved sigh echoes through the room and Wriothesley’s tense shoulders drop. His old squad may live to see another day, though, now he no longer knows if they’ve been stationed at another outpost or are dead on the mountainside.

He would write to them if he could. Some bastard, long ago, banned the First Years of Meropide from contacting their families until Second Year, citing something about it enhancing the way the Cadets would bond with one another and produce stronger teams. Wriothesley’s first round in Meropide passed just fine as he’s never had any family to contact and wasn’t particularly keen on staying in touch with any of his ‘friends’ from prison…

This time around, he has people he genuinely misses and wishes to hear from, or at the very least, know if they are still alive.

“The only news from the border worth reporting is that a portion of the mountain pass through the Brightcrown mountains has been washed away by a significant amount of rain over the past few days. Can anyone tell me what this might impact and how this problem may be solved?” Professor Zhongli asks, hands clasped behind his back as he casually paces around the front of the room. The hall, despite containing the entire quadrant, is silent, until Navia raises her hand. Wriothesley has no idea how she has the courage to constantly put up her hand to offer her (usually correct) insights to the Professor. “Yes, Cadet Caspar?” The Professor acknowledges her tiredly.

“Well, we talked about the attack on Mayhorn Village a few weeks ago. Mayhorn is located along the Brightcrown mountains pass, is it not?” she offers confidently. Wriothesley nods in agreement, it’s the first thing he thought about when Professor Zhongli relayed the news.

“That is correct, Cadet Caspar,” Scribe Nahida confirms, lips pursed. If Navia had trained as a to become a scribe, would Nahida have known, and did she lament the loss of such a bright student to the brutal ways of the Quadrant?

“Then that would affect civilian evacuations and access to aid that was supposed to be coming through,” Navia states, then takes a breath to finish her analysis – only to be cut off.

“Yes. Would someone else like to offer their insight?” The Professor probes the hall and Wriothesley can feel the eyeroll coming from Navia without even looking at her. He’d love nothing more than to tell the Professor that for such a meagre task, they’d dispatch any nearby Infantry squads laden with building supplies to repair the road. He’d been up there in that very mountain pass before, shovel in hand and near frostbitten fingers as he and about twenty other lieutenants and officers all dug a new path through the slick soil and tried not to get swallowed up by the inevitable landslides.

A second year in the middle of the room raises his hand and the Professor nods to him. He has a shock of white hair and deep brown skin characteristic of southwest Sumeru.

“Well, those conditions would leave the village vulnerable to a second attack,” the Second Year offers in a very level matter-of-fact tone. “Should the wards falter in the same place again,” he adds carefully.

“Very good. Thank you, Cadet Nabil,” Scribe Nahida nods with a pleasant grin.

“And how would one remedy this problem?”

“Send two additional riders to reinforce the outpost, to prepare for the worst,” Clorinde Magloire calls out from the back of the room, like she’s answered this question a thousand times and just wants the class to move on.

“Thank you, Wingleader,” Professor Zhongli quips, unimpressed with her blasé manner.

Wriothesley’s eyes, and many others, are drawn to the door when it opens. A familiar, but bruised face slips through the gap and most people turn their attention back to Professor Zhongli when they realise it’s just Thoma Glassner. Wriothesley, however, doesn’t. Glassner regards him warily with a minute nod before breaking eye contact as he tries to find a seat. From what Wriothesley gathers, there’s no hard feelings between them.

Or at least he hopes.

🌊🐉🌊

In Meropide, lunch is more of a come as you please sort of ordeal, in comparison to breakfast and dinner. Not everyone is in the meal hall at the same time, or even at all. Wriothesley has Navia and a few other squadmates trailing behind him before they all sit to eat.

He’s not talked much to anyone but Navia and Freminet for the most part — being social is not one of his key talents. Most of the First Years in his squad seem rather intimidated by him, where in comparison, the Second and Third Years look at him largely with distain. Given over half of them are marked, and the remainder are the “look at me the wrong way and I’ll kill you” type, there’s not much use beating a dead horse there. This leaves Aether Travelis as the sole upperclassman that doesn’t look like he wants to immediately kick his teeth in.

Thankfully, said blonde with a rather impressive looking braid that he often keeps tucked into his uniform, sits down opposite him for the first time ever. The deviation from the norm is enough for Wriothesley to fumble his cutlery and his jaw hangs open for a moment. Making a fool of himself in front of his Squad Leader is the last thing he wants to be doing.

“You are one strange man,” Aether hums slowly, quirking a thoughtful brow. Wriothesley isn’t sure how to answer that, so he offers a shrug. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone fight the way you do. At least not here or any of the places I’ve trained.”

Evidently, prison has not been one of the many places Aether has trained…

“That supposed to be a compliment?” It comes out a more bitter than he’d have liked. Keeping his tone in check was not something he was ever taught or cared for. When he first learnt to fight, it was dirty, fast, always ready to run at the first opening of escape. Now his style is more... honour bound, where required, and maximum damage, where necessary,

“I hoped it would,” Aether replies, undeterred. “Being strange or unique makes you more unpredictable, therefore, at an advantage on the mat and out there. I see why it makes you well-known.”

Wriothesley nods in thanks. Though the common language of Teyvat is spoken throughout all six nations, Wriothesley can’t exactly place Aether’s slight accent. The Fontainian accent, or at least Wriothesley’s lower-class, butchered version of it, is heavy on the vowels and sits near the back of his mouth. Where the Liyuan accent sits in the middle of the mouth and has a musicality to it that moves the lips more strongly than the other regional accents, Aether is a mystery. Some of his words chop and change where they sit in his throat or mouth, with unusual stresses that seem to wander through every single accent in Teyvat.

“I’d like to see you fight,” Wriothesley offers, more kindly this time. “Sounds like you’ve been places.”

“I certainly have,” Aether laughs nervously with a bright smile. He turns to regard Navia, who is sat to Wriothesley’s right as usual. “Navia, why don’t you see me some time over the weekend for some training. My apologies for not offering sooner. I’d assumed someone else might be teaching you and I didn’t make enough time to check in with everybody.”

Navia purses her lips and takes a breath in to respond, but she’s interrupted when Aether’s pleasant expression drops and a set of footfalls beelines toward Wriothesley from behind. He tenses, knowing he doesn’t have enough time to turn around.

“I saw the shit you pulled during Challenges today,” Clorinde’s cold, snarking voice drops by momentarily and she thwaps the back of Wriothesley’s head. “I’d strongly discourage you from repeating that behaviour again.”

“For fu-huck sake,” he sighs, turning to face her so she’s not directly at his back. “What’ve I done now?”

“Your opponent is not going to yield to you simply because you’ve disarmed them. This isn’t Infantry. A fight is only finished when one of you can no longer carry on.”

By the time Wriothesley opens his mouth to defend himself, Clorinde is already too far away.

“Gods,” Aether grumbles as she walks away. “She’s worse than my sister.”

The last thing Wriothesley would like to be doing is shouting across the meal hall that sometimes it doesn’t hurt to have a shred of respect for your duelling opponent and to maintain honour. Beside him, Navia’s fists are clenched so hard her knuckles are white and her jaw quivers with the force she’s using to hold it shut.

“She has a point, but ignore her,” Aether sighs, heading off without another word. Seems like he’s got other business to attend to.

“You alright there, Nav?” he asks quietly enough that hopefully no one else at the table hears him. Navia’s eye twitches and she remains petrifyingly still for a few moments, too overcome with anger to even breathe properly. “Hey, hey. Don’t forget to breathe.”

Navia screws her eyes shut and then forcefully draws in a breath as if she’s doing it against her will. The tension in her body loosens up enough for her to move a fraction, albeit in short, jerky movements.

“I’m going to kill her one day,” she murmurs darkly.

“Be my guest.”

“‘A fight is only finished when one of you can no longer carry on,’ of course she would frame it that way,” Navia seethes, a little too loud, to the point where the squadmates at their table slowly turn to look at her. “She wouldn’t know honour if it looked her in the face and spat on her.”

Wriothesley doesn’t even have to look up to know Clorinde has heard Navia’s comment from halfway across the room. The table falls silent, along with almost half the meal hall. Navia doesn’t even flinch, temper still flaring against the inner battle she’s fighting to not jump over the table and run at Clorinde.

“I think you’ve had enough lunch for today,” Wriothesley murmurs quickly, standing up and yanking Navia to her feet by the shoulders. She grunts in protest but is too lost in her own internal anger to stop staring Clorinde down like prey. He leads her out of the hall by the shoulders and she stumbles almost the entire way.

Once they’re out in the corridor, it’s mostly vacant of cadets, but Wriothesley pushes on until they find a quieter corridor. What he would do to have his own room with a modicum of privacy right now so he can say exactly what he’s thinking right now.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he hisses, certain that his eyes are about to bulge out of his head with the incredulous look he’s throwing at Navia right now.

“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?” she shoots back, teeth bared.

“Hey, I’m not the one who decided to abandon my scribe training to show up here on a whim and almost get killed seven times!” He slaps his hand against the stone of the wall just to let out the worst of his frustration.

“Fuck you. It wasn’t seven times. And I’m not here on a whim, I’m here for revenge,” she seethes, slamming the side of her fist into the wall, an echo of Wriothesley’s movement.

Revenge?

Wriothesley’s mind screeches to a halt over the word that resounds in his head like a giant bell being struck, shaking the foundations of the version of Navia he’s put together in his head. He’s sure he’s seen her in passing once or twice when speaking with her father about fourteen or so years ago. A little blonde girl, always running about, helping other children through the Spina before she could even tell right from wrong. A girl loved so dearly by her parents that they’d probably go as far as throwing themselves over hot coals so her feet wouldn’t burn.

“You’re here for revenge?”

“Did I stutter?” She punctuates each word with a force behind it that feels like a blow to the chest.

The whatever’s left of the version of Navia he’s familiar with shatters into thousands of colourful pieces, a rock shattering through the stained-glass window of a temple. The hallway darkens and a greasy sense of nausea worms its way up Wriothesley’s torso.

She’s here to kill Clorinde.

The thought is almost laughable. Someone, trained to become a scribe their entire life, throwing everything away to kill the famous duelling champion of Meropide. As if she stood a chance. And then it clicks.

“Your father,” he whispers to himself.

“Yes. My father.” She spits the words like they are poison, but once free of the weight of it, the stormy aura coalescing around her shivers, solidifying into brittle rock, groaning against the shrinking force of it. It cracks in spindly web-like patterns before crumbling away, leaving the soft interior exposed and vulnerable.

Wriothesley has no idea how to even begin to imagine what it would feel like to wake up every day and be at the mercy of the person who killed your father in a duel. Callas Caspar was no fighter. He was a man of intellect, deduction and politics. Clementine Caspar, her mother, was the fighter. But she was long gone.

“What happened?” he swallows nervously, unsure if he wants to hear the words from Navia’s mouth. He never received news of what happened to Callas while he was stationed at the frontlines. Navia’s eyes glisten with the threat of tears and she swallows thickly.

“He was accused of treachery. Falsely,” she adds. “It ruined his reputation, and the Spina’s. When given the option to defend himself in court…” she trails off in a shaking voice, tilting her head upward to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks.

“He chose to duel for his innocence,” Wriothesley finishes the sentence for her, voice strangely uneasy as his lungs feel terribly hollow.

“Clorinde was, and still is, the champion duellist for Fontaine’s court. She killed him without batting an eye. And I had to watch.” In spite of her efforts, tears now run freely down Navia’s cheeks in wide streaks. With the back of her sleeve, she rubs her cheeks dry with a little too much force, leaving her skin blotchy and pink.

He doesn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ certainly doesn’t mean anything helpful in this instance and there are no words that come to mind as the right thing to say. So, he lets the better, more eloquent part of him do the talking.

Cautiously, he steps in closer and tentatively pulls her in by the shoulder for a hug. She buries her face in his chest as his arms wind around her and lets out a few muffled, shaking sobs. He rests his chin on the top of her head and pats the space between her shoulder blades lightly, embracing her like a sister he’s never had.

After a few moments, she pulls back and he lets go, stepping back to give her space. She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He offers a sad smile. “We’ll get you your revenge.” He owed Callas at least that.

She chuckles sadly and rolls her eyes.

🌊🐉🌊

Wriothesley does in fact get to see Aether fight at Challenges that week, but not until he’s watched Freminet just barely scrape by with his life intact against Gaming Yip.

For reasons unknown to Wriothesley, the boy with joints made of rubber has chosen to use a broadsword in his Challenge against Cadet Yip, who also opts for the same. Though, Wriothesley can see the guy is strong enough to handle it despite his shorter stature. His arms are well defined, and his tight-fitting shirt leaves little to the imagination.

When the challenge starts, Wriothesley can see that Gaming launches himself into the air, then swings. He leaps like a deer, powerful thighs and dancer’s grace. Freminet on the other hand, applies the learnings from the training sessions he’s had with Wriothesley almost all week long — only one of which were attended by Navia, in which she requested to be left alone to observe. Freminet manages to meet each of Yip’s blows, steel clanging like a blacksmith tempering a blade.

He can tell the blonde kid is outmatched; he simply doesn’t have the strength to swing a big blade like that around without throwing out his shoulder. And throw out his shoulder he does. Freminet swings at Gaming, who feints left, far enough for the blade to completely miss him and grace through the air in a useless arc that ends in Freminet’s shoulder popping out of the socket. The young De Hearth cries out in pain and the sword slips from his hands.

It’s already too late, Cadet Yip twists around with a terrifyingly fast strike, aimed toward Freminet’s head as he’s bent over in pain. The blonde fumbles for the hilt and brings it up just in time for Gaming’s strike to clatter against the steel, knocking it from his hands once more.

All Yip has to do is whip around and deliver a turning kick to Freminet’s head to send the boy slumping down to the mat, knocked out cold. Cadet Yip is kind enough to kneel down and gently shake Freminet awake before collecting both broadswords from the mat. Wriothesley can’t help but sigh, even if the kid showed improvement, he still had his work cut out for him. Clorinde is probably watching from somewhere feeling vindicated.

Lyney De Hearth steps onto the mat to pick his foster brother up and sit him down against the wall. Briefly the two of them make eye contact with Lynette across the other side of the mat, something unspoken passing between the three of them before their eyes come to rest on Wriothesley. He swallows nervously and walks over to the two De Hearths.

“Hold him still while I relocate his shoulder,” Lyney asks without making eye contact. Wriothesley does as he’s asked, holding a very weak and jelly-like Freminet still as Lyney manipulates the joint back into place with a practised ease. Freminet only manages to choke out a complaint of pain before he briefly passes out.

“Thank you,” Lyney says weightily. He’s not thanking him for the shoulder assist.

Lyney and Freminet murmur softly between themselves, mostly Freminet complaining that everything hurts and Lyney praising him for his improvement in defence. Wriothesley leaves them to their brotherly bonding while the rest of the room has their eyes locked on the fights running across several mats. That way they know no one is truly watching them.

Wriothesley returns to the mat in time to catch the start of Aether’s challenge. His Squad Leader is up against a blazing red headed man, probably about a half a head shorter than Wriothesley with dark angry eyes. It reminds him a little of what he saw in Scar’s eyes that first day of Professor Mavuika’s class, so bitter with the injustice of his past that the fire of it is all-consuming. The redhead’s squadmates cheer for him, some calling him by his first name, others calling him by his last. Diluc Ragnvindr, Wriothesley surmises as he watches Aether and Diluc dance around one another in what looks like a coordinated performance.

If Headmaster Furina wanted the cadets to showcase control, she could eat her heart out watching these two. Travelis fights with a standard issue short sword, much like Wriothesley’s own, where Ragnvindr fights with a great sword. Both weapons are suited to their builds and fighting styles.

The clang of metal fills the air as the two charge at one another, swords clashing and skidding off one another. Aether is fast, not in the way that he attacks, but by how much ground he covers when he fights, running in, dodging, jumping back, sliding along the mats and tumbling back when the weight of Diluc’s strike is too much for him to bear.

Cadet Ragnvindr on the other hand has that cool, controlled rage thing going on. His expression is deadly calm, with exception of his eyes, and he wields his great sword as if it’s half the weight it should be. As Aether cuts a large red stripe across his bicep with a clever misdirection, Ragnvindr clenches his teeth and falls into a terrifying sequence of attacks where he slashes left, right and spins to gain momentum, close to splitting Aether in two.

There is nothing Aether can do in that moment but dive out of the way as Diluc’s sword cuts all the way through the mat and almost embeds itself in the floor. Aether’s sword makes a dull thump as it falls to the mat and Aether unceremoniously rolls away from it. Ragnvindr raises his sword once more and catches Aether in the shoulder before he can get completely out of range.

Wriothesley realises belatedly that it’s Aether’s left shoulder, his sword hand. Not too deep. It doesn’t seem to deter the Squad Leader, as he makes another dive for his sword, left arm flapping about uselessly as his right seizes the hilt and brings it up to deflect another of Diluc’s strikes, steel clashing with a reverberating ring that shudders all the way through Aether’s weaker arm. The blonde manages to get back to his feet but is quickly overwhelmed when Diluc manages to swat the sword out of his weaker hand with a stunning move that leaves Wriothesley’s jaw on the floor. The redhead’s body arcs up in the air with a twist, sword coming down first, followed by a kick that arcs spectacularly downward and bashes against Travelis’ injured shoulder.

The pained sound Aether lets out makes the entire audience around the mat fall silent as the Squad Leader crumples to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

“Do you yield?” Ragnvindr asks, kicking Aether’s sword back toward him. Aether looks up, biting his lip hard to stop himself from yelping in agony, and his expression falls to something obscenely hopeless for someone normally so bright. Wriothesley follows his eye line and realises Aether isn’t looking at Ragnvindr but is instead faced with the other Travelis staring back at him. Lumine’s expression is nothing short of soul crushing disappointment. She doesn’t linger long, turning to walk away before more people read the air between the two.

“Cadet Ragnvindr wins this challenge, Travelis’ short sword is yours,” Scar announces, disinterested. He’s been reading out the challenges today and refereeing the fights.

Diluc nods but walks away without taking the sword, muttering, “Keep it. I’m not interested.” A few of the First Years tense at the attitude, but no one else reacts. It must be pretty standard behaviour for Ragnvindr.

“Fucking dick,” Wriothesley hears his squadmate Kaeya Alberich grumble further along to his left.

Chasca escorts Aether to the healer’s station on the other side of the room to get his shoulder patched up. They’d probably put him on Baizhu’s waitlist to get mended, since an injury like that likely won’t heal well on its own.

The next challenge is called and in the single breath taken before it starts, an ugly screech pierces through the room. Every single head turns toward the source, a collective sharp inhale being taken and held as time almost freezes. No one can see anything, too many frozen bodies in the way of the incident, until everyone starts moving at once.

“Someone, get Baizhu, now!” Professor Mavuika calls on the verge of panic. The room erupts into a frenzy, healers rushing from their station, bandages in hand, a group of cadets sprint off calling for the Mender. Everyone crowds toward the mat where the shriek came from, jostling one another until they can see the carnage laid out before them.

“You psychotic bitch!” a distraught man’s voice rises above the chaos, shrill and cracking with despair.

In the middle of it all, Wingleader Alhaitham Zahir is splayed out on the mat, blood coating his throat, chest and arm as he desperately presses his own hands to his throat to staunch the bleeding. His throat bobs up and down in a panic as he tries not to choke on his own blood. Bent over him and cradling his head in his lap is Kaveh Mehrak, chest heaving with panic as he keeps Alhaitham’s hands pressed to his neck, tears streaming from his eyes.

And above them, stands Clorinde Magloire, punishingly still, rapier still wet with blood.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Nobody hears it.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley hears two days later that Wingleader Alhaitham managed to survive. His throat had been slit, deep enough to damage his vocal cords, but not deep enough to bleed out instantly from. Baizhu had arrived just in time to save the Wingleader’s life and – luckily – was not required to save Clorinde’s life. Cadet Mehrak had been pretty intent on killing her in the moment despite the obvious risk of losing.

For the entire weekend, the table that most of the cadets in Leadership sat at — consisting of Wingleaders Clorinde Magloire, Alhaitham Zahir (normally), Ningguang Tian and Jean Gunnhildr and their respective Executive Officers Scar (Wriothesley still has no idea what his full name is), Ayato Kamisato, Keqing Yu and Eula Lawrence — became awkwardly silent and fragmented. Upon Wingleader Zahir’s return, a few quietly exchanged words and gestures between him and Clorinde seemed to ease them back into a something resembling normal, but not quite.

Alhaitham, whom Wriothesley recently learned was hard of hearing, could not speak for some time after the incident – dick move on Clorinde’s part there. Luckily, his friend Kaveh was never more than a few metres away and could offer interpretation. It did not settle the tension between the Wingleaders in the slightest, having Kaveh at the table. He looked at Clorinde with an expression that would make flowers wilt.

After two meals with Kaveh at the table, Alhaitham stopped showing for meals altogether.

“What are you doing?” Navia asks from behind him. Wriothesley flinches, then turns around, a little dazed after being pulled from his thoughts.

“Nothing,” he scowls and returns to his breakfast, which has now become uncomfortably cold. Watching Clorinde squirm over her mistake with Alhaitham has become a sick little past time of his. “Stop sneaking up behind me like that.”

Navia sighs and sits beside him heavily.

“Did you check the Challenge board?”

“Yep,” she replies quickly. “Fighting Emilie Lestrange tomorrow.” Her voice is level as she speaks. The absence of fear or self-doubt in it sets off alarm bells in Wriothesley’s head.

“And you’re not worried about it? At all?”

“Let’s just say I think I’ve got myself covered this time,” she nods and stabs her fork through a strip of bacon on Wriothesley’s plate. She eats it with a wicked grin that quickly sours when she realises it’s cold. Wriothesley can’t help but laugh at her.

🌊🐉🌊

It turns out, Wriothesley’s second challenge is scheduled today, the same time Navia’s was last week. He’s been put up against a girl from Third Wing, Xinyan Hoai. She’s a fiery thing, with sharp determined eyes and a wicked smile. Her figure is broad and sinewy with the kind of build you’d expect from a wrestler.

They stand at opposite ends of the mat, staring at one another, Xinyan with thinly veiled anxiety and Wriothesley with his unnerving calm expression. The polearm he won last week from Thoma Glassner would do him no good against Xinyan’s broad sword, so he’s equipped with his sword and gauntlet combo again. If this Xinyan is anything like what Cadet Ragnvindr may have been like in his first year, Wriothesley knows he’s in for a treat.

Same as last week, Ajax Tachelli is poorly hidden amongst the other cadets, watching him with hungry eyes.

“Ready to rock?” Xinyan calls out to him as she shifts from foot-to-foot moments before the beginning of the Challenge is called.

“Sure am,” he replies with a solid nod. She seems like a good sport at least. Aether Travelis, now almost fully healed, calls the beginning and the two of them run at each other, clashing with a brilliant ringing of steel.

She’s strong, Wriothesley gives her that, but she leaves herself open too long when she swings the broad sword around in an attempt to take Wriothesley’s head off. He can tell that she hasn’t quite yet mastered maintaining momentum the way Diluc Ragnvindr has.

In the opening, he darts in to deliver a gauntlet clad punch to her shoulder to push her off balance. Her body follows the momentum of her sword all the way to the ground and lands with a thump. There’s barely a moment between her hitting the ground and Wriothesley straddling over her back and holding her in a terrifically tight headlock. It doesn’t press down on her throat, but it immobilises her enough to quickly realise there’s no way out of it.

“Yield?” he asks calmly. Xinyan squirms uncomfortably and lets out a grunt. Wriothesley only has to shift his forearm down a little to press lightly against her throat. Her entire body goes rigid in response.

She slaps the ground three times in quick succession.

He lets go of her and gets to his feet as quickly as possible, feeling incredibly awkward. He offers a hand to the red cheeked Xinyan and brings her to her feet. She looks sadly at her broad sword before returning to the side-lines.

Wriothesley could certainly do with a broad sword.

As the last First Year to fight that day, Freminet faces off with a purple haired girl with an eyepatch who really tests all the defensive work he and Wriothesley had been working on over the weekend. She keeps Freminet and his rapier (a much more suitable weapon for his build, generously loaned to him by his sister) at a distance for a frustratingly long amount of time.

Wriothesley finds himself almost shaking with frustration, rubbing his forehead as Freminet misses another opening to attack.

“Freminet!” he shouts, not realising he’s let his exasperation get the better of him. “Stop dancing around and just fucking fight her.”

Aether delivers him a sharp look but doesn’t say anything. Freminet flushes red from head to toe and narrowly misses a swift stab to the stomach whilst he’s distracted.

The fight ends shortly after that, with Freminet losing control of himself in a flailing mess of anger and desperation. He manages two hits on the girl before she calmly ducks out of the way of a broad strike and whacks his ankles with her polearm in a low sweep. He crumbles like ancient stonework, and she hits him on the head on his way down.

In a swift moment, she’s on top of Freminet and locking him in a hold that’s similar to the way the Gardes in Fontaine pin people down to cuff them. It makes Wriothesley’s stomach churn uncomfortably and he averts his eyes.

Freminet yields with shame burning across his cheeks. He’s lost Lynette’s rapier and now Wriothesley’s got a feeling she is going to make that his problem to sort out.

Hours later, he and Freminet return to the sparring gym with Navia in tow. She settles herself in the corner with a book she’s borrowed from the archives. Every now and again she looks up to watch the two of them tussle with one another.

“I know you feel shit about losing today,” Wriothesley begins delicately. Freminet has been in a mood all day long, moping about how there is no hope for him to survive the remaining four weeks of challenges. “But you need to acknowledge that your defence has improved tenfold since we started training.”

“My joints are still shit,” he mumbles, rubbing his elbow.

“Doing the exercises isn’t going to fix the problem in a week. You’ll see progress over the next few months,” he explains calmly. “Anyway, if we’re going to get you winning a challenge, we need to focus on your offense. Because as much as being great at not getting stabbed is a key survival skill, you’ve got to learn to do the stabbing.”

“Fine,” Freminet agrees. “How are we supposed to do this?”

“Well… I was thinking we could start with the sparring batons, so you don’t accidentally slice my neck open like someone did last week.” He tosses Freminet a baton and starts leading him through some example attack patterns he was taught in infantry. They come back to him frighteningly quickly – muscle memory.

They go through the patterns for at least a half hour, backwards and forwards until Freminet has broken into a sweat. Then they move into actual sparring where Wriothesley keeps thwapping Freminet with the baton, light enough for it to only hurt for a moment but heavy enough for it to be annoying. It doesn’t take long for Freminet’s patience to slip, and he starts to lose control, just striking wherever he can as hard as possible, leaving him open to attack.

It’s not hard to block or dodge Freminet’s rageful attacks and Wriothesley is in no mood to indulge the young man in his outburst. The blonde quickly tires and falls into a heap on the mat beneath them.

“Buddy,” Wriothesley chides lightly. “You’ve gotta learn to have some control.”

“You don’t get it. It’s so frustrating to spar with you. You’re so much better than me.”

“That only means it’ll feel even better when you finally do get to hit me, kid.” He drags Freminet up to his feet again. “Normally, you don’t strike hard or fast enough, but when you’re angry, you hit hard and fast, but you’re nowhere near as accurate as you are when you’re calm. If you let yourself feel the energy from that anger, but keep a lid on it, you might have a chance of being good at this.”

Freminet is silent for a moment as he contemplates the words, then surreptitiously looks over to Navia, who has been watching this particular exchange.

“I think what Wriothesley is trying to get you to do is separate the physical feeling of anger or frustration from the emotion of it.” She ends up setting her book aside and walking over to them. “Maybe close your eyes and imagine something that makes you feel really angry.”

“Like my face, perhaps,” Wriothesley interjects.

“Yeah,” Freminet grunts, “That makes me feel pretty angry.”

“Okay, now focus on the physical sensation of the feeling. What are you feeling in your chest, your arms, your legs? What does your skin feel like, the muscle beneath, the bones?” Navia walks in circles around him as she leads him through the mental exercise. He nods as he mentally takes inventory of his body. “Can you describe some of it to us.”

“Uh, my uh… My chest. It feels like there’s a lot in it, like it’s fizzing. And my arms, they feel tight, like my bones are vibrating. It all makes me feel like I can move quick as a whip,” Freminet lists off quietly, embarrassment blooming in his cheeks.

“Alright, good,” Navia says. “Now hold onto that feeling but clear your mind of whatever it is that made you angry. Open your eyes when you’re ready.” She walks over to Wriothesley and whispers, “Now take him through those exercises again.”

They repeat the sparring pattern Wriothesley had drilled into him over the past hour or so, but this time, Freminet moves a little faster, hits a little harder, leaves himself less open to attack. The improvement is only small, but it’s noticeable. Wriothesley finds himself staring open mouthed at Navia whilst he blocks Freminet’s strikes.

“Does that feel better?” he asks once Freminet is about to drop dead from exhaustion and Wriothesley is probably halfway there. If he had to go any longer, he’d probably strip his shirt off given it was still fairly warm inside during the latter half of summer. Though, nobody would want to see that.

“Somehow, it does,” Freminet admits, surprised by his own words. He turns to Navia and thanks her before Wriothesley sends him on his way.

“Where’d you learn that little trick from?” Wriothesley asks later. “The whole… separation of emotion and physical sensation thing.”

“Oh, that?” she chuckles shyly. “It’s something that I picked up in the Spina working with some of the folks with emotional regulation differences. Mostly kids, but the whole physical inventory exercise helps them figure out ways to identify and describe their feelings if it’s something they struggle with.”

“Oh. That’s pretty cool,” he nods. It sounds rather impressive to him – mostly big words he’s never heard of. Definitely not something he’s ever really thought about before.

“Freminet strikes me as the kind of person who just functions on a different playing field,” she shrugs. “I can see you’re a good teacher, but I think there’s a side to things you don’t really know how to talk about…” She trails off anxiously, unsure if she’ll upset him.

They leave the sparring gym together to make their way back to the First Wing dorm. The corridors are bare enough for them not to be overheard.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks once they’re closer to the Dragon Rotunda. Navia stutters a little in response before she gathers her wits about her.

“I’m not trying to have a go at you by saying this,” she prefaces. “But you’re not a feelings person.”

He stops walking and quirks an eyebrow at her. “And you’ve only figured this out now?” They’ve stopped just beneath the towering sculpture of the blue dragon in the Rotunda. There are small pinpricks of starlight shimmering through the glass roof above them.

“First day I met you, but that’s not what I mean,” she sighs heavily. “You’re the type of person who’s spent so long stuffing down your own emotions that you don’t know how to talk about them or even consider the influence emotion can have on learning.” There’s a beat of tense silence before she speaks again, more quietly. “Sometimes I feel like I barely know who you are.”

Words escape him and his body stiffens a little as he watches Navia chew her lips bloody as she tries to avoid being indelicate. All he can do is shrug in exasperation and keep walking.

“Fuck it,” she sighs. “Enough of this. You owe me for helping you with Freminet.” She shoves a small vial toward Wriothesley, and he stares at it for a moment before taking it. “Put this in Emilie Lestrange’s breakfast on tomorrow morning and we’re even.”

“What is it?” It’s a small vial of something green and slightly purple, finely crushed.

“Foxglove.”

🌊🐉🌊

In repayment to Navia, Wriothesley does as he’s asked, opting to serve breakfast for once, instead of the usual kitchen setup he preferred to do – which no one else on breakfast duty ever wanted to do. Last night, he had to ask one of his squadmates, Xiangling Mao, who the hell Emilie Lestrange was. Once he knew to keep an eye out for a pretty blonde girl with pink bits in her pixie cut, he went to sleep easily that night.

He waits almost all morning, serving dish after dish to every cadet that walks past with their plate. Most of them quirk an eyebrow at him, since they’ve never seen him behind the serving counter, so he shrugs right back at them. The moment he realises Emilie is finally in line he uncorks the bottle Navia gave him and dumps the tiny contents over a serving of meatballs, where it fortunately looks like a bit of seasoning.

Emilie takes far too long staring down all the breakfast options that are the same fucking set of dishes literally every week. His impatience grows, jaw clenching and fist tightening around the serving spoon. Instead of waiting for her to indicate what she wants, he just sets her up with three meatballs, a slice of lavender melon and an egg, sunny side up. She jerks back with a hiss to complain and Wriothesley simply calls out “next!” sending her on her merry way.

He has no idea what foxglove does. He knows it’s a flower, but he can’t remember exactly what it looks like. A fox or a glove shaped flower… or a flower shaped like a glove for a fox is the best guess he’s got. All he knows is that eating flowers when he’s out in the field and short on rations is not a wise way to spend time. He can only imagine that Emilie is going to be in for quite the morning before she has to face off with Navia. As long as it would keep Navia safe, Wriothesley’s got no qualms with helping her gain the upper hand in a fight by any means necessary.

“Thank you,” Navia murmurs to him once he finally sits down to have breakfast with her. Her plate is already empty, so he slides her an extra meatball — not one laced with foxglove.

“Any time.” He means it when he says it, locking eyes with her. She only shakes her head with a huff of laughter.

“Look,” she begins a little gravely, pushing the meatball on her plate around with her fork. “I know I said some things last night that… might not have been pleasant to hear. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And friends can talk to each other about anything. They know a lot about each other.”

“Maybe? I dunno,” he shrugs, shovelling another meatball into his mouth. “Never really had a lot of those.”

“Okay, well that’s a start,” she nods uncomfortably. “What I’m trying to say is that you can ask me questions or tell me things and I won’t judge you. I just want you to know that if I start asking you questions, it’s because I want to know you the way a friend would, not because I’m being nosey. You really don’t shell out much,” she murmurs that last bit.

If there’s one thing Wriothesley doesn’t do with people, it’s talk about himself. To be known is to offer oneself up for dissection and face the dismay of the one who holds the blade. The last thing he wants is to see the look of dismay upon Navia’s face as she turns away from whatever rot he’s got going on inside him. It leaves his stomach heavy and mind dark.

“What are you so desperate to know about me?” he manages to joke, throwing down his fork as his appetite sours considerably.

“Nothing in particular. All I know is that before this you were an Infantry Colonel, you’re nicknamed the Iron Wolf for reasons one can probably imagine, and you knew my father. I feel like that’s not a lot.”

“Forgive me for not being an open book.”

“How about a trade. I tell you one thing about me, you tell me one thing about you, Mr I’m-so-mysterious-no-one-knows-anything-about-me-except-how-good-a-fighter-I-am.”

“I hate this,” he sighs without meaning.

“You go first. Tell me something about your childhood, a core memory maybe.”

Wriothesley could just about break down into a hysterical fit of laughter at the absurdity of this, but Navia’s fierce expression grounds him. It would be easy to tell her something benign, even easier to lie about his childhood. He likes Navia, the way one might like a little sister, so he decides to indulge her without ruining the magic and whimsey of the unknown.

“Fine. When I was six or maybe seven, I don’t know. One of the older kids I hung out with told me about this monster that lives in the pipes in the Fleuve Cendre. So, for a full month, every time I heard the pipes make any kind of noise – which was all the damn time – I would shriek in terror and run. Lasted about a week before they regretted messing with me.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth. He skipped over the part where they beat the shit out of him for becoming insufferable. Navia seems to enjoy it and allows a smile to crack through her serious expression.

“That’s really stupid,” she laughs. “I like that.”

“Your turn.”

“One of the last memories I have of my mother was the night before she was called to the border.” Wriothesley’s half smile falls at the mention of Clementine – whom he had never met, but heard a bit about. “I remember waking her up in the middle of the night because I’d had a nightmare that her dragon died, taking her along with him. Normally she would tell me it was just a dream and that I was being silly. But this time, she got up and made me a hot chocolate. I remember sitting on the kitchen bench, kicking my feet and smiling into my drink because I was just a kid revelling in the softer side of my mother that never showed.”

By the time she’s finished recounting, her eyes glisten with the precursor to tears and her smile is enough to make Wriothesley melt a little. He taps her on the shoulder with gentle, fleeting affection and returns to his breakfast.

“I’ll see you in Dragon Studies.”

🌊🐉🌊

Even through Dragon Studies, Navia won’t stop tapping her foot, every bone in her body is filled with a terrible anxiety that makes her look sickly. It seems to Wriothesley like she’s the one who has been poisoned instead of Emilie, whom he has not seen since the morning.

“It feels wrong telling you to focus during class,” he whispers as Professor Neuvillette forms a new watery image in the basin at the centre of the room.

“I’m just worried I gave you too much and she’s either dead or is already too sick to turn up to the fight.” She swears under her breath and forces herself to concentrate on Neuvillette’s lecture.

“The black dragons of Inazuma are a very cantankerous sort, if that can be put lightly.” The shape in the centre of the room sharpens into focus, steep cliffs, slashed open by a force greater than comprehension. “This is Mount Seirai, the den of the black dragons. The den is surrounded by a very strange and powerful energy which often makes the black dragons difficult to study directly. From what we have been able to observe and theorise, is that black dragons will chose their Rider based on their ambition.”

A murmur rustles through the room and Mount Seirai begins to wobble. It’s enough of a reminder for everyone in the room to quieten down.

“I must clarify, that when I say ambition, I do not mean it for it to be synonymous with ‘desire for power’. The type of ambition that black dragons tend to covet most is the kind that requires bravery, to go against the grain.”

The idea sits on Wriothesley’s tongue for a while, he mulls it over like a hard candy until it dissolves into his mind. Perhaps a black dragon may choose him for being brave (see: stupid) enough to come back to Meropide outside of conscription age because he wanted to find another way to help knock a few more Gryphons out of the sky.

“With this knowledge, how might you think to approach or avoid a black dragon if you come across one?”

“With extreme caution,” Gaming Yip laughs jadedly from the other side of the room.

“You would not be incorrect in saying so,” Professor Neuvillette nods.

“Moving slowly and maintaining eye contact regardless of whether you’re approaching or backing away,” Ajax recites from the back of the room, killing the buzz within the room that usually comes when the Professor opens the floor to people’s theories.

“Correct.”

🌊🐉🌊

By the time Navia and Cadet Lestrange are called to the mat, the blonde, with her sensible short haircut, looks completely ashen. She’s not far from a full blown sweat developing on her brow and there’s a hollowness to her movements as she twists her polearm around in anticipation. Navia, armed with a standard issue sword this time, shifts from left to right, an assuredness around her movements that Wriothesley hasn’t seen before.

“Begin,” Professor Mavuika calls.

Wriothesley watches, fists clenched in trepidation as Emilie thrusts the polearm toward Navia, just slow enough for her to dodge out of the way and knock the polearm to the side. He can see the way Emilie’s eyes widen with panic as she realises how weak her body has become. Her movements quickly become wild and erratic.

Navia does well to keep light on her feet as Emilie engages in a series of less than elegant moves that rushes Navia right up against the edge of the mat. If she steps off it completely, the match is forfeit. Her eyes widen with realisation as her back foot hits solid ground and Emilie whips the polearm right where her head is – or was. Navia bends backward to avoid the hit in some ridiculous move that leaves her chest dangerously unguarded.

Luckily for her, she manages to jump to the side in an uncoordinated roll and gets to her feet in time to block an incoming strike, somehow sending Lestrange tripping from the way she’s spun around too fast to catch Navia. Recognition flares in Navia’s eyes and she darts forward, knocking the polearm from Emilie’s grip with an efficient slash of the sword and kicks Lestrange’s knee to the side. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the move Wriothesley pulled against Thoma Glassner and he can’t help but smile to himself as Lestrange crumples into a sick little heap.

Unwilling to do any real damage, Navia tosses her sword to the side and boots Emilie down to the ground. She holds Lestrange in an awkward and ineffective chokehold, but in her weakened state, Lestrange can hardly fight back.

Emilie slaps the ground three times in quick succession and Navia backs off, chest heaving with adrenaline and mouth hanging wide with shock.

“Cadet Caspar wins this round, taking Lestrange’s polearm,” Professor Mavuika announces, disbelief barely masked in her voice. A smile cracks over Wriothesley’s features as Navia turns straight to him with a surprised but proud smile gracing her soft features.

“Well played, Caspar,” he teases.

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you, Iron Wolf,” she winks.

He sighs heavily and shakes his head. This girl was playing with fire. It’ll only be a matter of time before she gets burnt.

🌊🐉🌊

Wriothesley never wrote the paragraph Professor Neuvillette asked for. He walks into dragon studies knowing that he wanted to write that paragraph, but he didn’t know what to write. Not knowing the question was a problem, but not the only one. As he sits down, a little further from Navia than usual due to test conditions, his stomach drops as he spots the two blank sheets of parchment on the desk in front of him.

“Once everyone is seated, you will have thirty minutes to complete the assessment. Please answer all of the questions as succinctly as possible, I haven’t given you enough parchment available for nuanced essays on the advantages of a daggertail over a swordtail, nor do I want to. Do not forget to put your name on both sheets of parchment or your assessment will marked with a zero,” Professor Neuvillette instructs from the desk at the front of the room. “You may bring the assessment to me and leave the room once you are finished.”

Name, name, name… Can’t forget to put my name down, Wriothesley repeats to himself like a mantra. Once the Professor signals that they can begin, he flips the two sheets over to find an unlabelled lithograph of a dragon. It’s beautiful, the lines are thin enough to provide detail without the image being too dark. Immediately he can tell it’s a daggertail, having committed each diagram in The Anatomy of Dragons, third edition, to memory.

It takes an obscene amount of time for him to fill in the blank labels and make sure his writing is somewhat legible, but at least he is confident about his answers. The second page seems to be a collection of short answer questions, though the printed text is rather small, making it hard to read.

Beside him, Navia stands and walks her parchment to the Professor’s desk, silently leaving the room. A few cadets follow after her whilst Wriothesley wracks his brain on dragon dietary requirements. Outside of a fight, and Professor Venti’s endless history quizzes, this is the most stressed Wriothesley has ever felt during his time at Meropide. He wants to do well, but he can’t think or write fast enough. They’re not going to let him get away with this shit like they did in Infantry.

“Quills down,” Neuvillette calls. A few panicked scratches sound through the room for a moment before a few quills clatter to the desks.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley murmurs. He forgot to write his name…

As several cadets walk toward the Professor’s desk, he uses the noise and movement as a cover to hurriedly scratch his name into the top right of both parchment sheets. He collects the two books he placed under the desk and brings them along as well.

“Thank you for lending these to me, Professor,” Wriothesley whispers as he delivers his assessment to the growing pile of parchment on Neuvillette’s desk.

“You are most welcome, Cadet,” Professor Neuvillette nods, providing a small but pleasant smile.

He is going to be so terribly disappointed when he sets eyes on Wriothesley’s work.

🌊🐉🌊

The third week of challenges passes without much fanfare. Cadet Tachelli continues to skip class to watch Wriothesley fight. He wins a rather impressive set of daggers from a tall dark haired Natlanese Marked One. Aurora or something; the fight didn’t last long enough for him to remember.

Freminet doesn’t immediately eat shit when he’s put up against a shorter muscular woman (he walks away bruised and bleeding nonetheless). And Navia, fascinatingly, wins another challenge with some kind of powder activated poison that Wriothesley had laced another cadet’s food with.

Outside of challenges, his world starts to crash down around him.

It starts with history, when Professor Venti hands back four weeks’ worth of his mini-quizzes in a daze. A quick glance at Navia’s marks tells him her grade is perfect or near perfect. He doesn’t even look at his, folding them up and stuffing them out of sight in the hopes that Navia doesn’t see the red dashes plastered all over his work.

Navia leans in, holding up one of her pages and points to a dark purple ring staining the bottom corner. “If you’re unhappy about your marks, just know that Professor Venti is usually drunk whilst he marks them.”

Wriothesley wants to laugh, but he can’t.

It gets worse when mid-week, Professor Neuvillette hands everyone back their assessment and written paragraphs. This time, Wriothesley at least chances a look at his grade and feels his heart sink when he finds a big 12 sitting on top of a 30. It’s not terrible, but evidently, he fucked something up somewhere.

He pulls out the diagram he labelled to find eleven of his answers ticked and the remainder on that page marked with question marks. The page with the short answer questions is mostly blank with only a single tick. The Professor is going to think he’s a complete and utter imbecile.

“A reminder, if you did not receive all of your marked assessments, you forgot to write your name on it,” Professor Neuvillette announces tiredly.

“Did you forget to put your name on your paragraph?” Navia quietly asks, brows knitted together with pity when she notices the second half of his assignment is missing.

He nods, because it is easier than explaining.

Cheeks hot with shame, he keeps his eyes trained on the ground for the remainder of the lesson, unwilling to look up and face the disappointment evident in Neuvillette’s eyes.

“Cadets Shinsuke and Wriothesley, please see me. Everyone else is dismissed,” the Professor calls at the end of his lecture. Ice cold dread prickles down Wriothesley’s spine as he remains seated whilst everyone gets up to leave. Navia hovers around him for a moment before leaving, saying she’ll see him at dinner.

He waits for Cadet Shinsuke to finish speaking with Professor Neuvillette. Their voices are quiet and relatively hushed. All he can pick up on is that Shinsuke forgot to put his name on his paragraph and Neuvillette provides a stern warning but allows him to keep his grade despite his promise to mark nameless papers as a zero.

The moment Shinsuke turns to leave, Wriothesley is on his feet, wanting the guilt trip to be over and done with. Reluctantly, he takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with the Professor as he arrives at the desk. The Professor’s gaze is frosty, stiff like he’s biting back the harsh honesty he wishes to spit through his teeth.

“Cadet Wriothesley,” he greets tersely.

“Professor.” He gulps quietly and averts his gaze to the books piled up on the desk.

“Please hand me your assessment.”

Wriothesley obeys and hands over the two sheets of parchment, which Neuvillette plucks from his hand. The Professor pulls the anatomy diagram out and dips his quill into a small red inkpot. His entire body is stiff as a glacier.

“Can you please read these four words out for me? I could not read them and did not want to mark them as incorrect.”

Puzzled by the Professor’s generosity, the tightness in Wriothesley’s chest lessens minutely.

“Oh, um... That one there is thoracic spines,” he points, “this one is sulfurdenum, caudal spade and uh... naris?” he can’t even read his own writing, but he remembers what the diagrams said, and he remembers the exact way Neuvillette pronounced them during his lectures. All four answers then receive a tick and Professor Neuvillette crosses out the sad little score of twelve and writes sixteen beside it.

“Thank you.”

The Professor updates the class records, then turns back to Wriothesley, expression still stony enough for Wriothesley to start chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Your handwriting is the most atrocious I’ve seen in my five years teaching at Meropide. I suggest you work on that as I will not be finding myself so charitable next time,” Neuvillette warns. “I also suggest reading the books that were generously loaned to you prior to an assessment.”

“I did,” he replies in a pitifully small voice.

“Every dragon rider knows how to fight, but a good rider understands both their dragon and the history that shaped this war. You’re not here to be just any dragon rider, are you?” It comes off as somewhat patronising and Wriothesley bristles at the question. “From your previous questions, I can tell that you are someone who is fuelled by intrigue. Failure to engage with the tools provided to you to cultivate your curiosity will yield nothing but disappointment. If you continue down this path, you may find yourself in Cadet Tachelli’s shoes.”

“I’d rather not be,” he murmurs, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ll take better care of my assignments.”

“Very well.”

At the slightest hint of a dismissive nod, Wriothesley pivots around to make a beeline for the door. There’s not a snowball’s chance in the desert that he’ll show any ‘improvement’ in the next week, or year. He’s blown it with practically all his professors now.

He pushes the door open with a little too much force but catches it right before it slams against the stone wall. The flurry of movement makes Navia flinch and clutch her chest.

“What did the Professor want to talk to you about?” Navia asks, following beside Wriothesley in lengthy strides to keep up with him.

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing,” Navia presses. “I know you’re in a ‘there’s a punching bag with my name on it in the sparring gym’ kind of mood right now, but can’t you just talk about it for once?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If it’s studying you need help with you can just ask me instead of brooding.”

He slows down a little, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I’m not brooding,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I’m just annoyed. And I want dinner.”

“Well we can solve at least one of those problems right now.”

Grateful for the food-focused redirection, Wriothesley follows Navia to the meals hall for an early dinner. Eating something delicious and fulfilling does half a wonder in melting away the brittle shame that seizes his mind and body. Though, about halfway through the meal, he finds he’s lost his appetite.

“Did you fail—”

“Cadet Wriothesley,” Clorinde begins, clearing her throat awkwardly. Both Wriothesley and Navia freeze like they’ve been caught red handed, slowly turning to face Clorinde, who is stood behind them with something in her hands.

“Yes, Wingleader?” he chokes out plastering a stressed smile across his face. After what happened between her and Alhaitham the other week, he’s not sure he wants to be this close to her.

Clorinde extends her hand and presents a crisp white envelope to Wriothesley, which he stares at dumbfounded until he has the good sense to take it from her. “I don’t know why she wants to see you, but I’m sure you’ve fucked something up.”

“Uh, probably,” he shrugs, embarrassed by how on the ball Clorinde is. Beside him, Navia perks up and leans over his shoulder to see what he’s got.

“It must be from the Headmaster,” she whispers. Clorinde walks away without saying much else, leaving Wriothesley to break the red wax seal on the envelope. It has his name written elegantly on the front of it.

Inside, there is a thick rectangle of parchment, and he draws it out. Navia gasps when she sees what’s written across it.

“No way the Headmaster has invited you to her office for tea and cake!” She practically shrieks and Wriothesley just about drops the invitation into his half-eaten dinner.

“Don’t say it too loud!” he hisses. “Are you trying to put me on a hit-list?”

“You’re already on about six different hit-lists,” she shrugs but quietens down. “What do you think she wants to talk to you about?”

“I have no idea.” He has an idea. The thought of it makes his stomach churn with dread. He squints at the cursive script and just about wishes he could tear the parchment up in frustration with how illegible and tiny the script is. “Is that a one or a seven there?” He points to what looks like the date and time.

“It says eleven. Don’t you think it’d be a bit awkward to be having tea and cake at the seventeenth hour on a Thursday evening,” Navia shrugs with a hint of distaste in her words. Tea and cake seems like the kind of event she’s very well-versed in.

“I dunno, I’ve never been invited to tea and cake. Do I have to bring something?” Wriothesley asks nervously.

“Normally, you don’t need to. She hasn’t specified. I dunno what you’d even have on you to bring along.”

“I can save some muffins from breakfast.”

“We have muffins?”

“You’d know if you got out of bed earlier,” he chuckles. “There’s muffins every Thursday morning.”

“Of course you’d know. Kitchen bitch.”

Chapter Text

When the eleventh hour on Thursday rolls around Wriothesley crosses the bridge between the Rider’s Quadrant and the rest of Meropide. Headmaster Furina’s office is located on one of the top floors, at the centre of the College, likely where it would have a brilliant view of the valley below. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and checks the cloth he’s tied two breakfast muffins up in to make sure they’re still in one piece.

There are two guards stationed either side of the large, solid wood doors of the Headmaster’s office. They watch him walk the length of the corridor and don’t move until he’s close enough to flash them the invitation. They nod and step back, allowing him to knock.

“Come in!” a cheerful voice calls, muffled slightly by the wood. He takes a deep breath and settles himself before opening the door.

Inside, the office is immaculate. The immense space is well lit by the late summer sun and an arrangement of mage lights. A large map of the continent takes up almost the entirety of the left wall. It’s similar to the one in the Battle Brief room, but there are different coloured markers scattered across its surface. The outpost he travelled to Meropide from, Montbrun, is surrounded by three different coloured markers. It can’t have been good. His old squad may be long gone now.

His eyes don’t linger on the map for much longer and instead take in the rest of the room, which is lined with shelves that are packed with barely organised reports and strange trinkets. Two sets of locked dressers flank the large desk stationed in the middle of the room, right beneath the window.

Headmaster Furina stands to greet him with a smile that masks something sharp behind it. She gestures for Wriothesley to take a seat opposite her at the desk, where a small tiered tray of cakes and a steaming pot of tea sit. Her hair is immaculately curled and neat like she hasn’t experienced a single lick of wind the entire day.

“Welcome, Cadet Wriothesley,” she greets, crossing her hands and placing them on her lap. From up close in the light, she looks younger than he thought she would be, maybe late thirties at the very most.

“Thank you for inviting me.” Looking at the tower of fine little cakes, he realises what a brute he’ll appear to be for bringing big ugly muffins from the Quadrant’s kitchen. Perhaps he and Navia can enjoy them later. He sets the muffins aside out of sight. “I didn’t expect the invitation to be so... formal.”

“Ah, I don’t mean for it to be,” the Headmaster smiles shyly. “I can’t ever turn down an opportunity to add a dramatic flair. Tea?”

He nods eagerly and watches her pour him a cup of red-brown tea. He can smell it from where he’s sitting: a fragrant, high quality black tea blended with something floral and slightly sour – not lemon, something akin to it.

“Milk or sugar?”

“No, thank you.” Headmaster Furina slides the teacup and saucer toward him along with a small plate and a tiny fork. She plucks an assortment of cakes from the tiered tray and sets them on her plate, motioning for Wriothesley to do the same. Hesitantly, he takes two, not having any idea what the fragile little things are and feeling a little silly at the size of them compared to his own large hands.

“Um... Was there something you needed to talk to me about?” he asks hesitantly, not feeling very keen on digging in just yet. The tea is a different story, he’s very keen on drinking that, but knows it’s too hot to pour down his throat just yet. It smells mouth-wateringly good.

“Yes, there certainly is,” she begins, delicately slicing a small cake in half with her tiny fork. She puts it in her mouth and sits back, chewing whilst crossing one leg over the other. The pause in conversation sets Wriothesley on edge.

“I went out on a limb for you, Wriothesley.” Her jovial tone vanishes and is replaced by something hard and vaguely threatening. “And I’m beginning to think I may have embarrassed myself in front of General Ei by endorsing your request.”

Wriothesley’s mouth goes dry. He was right about Furina’s intentions, but he wasn’t aware how close of an eye she’s been keeping on him.

“I’m sorry, I—” Furina cuts him off with a raised hand. She doesn’t want to hear whatever excuse or explanation he can stumble through.

“Whilst I am overjoyed that you are excelling in Challenges and have even taken to mentoring some of your squadmates in sparring, especially the young De Hearth. I cannot, however, overlook the complaints I have received from your professors.”

Sheepishly, Wriothesley drags the teacup closer to himself and distracts himself from the embarrassment with scoldingly hot tea. He’s not going to be able to feel his tongue for the next two days.

“I expected better from you. Fighting in the hallways, skipping coursework and your assessment scores... Just because you’ve gone through Meropide once before doesn’t mean you can take your second time for granted.” She finishes with a huff and stabs her fork into a second cake, quickly devouring it whole and crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to be the one to dishonourably discharge you and leave you with nothing to your name but shame, but if that is what I have to do, I will.”

“I’ll do better,” he promises quietly. “Give me two weeks and I will do better.” Excuses or explanations aren’t going to get him out of this. She wants action, not to hear ‘I didn’t start the fight’ or ‘I’m really trying my best, but I can’t seem to sit down and study’.

Furina nods decisively and sips her tea.

“Good,” she pauses. “I didn’t invite you here just to berate you, I promise,” she says softly.

Wriothesley doubts that very much. He swallows thickly and eats one of the two tiny cakes on his plate. Thick, sweet caramel hits his tongue, and he almost chokes with how unbearably sweet the cake is. The only way to mask his discomfort is with a stressed smile.

“I invited you here to ask what I might be able to do to make sure you make the most of your education.” She pauses for a moment, then shrugs with a devious smile. “And to make sure I prove old Beelzebub Ei wrong.”

The offer is not what Wriothesley imagined he would get out of tea and cake with the Headmaster, especially after the character assassination she’d just delivered.

“You want to... help?” he quirks an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she seems rather offended by his disbelief. “I have a reputation to uphold and, clearly, I chose you for a reason.”

The admission strikes a chord in him. A bell struck with a mallet, resounding with a frequency he’s never heard before.

“Have there been others?” He doesn’t know what makes him ask this.

Furina quirks a brow, lost.

“Others who have asked to volunteer for the Rider’s Quadrant after serving in Infantry,” he elaborates.

“Two others have sent letters. Long, boring letters, citing their achievements and why Meropide College of War would be lucky to have them back, how the army would be blessed to have them as experienced Riders. Boring, boring. Blah, blah, blah,” Headmaster Furina sighs, disinterested. “You, however, were the only person bold enough to ask me in person. You didn’t flaunt your achievements at all.”

There’s a reason he asked in person. He can’t help but chuckle at the thought of himself ever sending someone like the Headmaster a letter of request. The most he’s ever done along those lines is request additional supplies or reinforcements when his Infantry squad has been stuck between a rock and a hard place. It was barely legible despite his big, scratchy script. The rider in charge of the outpost he’d sent it to described it as being written like a ransom letter – hence the urgent response.

“You said you wanted to do more. That there was nothing left for you to do but find a different way to fight,” she muses softly.

“That and the thought of being stuck behind a desk for the rest of my life makes me want to kill myself – and no, that’s not an exaggeration.” He releases a short huff of laughter and watches a conflicted smile quirks the ends of the Headmaster’s smile.

“Back to business,” she redirects, setting her teacup down with a quiet clink. “I can send a tutor to you. One of the Scribes or perhaps a Second Year Rider?”

The thought of having to explain his situation and ineptitude to literally anyone in Meropide makes his skin crawl. 

“Um, no thank you,” he says quickly.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a little bit of help every now and again,” the Headmaster chimes pleasantly.

There is everything wrong with accepting help. He’s got this far without help and he’ll keep going without it.

“I already have someone in mind,” he lies.

“Very well, I’ll leave you to your own devices,” Headmaster Furina sighs. “I expect to see you back here, same day and time during the first week of Gauntlet.”

“Thank you.” He drains the cup of tea in one go, making a sound of satisfaction and gets up to leave. He makes sure to take his sad little sack of breakfast muffins with him.

“Cadet,” Furina calls out the second his hand wraps around the doorknob.

“Yes, Headmaster?”

“Take good care of the little one,” she smiles, but her eyes appear glassy.

“Okay?”

Hesitantly, he opens the door and starts walking back to the Quadrant, eyebrows twisted in confusion. The Headmaster surely is a strange woman to refer to Freminet, or maybe Navia as ‘the little one’.

🌊🐉🌊

The fourth week of challenges passes much like the third, with Cadet Tachelli’s eyes all over him. Wriothesley stubbornly refuses to do as Furina requested of him and ask someone to tutor him. Professor Neuvillette is frosty with him at best and Wriothesley doesn’t care to dance on eggshells by asking his usual post-lecture questions. Professor Venti is the same as usual, apathetic regarding Wriothesley’s horrific quiz scores and always faintly smelling of wine.

The misery that shrouds Wriothesley’s life soon becomes chokingly thick. Every day feels like pushing shit uphill, slowly drifting away from everyone he’s become so familiar with in the past six weeks. Containing the problem should feel better, it usually does.

Yet the poison of it has never tasted so bitter.

The point at which starts to consider sparring with Ajax Tachelli just to put himself out of his misery, is the point he realises ignoring his problems in favour of an adrenaline rush isn’t going to do him any good.

He has to ask Navia to tutor him. Against every fibre of his being, he has to tell her the truth. The very thought of doing so makes him want to throw up, knowing the pity she will look upon him with – gods, it makes his skin crawl. He was never wanted pity; the very thing grates upon him, a pestilence he’d physically fight if it were possible.

On the fifth week of challenges, Wriothesley fucks up.

Really, it’s Navia who fucks up, but Wriothesley didn’t help by not wanting to question Navia on a subject she’s evidently much more well versed in than him. Being on breakfast duty only, he can only slip things into cadets’ food in the early hours of the morning. If a challenge, like Navia’s this week, is scheduled for later in the day, he can only hope that Navia’s figured out a workaround that would result in the cadet falling sick just in time for the fight rather than falling over at midday in a fit of convulsions.

Which is exactly what happens whilst the two of them are on their way to lunch.

Caught red handed, the two of them stop in their tracks as they watch Cadet Rosaria Alig shower the hallway in vomit, then collapse into it and begin convulsing.

“Rot of Clode… I am fucked,” Navia whispers, jaw trembling.

“Keep walking,” he nudges her. “It could have happened to anyone.” The guiltier she looks, the quicker everyone will realise what she’s been doing in order to survive challenges.

Navia barely manages to get her stiff legs to move as Wriothesley follows close behind her, hand on her mid-back to make sure she moves at a non-suspicious pace. Neither of them eat much as Navia catastrophises over what awaits her this afternoon. They’ll swap Rosaria out for another cadet who’s supposed to be facing off with their opponent later in the week. There is no doubt that she’s going to come out of this worse off, given her lack of sparring training.

As his squad gathers around the mat, Wriothesley almost wants to throw up on Navia’s behalf. Lumine Travelis is reading out the challenges for the session, tone markedly different from her brother Aether’s.

“It appears a rather unfortunate illness has befallen Cadet Alig today, so I have requested a stand in challenger for Cadet Caspar,” Lumine announces, she turns to the left where the wall of cadets surrounding the mats parts.

Wriothesley’s stomach hits the floor, and bile ricochets up his throat as Clorinde fucking Magloire steps through the gap, rapier at her side. His mouth goes dry as he glances in Navia’s direction to watch the light leave her eyes and their squamates gasp in shock.

She’s a dead woman walking.

Her father died by that blade and today she will follow him.

“Cadet Caspar, please come forward,” the Section Leader urges.

Navia exchanges a look with him, lips parted with disbelief and despair. She gulps audibly and steps forward gingerly, short sword in hand. As if to rub salt into the wound, Clorinde flicks her blade around in a showy warm-up exercise before staring down Navia like she is the dirt beneath her fingernails.

“Poisoning your challenger the first time was smart, I must admit,” Clorinde says coolly. “But each time after that, you dug your own grave a little deeper.”

As the news hits the cadets surrounding the mat, they gasp or whisper quietly amongst one another. Wriothesley is sure to pretend it’s the first time he’s hearing the news too. As much as he loves Navia like a sister, he’s not keen on following her to the grave the hands of Wingleader Magloire today.

He doesn’t even want to watch, but he can’t take his eyes from Navia’s shaking form.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Navia whispers, lips pulled back with a snarl as she readies her sword.

“I do not wish to bury you, Caspar, but this is a lesson that must be taught,” Clorinde bites, easing herself into battle ready stance.

“Begin.”

Navia barely has time to react when Clorinde darts forward the moment the word leaves Travelis’ mouth. The sheer speed of her attack makes Navia hesitate, eyes widening as her doom approaches. Steel screeches as they clash, Clorinde’s blade swinging fast enough to draw sparks. Navia’s sword falls as she barely manages to dodge the way Clorinde’s rapier glances off her blade toward her throat.

Wriothesley can see the mere seconds it takes Navia to re-centre herself, locking in on her fear, her anger, and separating the physical feeling from the emotion, exactly the way she taught Freminet.

Navia blocks a few of Clorinde’s wide strikes almost perfectly, but she doesn’t see the opening Clorinde provides her to retaliate. Wriothesley is sure the second and third years can see that she’s leaving room for Navia to show her what she’s made of.

But Navia is too late. By the time she collects herself enough to even think about how to draw blood, Clorinde slashes her rapier across Navia’s face and Wriothesley finds himself with one foot on the mat, ready to bare-fist it with Clorinde for drawing blood. She’s going to kill Navia at this rate.

Navia stumbles back and touches her free hand to her cheek to find blood welling from a thin, superficial cut along the soft round part of her cheek. It’s like watching a volcano erupt in real time, the way rage bubbles up Navia’s limbs and accumulate in her face. She charges toward Clorinde, an unprecedented strength behind her blow, which leaves Clorinde’s rapier ringing with the force. Navia’s jaw is clenched, and her teeth are bared, she almost screams as she delivers a second impressively strong blow, but this time Clorinde is prepared for it and redirects the motion away from her body.

Clorinde disarms Navia with a simple flick of her rapier and Navia clutches her bleeding hand for a moment, before she charges at Clorinde in a blind rage. Navia’s body slams into hers and they both topple downward, Clorinde’s arms wrapping around Navia and spinning them until Navia crashes down first with Clorinde atop her between her legs. Clorinde has the good sense to ensure Navia doesn’t fall onto her blade and has pulled her arm aside so the blade is free.

Navia swings a bloody fist at Clorinde’s face and her knuckle only grazes the tip of the other’s chin. The cool steel of the rapier’s blade presses up against her neck and she freezes.

“I will not die like my father,” Navia grits as she attempts to wiggle out from beneath Clorinde. She hardly moves, seeming pretty tightly pinned against the other woman. Clorinde leans in, dangerously close to her, cheek almost touching her own blade.

“I’d hope not, Caspar,” she whispers darkly, voice so terrifyingly low it sends goose bumps up Wriothesley’s arms. He can hear Navia’s breath catch in her throat and is certain Clorinde can feel the way her chest flutters against hers. “You can’t always rely on your measly boyfriend to fight your battles for you.”

Wriothesley stiffens at the assumption and beside him, Freminet and his squadmate Nilou gasp and exchange glances. Everyone silently waits for the moment the two women separate, but it doesn’t come. Navia’s eyes flare and she looks ready to spit in Clorinde’s face.

“I leave you with a reminder to complete your training.” Clorinde murmurs something to Navia so quietly Wriothesley can’t make out her words. Slowly, her hand slides to her waist to retrieve one of her daggers and alarm bells immediately sound in his head — she’s going to stab Navia. He goes to call out, but his voice fails him, dying in his throat as Clorinde slowly unsheathes the blade. “The right way,” she finishes.

The noise and movement catches Navia off guard and she begins to squirm again. The blade slides up her thigh and into the empty sheath at her hip and she stills, eyes growing terrifyingly wide as she realises what Clorinde has done.

“If you value your life, I suggest you yield now,” Clorinde whispers, blood beading on her own cheek as she leans closer against her blade. Navia murmurs something vaguely threatening and Clorinde backs up and gets to her feet. “She yields.”

Lumine doesn’t even get to announce the winner of the challenge, too dumbstruck by the tussle on the mat to say anything as Clorinde swiftly steps away and beelines for the exit. Splayed out supine across the mat, Navia lays there, glassy eyed, chest heaving as the adrenaline crash hits her like a boulder. She covers her mouth with her bleeding hand to stifle a sob, smearing blood across her lips.

All Wriothesley wants to do is help her up and take her to bandage her wounds, but a brief glance at their Section Leader, Lumine, discourages him entirely. His heart sinks helplessly into the deep blue abyss only to find Navia’s heart there right alongside his.

They really have no one but each other.

🌊🐉🌊

Navia didn’t want to talk about what happened between her and Clorinde on the mat. The same way Wriothesley didn’t want to talk about what happened between him and Professor Neuvillette. It’s a stalemate that leaves them skirting around each other for days afterward.

Navia caves first, complaining that Wriothesley’s excessive brooding over the past few weeks has made her life excessively quiet. He knows she’s too social a creature to isolate herself to silence for long, but he’s glad she breaks first. Her relentless teasing has been the only thing keeping him from giving up on Meropide and escaping back to the frontlines.

She invites him to her assigned chore, carting the borrowed books back to the archives and collecting the previous days’ requested books for the Quadrant. He’s never accompanied her before today.

As she pushes the trolley laden with books, she keeps her eyes ahead of her as she speaks. It’s been a constant thing with her the last few days, she hasn’t even dared to look in Clorinde’s direction when they’re stuck in the Meal Hall together.

“As much as I like this chore, I feel like it’s slowly killing me,” she says offhandedly as they leave the Quadrant.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because every day I have to go to the Scribe Quadrant, down to the Archives and see the life I could have been living if my father were still alive.”

“You didn’t have to volunteer for the Rider’s Quadrant.”

“I did,” she says decisively, slowing her pace momentarily. Wriothesley matches it and looks to her, hoping for her to elaborate. “I found a note from my father. In one of my old books. I think he changed his mind about me becoming a scribe shortly before he died.”

“Did he say why?” They venture down winding corridors and the air feels denser as they pass deeper into the mountain. Every step forward feels more suffocating than the last. He has no idea why Navia would ever want to be a scribe is this is the kind of conditions they would have to work in.

“Not really. It’s ominous and complicated,” she trails off uncomfortably. “Can I ask you something?”

Wriothesley swallows nervously and chews the inside of his cheek. “As long as it’s not about last week,” he stipulates reluctantly.

“What was it like?” She asks. “On the frontlines.”

They round the corner and come to a large arched door that is propped open. Two guards stand outside, and a table blocks off most of the entrance. Past the table, Wriothesley can see a snippet of what looks like rows and rows of desks, manned by Scribes in their robes, flanked by endless shelves of books and records. The entire area is lit with mage lights, not a single candle flame in sight and obviously no sunlight given they’re deep underground.

“Uh,” he hesitates as they come within earshot of the guards. “Dirty.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. “Within the fortresses it’s not that bad, but outside, it’s… just dirt and sweat. If your squad gets caught in an ambush or you’re sent into battle, there’s just this… smell that stays around forever. Blood and rot. Other than that, it was fine.”

“Oh,” her face falls. A scribe in a long, tightly fitted green robe approaches the table in long graceful strides, long light brown curls trailing after her. She smiles pleasantly, making the corners of her bright green eyes crinkle.

“Welcome back Cadet Caspar,” the scribe greets, her voice smooth as velvet. Her gaze shifts to Wriothesley and her smile widens, the edges curling into something wicked. “And who might this tall, handsome silver fox be? Your father?”

“Minci… You knew my father,” Navia warns, deadpan.

“Goodness, Caspar, I jest,” Scribe Minci laughs nervously with a placating gesture. “I’m sorry I touched a nerve. But please do introduce us.”

“Wriothesley, this is Curator Lisa Minci. Minci, this is Cadet Wriothesley,” Navia gestures between them tiredly. “Anyway, he’s hardly silver. Look at that salt and pepper.” She gathers the books from the trolley and stacks them on the table in front of the Curator.

Wriothesley thinks Curator must be a special scribe rank, but he’s not sure.

Lisa Minci waves at him, twinkling her fingers as she rakes her eyes up and down his stature. Minci seems about his age, possibly slightly older, he’s not sure. She seems deceptively youthful, but by the gods’ teeth is he afraid of her, in the sense that she’d climb over the table between them and jump his bones in a heartbeat if he showed even a hint of interest in the gorgeous woman.

“Wriothesley…” Minci murmurs to herself over and over a few times. “Wriothesley as in the Iron Wolf Wriothesley?”

He wants to die hearing the old nickname after it being used recently to tease him in his fall from grace.

“Yes,” Navia sighs.

“No,” Wriothesley says at the same time. He scowls at Navia as she finishes delivering the last book to the table.

“What a treat. I get to see the Iron Wolf with my own eyes,” Lisa muses with a wink. “Last I heard you were dead.”

“The name is, and wish I was,” he laughs nervously. Navia shoots him a flabbergasted look as she begins piling the new books onto the trolley. Curator Minci busies herself with a slip of parchment, checking off the books one by one whilst glancing between her task and Wriothesley.

“Curator Minci,” Navia begins, a question hinted in her tone. “Would you have a copy of Tales of the Three Magi in the Archives by any chance?”

Lisa thinks on it for a moment. “We have a copy of every book in Teyvat. I haven’t heard of it, but we should have it. I’ll take a look and give it to you tomorrow.” She also hands Navia a sealed missive for her to deliver to Scribe Nahida.

“Thank you.”

With that, the trolley is full and Navia bids Curator Minci a good day. Her and Wriothesley leave and begin the trek back to the Rider’s Quadrant. They walk in silence for a while and the nagging reminder to ask Navia to help him study bounces around in his mind relentlessly. Now would be a good time to ask her, despite his entire body almost seizing at the idea of it. He turns to her, and they lock eyes for a moment, the question on the tip of his tongue.

“So, what do you think of the Archives—”

“—Can I ask—” he cuts himself off the second he realises Navia is speaking. “Sorry, uh. The Archives,” he fakes a thoughtful expression. “It looks like a prison for books down there…”

Navia laughs. “Is it the big door?”

“Yeah, that.” And the bureaucratic process of checking the books (prisoners) in and out, the lack of sunlight, the stiff atmosphere. A full-bodied shudder runs through him as some rather benign but unpleasant thoughts cast their slimy fingers down his back.

“Yeah, that’s what gets most people. It shuts every night at the eighteenth hour on the dot, locks and sucks as much air as it can out of the tunnels with a clever ward charm,” Navia explains, a brightness returning to her face.

“Why?” he asks, puzzled.

“Fire mitigation.” They’re silent for a moment longer. “What did you want to ask?”

His mind screams at him to just ask, but the timing feels wrong.

“Nothing, I was just wondering why the Curator gave you a missive,” he deflects, pointing to the thick roll of parchment sitting on top of the pile of books on the cart. “I didn’t think that’d be part of your job.”

Navia shrugs as they continue up toward fresh air. “There’re other ways of sending missives from the Archives and Scribe Quadrant, this just so happens to be convenient. I’ve always wanted to know what’s inside them, but that would require breaking the seal.” She pauses for a moment and then recognition flashes in her eyes. “You’ve opened some of these before, right?”

“Yeah, every now and again. Never the ones with blue seals on them though, never been important enough to receive one of those,” he chuckles. “They’re usually just battle reports, orders or requests. Nothing very interesting.”

“Glad I’m not missing out on much then.”

🌊🐉🌊

Near the end of the week, Wriothesley’s second last challenge becomes something to look forward to. It’ll be a break in the monotony of failing lessons and sparring with Freminet until the younger begs to be sent off to bed. He’s never far behind the kid, joints aching fiercely by the time each day is over.

Kuki Shinobu stands opposite him on the mat, twirling a dagger around her fingers artfully. A black mask covers the lower half of her face. Wriothesley can tell by the way her eyes narrow that she doesn’t play around. Perhaps this would be fun. Though, the thought fades the moment he spots Ajax Tachelli watching him one row back from Shinobu’s squad, smug smile gracing his features as Wriothesley makes eye contact with him.

It’s not like Tachelli could join in mid challenge, however, Wriothesley remembers that cadets can request to challenge a cadet of their choosing in the sixth week of Challenges. The only hope he has in avoiding Tachelli is that someone beats him to it. Doubtless, half the Quadrant probably wants to fight him, it just matters who wants to fight him more than Tachelli. There’s probably not many other First Years around with the balls to do that.

“Begin,” Professor Mavuika calls. The hardness of her voice indicates to Wriothesley that she’s interested in the outcome of this fight. Cadet Shinobu must be good.

“Alright, let’s settle this,” Shinobu grits, cracking her neck and jumping up and down on the spot. She’s going to be quick on her feet, but her lithe frame means it won’t take much to get her down on the mat.

Wriothesley nods to her and rolls his shoulders out. This time, he’s opted for his steel gauntlets and the small blade that’s usually sheathed in the top of his boot, keeping the fight within close range and allowing him to respond quickly to Kuki’s dagger (likely plural, given the array strapped to her chest and hips).

“Let’s have at it,” he says, liking Shinobu’s attitude. They both dash forward at the same time, coming together in a quick succession of swipes and strikes. Adrenaline surges through his body, pulse hammering in his ears as the movement excites every last nerve in his body. Kuki’s blade whips across the space between them blazingly fast, mere millimetres from his skin, and all it does is make him more determined to cut it closer with each block and dodge.

He lands a rather devastating hit to Shinobu’s shoulder but gives her a fragment of a moment to recover before locking blades with her again. She pulls back, dislodging her dagger and lands a hard kick to the outside of Wriothesley’s knee, which buckles a little, sending him off balance. These damn kids are always going for his shitty knees. A white line of pain blooms across his forearm as Shinobu’s dagger catches him on the way down. It doesn’t hurt much, only dully throbbing against the calm of his mind and riotous energy within his body.

He recovers well enough to block the second strike and they exchange blow after blow, cutting one another up like Sunday roast. Once he’s had enough punishment for the day, sick of the burning cuts that now line his arm and rib, he uppercuts, he hits Shinobu square in the jaw. Her teeth clack together, and her head snaps back. She tumbles to the ground like a sack of meat, a bruise already forming around the split skin of her chin.

“Cadet Wriothesley wins, taking Cadet Shinobu’s dagger,” Professor Mavuika announces with a satisfied nod. One of Shinobu’s squadmates darts over to her to shake her awake. He watches, hoping she isn’t too far gone or concussed. Shinobu groans upon waking and rubs her head in complaint, likely already developing a nasty headache from the knockout. Wriothesley grabs the dagger she dropped and sheaths it. It’s a lightweight Inazuman blade, terrifyingly sharp and well-made. Perhaps Navia could make good use of it.

The throbbing in his arms intensifies as the adrenaline washes away. A kernel of regret wriggles its way into his chest as he realises letting Shinobu cut him up for fun probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Some sick masochistic part of himself shoves the feeling down, reminding him that it’s the most alive he’s felt in the past two weeks.

He can feel Navia step closer to him, hand outstretched tentatively just millimetres away, likely to remind him to go lick his wounds. She pulls away when a cadet steps onto the mat uninvited. All eyes lock on the offender, even Professor Mavuika’s as she clenches her fist around the parchment in her hand.

“Hey old man,” a familiar, needling voice calls. Cadet Ajax Tachelli stands defiantly on the mat as Kuki Shinobu’s squadmates drag her to her feet behind him. Wriothesley doesn’t appreciate the callous greeting. He’s not one for throwing daggers, but he considers breaking the Challenge rules if Tachelli steps any closer. “Next week,” the ginger raises a finger at him, staring down the length of it like one would with a crossbow. “You’re mine.”

“Get in line,” Wriothesley grumbles, rolling his eyes. He steps back, not wanting to break eye contact with Ajax in case the kid got any ideas about starting his sixth round of challenges early. Tachelli doesn’t make a move, only lowering his pointed finger, satisfied with his declaration.

“Tachelli, just submit a request like everyone else,” Professor Mavuika groans, keen on moving things forward. “We don’t have time for dramatics.”

Wriothesley walks away, accidentally bumping shoulders with Navia as he turns.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, inspecting his warm, sticky hands. He’s making a bit of a mess, again.

“You’re really a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Navia goads him.

“You’re one to talk, Caspar,” he huffs. “How’s your ass feeling since Magloire handed it to you on a silver platter?”

“Go fuck yourself,” she hisses back.

“Already on my way,” he sighs with a pleasant smile as he walks away. He has to ask her. No matter how much he doesn’t want to.

🌊🐉🌊

Over dinner on Friday, Wriothesley feels himself grow twitchy and silent as he tries to work up the nerve to ask, eyes constantly darting between his own plate and Navia’s like they’re hourglasses, counting down the moments he has left to ask her. The cuts up his arms and torso sting terribly, adding to his discomfort.  A few times, he takes a breath and is seconds away from asking her, but the sound or the movement makes Navia look at him expectantly, and his body locks up and mind blanks.

“What is with you today?” her brows knit together and she side-eyes him like she’s a little disturbed. “You’re all fidgety and kinda sweaty.”

“I’m fine,” he hisses a little too quickly.

“Did you eat something a little too spicy and don’t want to admit your spice tolerance isn’t up to standard?” she teases with pouty lips. His first instinct is to scowl and deny it, but instead a laugh shoots up his throat, turning into an ungraceful snort.

“Gods, I wish that was my problem.”

Navia levels him with a look that sobers him immediately.

“Ok, fine. I…” He pauses for a moment, screwing his eyes shut and drawing in a deep breath. His voice drops to a whisper. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay…?” Her eyes flick side to side and he hates his stupid brain for his lack of straightforwardness, which in turn makes her feel uneasy. It feels like everyone in the meal hall is staring at him and Freminet shuffles around in his seat awkwardly beside Wriothesley.

“Shit… I can’t say it here.” Heat crawls up the back of his neck, prickling with an un-scratchable itch. “I need to ask you in private.” He laughs nervously but the sound quickly evaporates when Navia and Xiangling exchange a precarious look across the table from another.

A few minutes later Wriothesley takes his and Navia’s empty plates back to the kitchen and gestures for her to follow him. Nausea swirls around in his stomach with every step he takes away from the meal hall. It’s hard to breathe against the sickly feeling in his throat and the tightness in his chest. He shouldn’t ask, he should just deal with it the way he always has by shutting up and focusing his efforts on something more achievable.

Instinctually, he beelines to the courtyard, hoping some fresh air might calm his nerves. And it does, the crisp evening air has already sunk down from the mountains, making the courtyard significantly cooler than inside the Quadrant. Navia crosses her arms over her chest, hands tucked under her armpits. She’s not wearing her jacket, so she must be cold. Thankfully, there’s no one in the courtyard, with exception of a few Cadets just passing through.

He walks further down so he’s away from any doors or windows where there might be prying eyes or ears. Once satisfied with their seclusion, Wriothesley props himself up against the wall, legs and arms crossed casually to try and make the situation feel less tenuous.

“Okay, spill. What is it that’s so embarrassing you have to ask me in private?” Her friendly tone from earlier is long gone, there’s a bite in her tone now.

“Don’t put it that way.”

Navia quirks a brow, expectant. There’s nothing in his head and then there’s everything at once.

“Look, I really didn’t want to ask this… But we’re… friends, right? You’re like the only person in this entire fucking college that I trust not to make an absolute fool of me for asking—”

“Wriothesley,” she cuts him short, stepping back a fraction and the slight increase in distance between them makes his heart sink. “If you’re asking what I think you’re going to ask, I think it’s a bad idea. Don’t you think you’re a bit old for—”

“Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have asked.” He rubs his face firmly enough for phosphenes to spark behind his eyelids.

“It’s okay,” Navia rushes to say, stepping closer. “It’s not just you, I just— I prefer women.”

They both freeze, tangled in a thorny bramble of misunderstanding, pausing to assess their stinging wounds.

“What?” is all Wriothesley can manage to say and Navia tenses further.

“You have a problem with that?”

“No!” he almost shouts. “Why would I? It’d make me a hypocrite. And that’s not what I’m asking.” By now, his heart is absolutely hammering out of his chest and his head is swimming in a thick slurry. Navia softens somewhat, but she’s still twisted in all sorts of directions.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume! It’s just everyone thinks we’re fucking anyway— wait, what did you want to ask me then?”

“Wait, what? People think we’re fucking?” Incredulously, he gestures between himself, and Navia and his skin crawls with the thought.

“Yeah, it’s all gossip,” she grimaces. “No offence.”

“By the tit of the gods, has no one ever heard of men and women being friends without any hint of romantic feelings being involved?”

“Apparently not,” Navia sighs, exhausted. “Now what did you want to ask?”

Wriothesley grits his teeth and shakes his head. He’s already created a huge mess, it’s not worth fucking it up further. Eyes trained despondently on the ground; he doesn’t see the hit coming. It’s not hard, but Navia’s bare hand makes a sound against his arm.

“Hey, don’t leave me hanging. Just ask,” she urges, tucking her hand back under her arm. She’s starting to shiver a little now.

“Fine…” He sounds so pathetically petulant. At least asking this makes him feel significantly less sick than the thought of whatever foul gossip has been running amok through the Quadrant concerning his (currently non-existent) sex life. “I need you to help me study.”

He jumps when Navia releases an unexpected burst of laughter, blood rushing ice cold. He shouldn’t have asked. Someone who’s seen the halls of Meropide twice should not need help studying.

“Oh Wriothesley, that’s nothing. Of course I’ll help you. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal of it.” She covers her mouth, but Wriothesley can still see her smile, which fades when she realises Wriothesley’s grave expression still hasn’t faded.

“Navia, I don’t think you understand how much I’m asking of you.”

“Nonsense, friends study together all the time,” she replies, mirroring his serious tone. “Like you said, we’re friends. Definitely not f-fucking.” She can’t even say it with a straight face and ends up losing herself to another fit of laughter.

The next part he desperately wants to say, but his body refuses, tightening his throat to the point where the words are almost strangling him. He’s never said it out loud to anyone, always finding a different way to skirt around it. But it’s crushing him. It has been the moment he laid eyes on that anatomy diagram in Professor Neuvillette’s assessment. Living in Meropide with this has become unbearable, his lungs need a break, he needs to breathe.

“Navia, fuck… I can barely read.” Finally, a weight lifts from his chest, the lingering embarrassment is barely crushing in comparison. Navia’s eyes widen in disbelief, then her face twists in bewilderment.

“What?” A stillness settles between them for a moment before Wriothesley slumps back against the wall in defeat. “How on earth did you pass the written exam to get into the quadrant? Never mind that, how the fuck have you made it to Colonel without being able to read?”

“I can read, thank you very much,” he snaps, a little too unkindly than he’d meant to. “I said barely… not that I couldn’t. I didn’t learn until I was about eighteen and even then, I wasn’t taught very well at all. I’ve just always been able to make do without it. Once I’d worked my way up through the ranks, I’d get one of my subordinates to read all the missives and write my correspondence claiming I was too busy for that sort of stuff or that my handwriting is horrendous – which isn’t a lie. As for the written exam, I didn’t even know there was one. I didn’t have to do anything for entry beyond getting Headmaster Furina’s approval — which mind you, was near impossible.”

“I can’t believe you got approval from Headmaster Furina instead of sitting the exams. That’s so insane to me,” she laughs to herself dryly. “By Varnari, it all makes a lot of sense now… That’s why you don’t take notes and don’t read the course material. I honestly thought you just knew the content already,” she says more to herself than Wriothesley. “Are you dyslexic?”

“Dys— what? I dunno what that is. I’m just…” he shrugs. “I wasn’t taught.”

“Never mind. How do you want me to help you study? Do you just need me to read stuff out loud to you?”

“Basically.” After a moment he adds “and all that normal… peer to peer kind of study. Like I remember most of the stuff I hear, and diagrams are great. Just… numbers, reading…” he grimaces. “And in return for your time, I’ll teach you to fight so you can actually have a chance at killing Clorinde before the year’s up.”

With the mention of training and Clorinde, Navia rolls her eyes hard and sighs deeply.

“Not sure how I’m feeling about my chances with murder… but we can fuck her over, yes.” She sticks her hand out. “Deal.”

Wriothesley shakes her hand in a firm grip, surprised by how ice cold her fingers are.

“Come on, let’s get back inside.” He kicks off the wall and walks back inside, Navia tailing slightly behind on his right side.

He’s finally in the clear, for now at least, and excited to work his way back into Professor Neuvillette’s good graces – by proxy, Headmaster Furina’s good graces too.

“For the record, you and like… ninety percent of the cadets here are all too young for my liking.” He shudders at the mere thought of Navia’s earlier assumption and the action draws a bright string of laughter from Navia.

“Well let’s hope some more honourable, valiant, infantry colonels decide to follow in your footsteps, so your dating pool isn’t dry as the Barrens.” She throws her arms out in exaggerated whimsy.

He really has no hope getting laid until graduation.

Chapter Text

22 years ago

In the years that passed since that first week at his new home – when he, Edd, Ben and Lee found Rin by the stormwater drain – everything blurred into an endless routine. When Piu, one of the older boys, was adopted and left the home, Fen moved from cleaning and separating the scrap Meka parts to joining the other boys at the bench. Edd walked him through each design and the diagrams father had illustrated were extensive, but easy enough to understand without needing to read.

His fingers had hurt a lot less now that he was spending most of the day using small tools to build whatever fantastical mechanic the boys were instructed to build each day. It made his eyes hurt, working with the small delicate pieces of metal in the dim light of the workshop. It didn’t, however, make him miss the way the chemicals made his fingers burn and how the cleaning rag rubbed his fingers raw. Instead, a few months later, a new boy came to the house and was given the task of cleaning the scrap parts.

The new boy didn’t say what his name was. He was quieter than Fen, and that unnerved the rest of the boys. Fen hardly spoke as is, and since the incident with Rin, he was regarded as quite the freak by most of the boys and all of the girls.

For the girls, it was much the same. The older girls would be adopted — into which families, Fen knew not — around the age of twelve, and a younger girl would take her place. Every day, father would come downstairs to check the quality of their wares and berate any of them if they screwed something up.

Fighting with Madam Poirot’s boys became a religion. Most people went to temple to pray to one of the four gods Fen didn’t believe in. They sounded like bedtime stories, mystical heroes that saved the continent when an incomprehensible doom threatened the fate of Teyvat.

If gods existed, Fen wouldn’t have had to fight tooth and nail every single godsforesaken day of his life since just to get by. And he certainly wouldn’t have been spending twelve hours a day building meka trinkets to earn his bed and bread.

“What are you thinking about?” Edd interrupted Fen, who was deep in thought, as he kicked his ankles to-and-fro. His legs hung over the edge of the dock. The water of the canal was dark as always, flecked with small buds of green algae and drowned insects. There were no fish there today. There hadn’t been for the past three weeks.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. He was thinking about Rin. There was hardly a day that went by where he didn’t think of him. The image of the boy’s body, bloated and leaking dark coagulated chunks from his neck, still felt fresh in his mind despite it being around two years since.

“I’m beginning to think you haven’t had a single thought in your entire life,” Edd teased as he knocked Fen’s shoulder with his own. Fen didn’t budge. He kept his eyes on the water, wondering if there would be anything more to life than labour.

“Since you have no thoughts of your own, I’m feeling an idea coming on,” Edd stated loudly, trying to pull Fen in but the smaller boy’s lack of reaction dulled his cheer. “Oh, come on. You love my ideas.”

“I don’t,” He gritted out, shoving Edd away. “You always get into trouble with mother, father or the Gardes with your ideas and I have to come save your stupid ass.”

It was true. Edd had no talent for escaping punishment, he seemed to be a glutton for it. By now, Fen had mastered new techniques for getting out of trouble given how often Edd dragged him into it. One of his better techniques included providing a rather long-winded name to any of the Gardes that caught them and escape while the Garde fussed over spelling or pronouncing it. Hiding in the sewers was a long-standing trick of his, but he was starting to near the point at which he had grown enough for a quick escape to become slightly more difficult.

“Come on, Fen. Indulge me one more time. I think we should go to Hotel Debord—”

Fen cut him off with an exaggerated whine. He didn’t like where this was going.

“—and see what we can weasel out of the boxes they have out the back.”

“We got caught last time.”

“We won’t get caught this time. Come on, I’m so hungry I could kill one of Madam Poirot’s boys and eat him raw,” Edd complained, throwing his arms out exasperatedly. The mere idea of it made Fen sick to his stomach, but Edd wasn’t the only one who was hungry. He was hungry too. Sneaking food from the home to give to Micah and Celeste in the Fleuve Cendre was an incredibly difficult operation.

They waited until just before curfew, when the last rays of daylight were kissing the crown of the city walls. The smell of the kitchen at Hotel Debord was intoxicating, even from a distance.

“Now,” he whispered to Edd, crawling out from the bush they were tucked under. The two of them snuck through the alleyway as silently as they could manage whilst the main walkway between them and Hotel Debord cleared. It was warm behind the hotel; they could hear the kitchen staff shouting at one another. They cracked open one of the boxes and retched when they were hit with a repugnant stench.

Holding his nose shut and stifling the coughing that threatened to expose them, Fen continued to the next box and the next, until they found one that didn’t reek of rot. The smell from this one was bearable, it was filled with stale bread, offcuts of vegetables and strips of animal fat and bones. He looked over to Edd with a bright smile and grabbed an armful of bread and a handful of some carrot and broccoli stems. He gestured for Edd to do the same and began to make his escape.

It was too late by the time he realised Edd hadn’t followed him.

He turned back to see Edd excitedly jumping up and down on the spot, having opened another box and found what Fen could only assume was leftover desserts. The noise in the kitchen got louder.

“Edd!” he hissed. “Ditch them. We have to go.”

Edd didn’t listen. He never listened. How the boy had survived this long was completely lost on Fen.

“Hey, you!” an older man’s voice shouted from the back of Hotel Debord. Edd froze on the spot and a single stale cupcake fell from his arms, landing on the ground with a flat splat. “Get out of here, gutter rat! I’ll call the Gardes on you!”

When Edd finally had the good sense to run, Fen ran too, leading the way back to the home. The man from the hotel chased them with a broom, hitting Edd with it until he gave up and dropped his armful of food to sprint away with Fen.

They stopped just short of the home to catch their breath, both boys far too light-headed than they would have liked. They shared Fen’s spoils between one another, shoving down the guilt that threatened to rise in their throats like bile when they knew they could have shared it with everyone else. Sharing would leave them just as hungry as they were before, but with clean consciences.

When they turned into a side street close to the home, the cadence of a familiar voice caught Fen’s ears.

“Come on, we’ll be late,” Edd urged. It was the first sensible thing he had said all day, but despite that, Fen couldn’t get himself to turn away. As if drawn toward the sound by a string, his legs moved of their own accord until he could just make out the words.

Down the end of a narrow alley, a space between buildings opened up to a firelit scene. Fen could make out the back of father’s coat and one of the girls was stood beside him, her wrist held tightly in his hand. A man stood before father, vague features, shirt, pants and suspenders. A farmer perhaps. He was arguing with father.

“Seventy thousand is unreasonable, I paid fifty thousand for the last one,” the farmer growled. “That’s an unreasonable increase in price in such a short timeframe.”

Fen made sure to obscure himself from view but still listen in on the conversation.

“I wouldn’t increase the price unless I needed to,” father said levelly. “Last time, I had some unfortunate loose ends that needed tying up, no thanks to you.”

The farmer seemed rather affronted by father’s words and made a disgusted sound. A warm mouth pressed up against Fen’s ear and almost made him jump out of his skin.

“What’s going on?” Edd whispered. He shushed the stupid boy and shoved him back where he wouldn’t be visible to the farmer.

“Hah, that would hardly be my fault. You really should be more careful with how you package your goods,” the farmer shot back.

“Are we completing the sale or not?” Father’s voice dropped to something low and vaguely threatening. It sent goosebumps up Fen’s arms.

“Fine. Take the mora. But don’t try swindling me again,” the farmer warned. There was a heavy clink as the farmer handed over a large sack of mora and a light whimper from the girl that was with them. The exchange left a bitter taste in Fen’s mouth and he could tell Edd felt similarly when he turned back to urge him to start moving.

When they returned to the home, they realised Nina was nowhere to be found.

Ben asked mother where Nina was later that night. She smiled weakly and said she was ready for her new home, that they’d found her a new family that would love her and take good care of her.

When it was past midnight, Fen heard Edd crawl out of his bed toward him. Neither of them had slept yet, resigning themselves to counting the breaths of the other boys in the room to keep their minds from wondering.

“We should tell them,” Edd whispered.

“No.” It was a simple answer. One he knew Edd did not want to hear. “They’ll freak out. It’s not safe.”

“It’s not safe? Fen, it’s not safe to stay here—”

“Shh!”

“We should tell them, we’ll all leave together,” Edd suggested, more quietly this time.

“There is nowhere we could go where they wouldn’t find us,” Fen warned. “You remember when Hal and Rene were both adopted in the same week?”

Edd nodded. Fen couldn’t see it but he heard the light rustle of the movement.

“I think that farmer took one of them, and the other…” he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to make it real. But he had to. “I think the same thing that happened to Rin happened to Rene or Hal.”

The temperature in the room dropped and both boys stopped breathing for a considerable amount of time. A vision of Rene, bloated, throat vomiting dark chunks of blood, took up the entirety of Fen’s mind until long after Edd crawled back into bed.

The next day, they tried to alert the Gardes to the situation, but both Fen and Edd were already known to them for lying through their teeth to escape capture. It truly was no use.

Edd lasted two months before he disappeared. Mother told them he was adopted. But Fen knew he hadn’t reached the age for ‘adoption’ yet.

He never found Edd’s body.

But he didn’t know what was worse: death or being sold to some farmer to do gods only know what in some far away village.

🌊🐉🌊

Now

Saturday morning begins with Wriothesley poking Navia awake at dawn. She fusses in her semi-conscious state and turns over, pulling the covers up. Yesterday, she promised to get up early to warm up before breakfast, but Wriothesley knew it was going to be a shit-fight to get her awake and functioning at a reasonable hour.

He trudges down to breakfast duty and happily completes the assigned tasks for kitchen duty, thankful that he no longer has to stand there later in the morning serving food. It’s not his thing, never has been.

Navia arrives shortly after he sits down for breakfast, reluctantly accepting an inordinate amount of extra protein from Wriothesley’s plate. They eat in silence, not wanting to think about the events of yesterday. If Wriothesley even dares to think about the rumours going around, he’s not going to keep his breakfast down.

Sparring together will make it worse, but it will keep Navia alive.

The sparring gym is empty when they arrive. The room is barely lit by the icy pale light of the sunrise over the mountains in the distance. Unsure how long it will stay that way, Wriothesley drags a mat out and throws it unceremoniously across the floor. The less everyone sees of the two of them, the more comfortable they both will be.

“So… What are we starting with?” She asks nervously, toeing the frayed edge of the sparring mat.

“Well…” he thinks on it for a moment, collecting a few different shaped sparring batons and wooden weapons to toss down beside the mat. “I won’t going to train you the same way I would with Freminet. You’re both built very differently, and you were trained differently too — if at all,” he adds in the least snarky way he can manage.

“I’ll have you know that over the past few weeks Xiangling has taught me how to use a polearm and Nilou helped me with fencing,” she tuts, crossing her arms.

“There’s no shame in being shit at something you’re not trained to do. Besides, as much as those two have taught you, there’s still so much you need to learn to, you know, not die.” He undoes the buckles of his boots and kicks them off, screwing his eyes shut as the cool stone floor bites into his feet. Navia does the same.

“Enough with the smart-ass comments. Put that energy into teaching me something useful,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes, madam,” he nods with a wry smile. “Back to basics.” He walks around until he’s side by side with Navia and gestures for her to mirror his posture. “Fighting stance. You’ve got it mostly right, but you need to untuck your thumb from your fist — I know you don’t do it all the time, but it’s an easy habit to fall into.” He reaches across and untucks her right thumb from her first, the left is fine. “Open up your hips as well.”

Navia raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“Not like that,” he growls. “I mean it in a flexibility kind of way. You’re always so stiff when you fight, like you clench your entire body instead of just your fists.” Navia thinks on the comment for a moment and tries to relax her muscles, swaying side to side the way Wriothesley does. “Better. Think of it the way you taught Freminet to separate uh… what was it, emotion from physical sensation?”

“Yeah that,” she nods. “Like separating parts of my body to keep loose and tight.”

“Yes. That.”

“It’s like dancing,” she murmurs to herself.

“Sure.”

He walks her through various hand-to-hand techniques, ensuring the movements follow the correct movement lines to ensure they’re as efficient as possible whilst opening up the least to incoming attack. Once satisfied, he stands in front of her with a satisfied smile.

“Now hit me,” he directs, arms spread out to open his torso to an incoming blow. Navia only stands there, wide eyed and confused.

“I don’t want to.” She shakes her head and steps back.

“You’re going to have to get used to hitting me.” He shuffles forward a little and gently brings Navia’s hands back up from her sides into fighting stance. “Hit me the way I just taught you.”

Silence falls between them as Navia screws her eyes shut, fighting an internal battle, begging herself to go against her nature.

Eventually, she hits him with a single punch to the abdomen. The technique is correct, but there is no power behind it, so it merely feels like more than a soft thump.

“Should I get the Wingleader?” he asks smugly.

The hit comes blindingly fast, and Navia’s fist strikes his abdomen with more force than he’d anticipated, just below his diaphragm. The air rushes out of his lungs as a brief spark of pain flashes through his body, leaving him to curl forward a little and clutch his stomach.

“Oh mercy of Mar, are you alright?” Navia darts forward, hands outstretched to check his torso. He steps back and straightens himself up with a wry smile.

“Perfectly fine. That was a good punch.” He shakes his limbs out and nods.

“Really?”

“Really. I know you’re strong from whatever manual labour you’ve been doing at the Spina your whole life. I want to teach you to use that strength. So, maybe one day soon you’ll be smashing people’s heads in with a battle axe.”

They have at it for a solid two hours after that, hand-to-hand sparring, Navia slowly learning to dodge Wriothesley’s slowed down punches, Wriothesley dodging more and more of Navia’s punches as she gets better at landing them (specifically right where he’s still bandaged up from his challenge with Kuki Shinobu earlier that week). They stop briefly only to drink water, before he drags her back into another exercise or sparring match until they’re both spent and sweating.

They move onto daggers, wooden ones. Neither are in the mood to let themselves get cut up any more than already necessary. Once technique is down, they switch to sparring, which then spirals into a rather long tangent on grappling, locks and throws, due to how close quarters they are. By this time, Cadets had started to filter into the sparring gym, preparing for their final week of challenges. They can feel several sets of eyes on them at all times as they tussle around until they both collapse in a heap side by side.

“Fuck, it’s so hot in here. I’m gonna die,” Wriothesley grumbles, pawing at his own shirt until his hands remember how to unbutton things. The black fabric of the uniform is saturated with sweat and sticks uncomfortably to his skin, itching and pulling in places it doesn’t normally. He bundles the wet fabric up and tosses it to the corner of the mat with a sigh of relief as air flow is restored to his body, wicking up some of the sweat, instantly cooling him.

“Fucking hell,” Navia almost shouts behind him. Lightning fast, he whips around to face her, worried that something is wrong. Her hands cover her mouth and her eyes are wide, but nothing seems to be wrong with her. He gives her a confused look and checks his bandaged wounds. He’s bleeding a little here and there, but it’s nothing that should draw a reaction like that out of Navia. Other Cadets in the room all peer over at him and he suddenly feels self-conscious for the first time in quite a while.

“You’ve got more scar than skin,” she whispers, more quietly this time.

Oh.

Very quickly, he’s reminded that he’s surrounded by sweet summer children who haven’t seen a day of the frontline in their life. They probably haven’t met someone who has the war and more written across almost every inch of his skin. Self-consciously, he reaches for his shirt again.

“I’m sorry,” Navia apologises quietly, getting to her knees so they’re eye to eye. “That was insensitive.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. If he tells himself that, it will hopefully feel that way.

“Leave it off. You said you were overheating.”

“You sure?” He worries the cool, damp fabric between his fingers just to have something else to focus on.

“Yes,” she huffs with a faux haughty attitude. “I can’t ruin it for the rest of the people in this room that will surely want to ogle over your… lovely? big burly uh, muscles or something.” She chokes out a laugh at the last part, cheeks reddening with the absurdity of her banter.

A smile cracks through his haze of worry in appreciation of Navia’s attempt at humouring him. He can feel a fragment of his own humour in that and laughs at the thought of how much the two of them will change each other over the course of their time at Meropide — should it not be cut short.

He can feel other eyes in the room on him, namely the two Marked Ones in his squad, Xilonen and Chasca in the corner. The two of them eye both him and Navia with wariness and unmasked grimaces. Surely, they’re reading his and Navia’s relationship the wrong way, as so many others do.

“Alright. Three more rounds and then we’re going to lunch,” he offers, getting to his feet, thighs shaking with the effort. Navia groans and hoists herself up to her feet like a marionette doll, head and limbs flopping about.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s the opposite of what I’m trying to achieve here,” he sighs. “Now come here and show me how you’re going to escape a headlock.”

Three rounds later and the two of them collapse atop one another, limbs unceremoniously tangled, a new array of bruises blooming across Wriothesley’s torso. The awkwardness that should be there isn’t there. Either Navia is too tired to care or perhaps the fragment of vulnerability Wriothesley allowed her to see yesterday has put her at ease with him — for now at least. There’s a sense of familiarity in how rough they are with each other, pushing and pulling to bring out the worst, or maybe the best, in one another.

There’s a word for it, but Wriothesley’s thoughts slow to a blur as he’s pretty sure he’s very slowly suffocating with the majority of Navia’s weight atop his chest.

“You wanna get off me?” he wheezes.

“Mm. Maybe,” Navia mumbles, not moving an inch. “My entire body feels like all my muscles have been scooped out and replaced with mint jelly.”

He’d laugh if it didn’t immediately make him choke.

“Is this weird for you?” he asks cautiously.

Navia takes a worryingly long moment to think about her answer. “No,” she admits honestly. “Does this make you feel weird?”

“Nah.” Carefully, he slides out from underneath Navia and kneels beside her. Half her face is smushed into the mat and her messily plaited hair lands across her face in damp strands. She looks utterly ridiculous, and a warm laugh rockets up his throat from deep in his chest.

He remembers the feeling. Something he hasn’t had for a long time

Family.

🌊🐉🌊

Bright and early on the Monday morning, Wriothesley rolls himself out of bed, cursing the way his joints pop in and out of place and his muscles ache like they’ve been shredded into a million pieces. For the first time in six weeks, he actively seeks out the challenge board in the courtyard to check if Professor Mavuika really has been as cruel as he thought she would be.

Professor Mavuika is a woman who wants to be entertained. And entertained she will be on Tuesday afternoon when Wriothesley will face off against the bane of his existence, Cadet Ajax Tachelli.

As if the mere thought of him were a curse, Wriothesley turns away from the board to see the Repeat lounged against the wall on the other side of the courtyard, wicked smile slashing across his features.

Always fucking watching.

He’s fought off Snezhnayans scarier than this kid and faced off with gryphons with their fliers more times than he would have liked, but the sheer unyielding way this kid has followed him around, stared him down (and attempted to kill him) sends shivers up his spine. There’s just something about him. Perhaps it’s the two cadets he’s accidentally killed this year, and the three he killed last year during Challenges, that really drives home the sense of unease he gets around that kid.

Without making further eye contact with Ajax, Wriothesley beelines to the meal hall and begins his breakfast chores. He’s not even due to fight Ajax today. That would be tomorrow, but the scent of all the food in the kitchen makes his stomach swirl and clench abruptly.

At the table, he chokes back about a quarter of his usual portion for breakfast and feels positively rank afterwards. Navia joins him, looking as sore and beaten as him after an entire weekend of sparring almost non-stop. All throughout breakfast, the cadets who pass them stare for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“I don’t think the sparring over the weekend helped the rumours,” Navia groans, barely able to hold her head up over her plate.

“We’ve basically just fucked ourselves instead of eachother with that,” he says dryly.

“Someone’s jealous.” For a moment, he’s confused and looks to Navia, only to find her pointing subtly across the room where Tachelli stands beside Lyney De Hearth, staring daggers in their direction.

“Probably jealous I have friends,” he jokes. It sounds so petty, but humour is the only thing that makes the impending sense of doom fade to obscurity for a few moments, until it returns full swing. Ajax’s glare doesn’t falter and Wriothesley craves the sweet release of humour that delivering a strongly offensive hand gesture would provide.

“Ok, now you’re just being childish,” Navia tuts and smacks his hand.

“I might end up on the Death Roll on Wednesday morning. Let me get at least one more laugh in before I start brooding again.”

“Gods’ teeth, you’re fucking grim.”

They spend Monday night in the sparring gym, Wriothesley working out with Freminet in a routine that has slowly become as simple as breathing. The youngest De Hearth is becoming stronger, he could see it in the way Freminet would hold his weapons with more confidence, move with more ease, pack more power behind his fragile blows.

This time, Navia comes armed with a book and her Dragon Studies notes. She reads out her notes to the two of them and Wriothesley asks questions between breaths as he pulls a pretty significant amount of weight on a pulley toward his chest. The movement helps to keep his mind from wondering to the early grave awaiting him tomorrow.

“Since when did this become a study group?” Freminet asks, letting a weight crash to the floor.

“Uh,” Wriothesley hesitates.

“Why not multitask?” Navia shrugs nonchalantly, sparing Wriothesley a very brief glance. “Works out better that way.”

“I don’t know about you, Wriothesley, but I can’t think while doing these freaking exercises,” Freminet grumbles.

“Suit yourself, the only time I ever have a thought worth thinking is when I’m doing this,” he says offhandedly. Navia chokes on laugh. “Can you repeat that bit about blue dragons, Nav?”

Once she’s finished clearing her airway, Navia returns to her notes. “Blue dragons value responsibility and altruism. They are keen judges of character and can see through lies very easily. When approaching a blue dragon, you’re supposed to look them in the eye. Not just any old eye-to-eye stuff, Professor Neuvillette said it had to be deep.”

“Like uh… soul gazing or something?” Wriothesley asks. He’s heard of the term thrown around here and there.

“I think you can put it that way,” she shrugs and continues. “They prioritise Riders who have a strong sense of justice and can endure the consequences of such a disposition.”

Wriothesley huffs to himself. Justice. Not something he has a clean record with.

They continue that way for an hour longer and Navia shuts the book with a snap and declares herself too tired to continue. To which Freminet promptly drops the weight he’s been working with and calls it a day too. He hurries to pack up and chase after Navia, but Wriothesley stops him.

“De Hearth,” he calls out before Freminet gets too far away. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Uh…” the blonde turns around, hesitating awkwardly. “Sure…?”

“In the not so unlikely event that I die tomorrow,” he begins gravely. “Will you humour tell me why Clorinde thought putting you in this squad was a good idea, even if it went against the rules? You were a sneaky little shit and got out of telling me every time I asked.”

Freminet releases a huff of laughter and shakes his head, like Wriothesley is truly inane for asking.

“She wanted to punish you,” the blonde shrugs simply. “The more Marked Ones to hate you, the more miserable you are in this squad, the more you realise that coming here is not a game, that it’s not a holiday from the frontlines.”

It’s Wriothesley’s turn to laugh this time. It’s not just a huff of laughter that he releases, it’s a full chested chuckle, spiralling into wheezing insanity.

“Tit of the gods,” he rasps. “As if I would think of this as a holiday!”

Freminet stands there awkwardly, knock-kneed and grimacing.

“I hope she knows I chose this over being promoted to a cushy desk job as a Brigadier,” he continues, gasping for breath as he tries to force the laughter out of his lungs.

“You turned down a promotion to be here?” He stares at Wriothesley with incredulity, and it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember that all of the De Hearths are not here by choice. It sobers him up lightning fast, a grave expression falling over his smile.

If there’s anything he owes Freminet De Hearth in this moment, it’s honesty.

“I did,” he confirms, with a weight his voice has not carried all morning. “It sounds really stupid, but… I feel like if I stop moving, I’m going to die. Not drop dead, more of a slow, painful rot until there’s nothing but bones. If I’m here, I’m doing something worthwhile. I don’t think any less of you or your siblings for not having a choice to be here. The only thing that matters is that you take what you’re given and use it for something good.”

Freminet’s gaze softens somewhat, his words resonating with something inside him. Whatever it is, Wriothesley won’t force it out of him.

“Thank you,” Freminet says uneasily. “For training me and… for being real with me for once.”

Wriothesley gives him a tired smile and pats him twice on the top of his head to dismiss him.

He absolves in that moment to never tell Freminet that Clorinde egged him into training him. In a twisted way, it felt good to be given explicit permission to strengthen his squad, even when it’s Aether Travelis’ squad and not his.

🌊🐉🌊

Sleep doesn’t come easy to him that night. He tosses and turns relentlessly until it’s almost dawn. Facing off with Ajax Tachelli is the only thing he can think about. He’s hardly had time to observe how the ginger fights, with exception of a few passing glances and a messy fight in the hallway.

As he completes his chores at breakfast, he quietly runs over everything he knows about Tachelli.

1. He’s a repeat and therefore has an additional year of experience at Meropide
2. He has a proficiency in every weapon available at the college, with exception of the bow (which you can’t use in a Challenge match anyway)
3. Like Wriothesley, he’s willing to tank a hit in order to land one
4. There’s an inherent hunger in that kid for a good fight, and he’ll do anything to get it
5. Ajax won’t stop until one of them is dead.

Five things. Five marvellous, useless, terrifying things. Was Wriothesley prepared to kill another cadet if he needed to? He’d be lying if he says he’s never done that before. Even on the front, he’s been ordered to kill deserters and deal punishments for court martialled subordinates. Killing dishonoured individuals left a shadow over his soul, but this, he doesn’t think he’s ready for.

Each class passes in a blur until he comes to the moment his name is called by Professor Mavuika’s unusually chipper voice. It feels like Wriothesley leaves his skin behind as both his feet firmly plant themselves on the mat, leaving him feeling hollow and naked in front of Ajax Tachelli.

At the announcement of both their names, half the room leaves the mats they’re crowded around to form rows around the mat the two of them are on. It’s borderline ridiculous how invested everyone is in this fight, even Clorinde Magloire has made the trip down to the sparring gym to glare at him. The cut on her cheek from her fight with Navia has faded a little over the week.

Erratic blue flashes in his eyes as Ajax’s twin blades reflect the mage lights overhead. The handles are uniquely curved, and the steel is an electric shade of blue Wriothesley’s never seen before in a weapon. It must be custom made by a particularly creative blacksmith because he can’t even place which region of Teyvat a pair of short swords like that could ever be from, let alone what kind of treatment the steel has gone through to give it a colouring like that.

Every scenario in his head that he ran through last night, he used a different weapon combination against Tachelli, and all of them ended terribly in his imagination. Perhaps his mind is just cruel. The gauntlet and short sword combination seemed to work best against opponents who were quick, as Ajax seemed to be in their little hallway tussle. Using the broad sword he won from Xinyan would make him too slow. A light long sword would have been preferable to keep Tachelli out of range, but he doesn’t have one yet.

The cuts on his arms and torso from Kuki Shinobu aren’t completely healed yet, but they’re covered by his shirt, so Tachelli can’t target them accurately. It’s a weakness he can’t afford to expose.

“Hope someone brought a stretcher,” Ajax jests with a lazy smile, twirling his twin blades around with a perfectly practiced nonchalance. “He’s gonna need it.”

“Uh huh,” Wriothesley nods sarcastically, putting one foot in front of the other. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna start thinking it’s a battle of words and we’re in the Scribe Quadrant.”

Ajax chuckles darkly and tightens his grip on his swords. “Ah, they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. Though, I find it’s not as satisfying killing someone with a sword.”

Wriothesley rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath, begging his squirming insides to give him a break. He glances to Professor Mavuika, who seems to be just barely entertained by the low-quality shit talk between the two. Her eyes flicker from the space between them and Wriothesley. He steps a little closer and locks in, drowning everything out but the motion in front of him.

“I won’t be gentle,” Ajax relishes and locks onto Professor Mavuika, practically begging her to let him unleash whatever hell he’s got stored inside his body.

“Begin.”

Wriothesley barely registers the word, but his nerves fire off the second Ajax’s body kicks into motion, darting forward faster than he ever has before, swinging both swords along two different planes that Wriothesley must individually block and deflect before he’s sliced in half. The steel of their blades ring deafeningly loud in his ears and he can feel the air currents rush against his skin where Ajax’s blades pass.

He feints right, circling around Ajax to strike at his unguarded back, but the ginger turns remarkably fast to deflect the blow with one blade and swing the other toward Wriothesley’s body. It narrowly misses him, the tip catching on his shirt and ripping it open.

The ripping sound sends cold needles rushing down Wriothesley’s spine. He knows this fight is going to be far from clean but for things to be going wrong this quickly, doesn’t sit well with him. Every movement of his makes the harsh lines of his old wounds burn with discontent.

Ajax swings both blades toward his head and he ducks back, throwing his sword up to create some space between them for a split second before another barrage of difficult to evade manoeuvres comes flurrying toward him. Wriothesley’s body works instinctually, sword flicking where it needs to, blows skittering off the steel of his heavy gauntlet, dangerously close to taking his arm off.

With a low growl, he surges forward, against the tide, driving Ajax back with a set of quick, heavy blows that send the kid’s arms shuddering with the force. In the infinitesimally small break, he rockets his gauntlet clad arm tightly across his body to catch both Tachelli’s arms in a bruising blow.

The break between the hit and Ajax’s retaliation is shorter than he expects and there’s far too little space between them to swing a sword, but a quick knee-jerk to the outside of his knee sends Wriothesley’s body stumbling sideways. He swings his sword up just in time to lock with one of Ajax’s blades, but the other comes out of nowhere, sharp tip running up the unguarded side of his body as his gauntlet clad forearm smacks the blade away too late.

Iron hot pain screeches up his side as his skin splits and hot, wet blood seeps out. He can’t afford to hesitate, stifling a groan of pain as he strikes back, bloodying Tachelli’s forearm with a twirling flick of his sword to exit the lock.

They go on and on, clashing and grappling and slicing at one another, until Ajax’s eye swells half shut from a punch to the temple and Wriothesley’s drenched in his own blood. He meets Ajax’s furious gaze as their swords frantically lock again and they struggle, pushing against one another until their faces are terrifyingly close, eyes bulging with determination. Ajax’s hair is caked with blood and thick crimson droplets hang from his eyelashes.

Teeth bared, Wriothesley can feel his strength waning against his younger opponent and his vision begins to swim as the first hint of excessive blood loss hits him. He needs to finish this fight soon.

He surges his head dangerously forward between their blades and smashes his forehead against Ajax’s nose with as much force as he can muster. Angry prickles of pain flash through his skull, followed by a blindingly strong and persistent ache. Thankfully, Ajax falls back, dropping one of his swords to clutch at his face as pain overwhelms him.

Wriothesley’s vision is blurry, not from the blood loss, but he can see a thick stream of red split the lower half of Ajax’s face in two.

“You wanna play dirty?” the younger taunts, using the back of his forearm to wipe the blood away, only to smear it across half his face. “I’ll show you dirty.”

There’s nothing dirtier than fighting for your life on the battlefield or scrapping it out on the streets with someone who wants to take your days’ bread. Wriothesley’s intimately familiar with that.

The next clash of swords comes harder and faster than before, killing blows, tricky footwork aimed to make him trip.

And then Ajax’s free hand comes into play. His strong but slender fingers grab at every available surface they can latch onto: his wrist, forearm, bicep, shoulder, shredded clothes. His devilish fingers somehow find every wound on his body and press into them, tearing skin, pushing into the bloody mess. On one particular occasion, Wriothesley finds himself almost screaming in pain as Ajax’s fingers jab into the space between his ribs. The pain shoots through his body in paralysing waves, making the grip on his sword falter.

In a flurry, he backhands Ajax across the face, hitting him square in the jaw with the hard plate of the gauntlet, throwing him backward, leaving him unarmed as well. Wriothesley doesn’t even have to think about wasting time picking up his sword, he just launches himself at Ajax, landing a winding punch to his stomach, immobilising him for a moment.

In the split second that Ajax’s body is still, Wriothesley dives onto him, preparing to get him in a lock or hold, but the kid recovers so quickly, he elbows Wriothesley in the face. They wrestle on the mat like two rabid dogs tearing each other to shreds. But Wriothesley can feel himself coming to an end. He has to finish this fight whether it kills him or not.

“Professor,” Navia warns across the mat. Wriothesley can barely hear her, too busy trying not to choke as Ajax’s thighs tighten around his throat, and he dislocates Ajax’s arm in a rougher than required lock. His own calf presses down on Ajax’s neck, and he can see the ginger getting red in the face as his vision starts to swim.

“Professor!” Navia calls again. “They’re going to kill each other; you have to stop them!”

“Let them sort it out themselves. We cannot intervene,” Professor Mavuika says nonchalantly, arms folded over her chest.

The edges of his vision darken perilously, and he wheezes desperately as an unbearable pressure builds up in his head. With the last of his strength, he presses down harder on Ajax’s throat, waiting helplessly for the pressure around his neck to ease up.

For a moment, he can’t hear anything, everything goes dark, and his body starts to loosen up. He knows he’s lost the fight and maybe his life.

“Wriothesley!” Navia’s voice breaks through the deafness in a faint echo. Someone else’s voice is there too, but it’s too muffled to recognise.

Then finally, the pressure around his neck eases and he falls back against the mat with a desperate gasp. As the rest of his senses return to him, all-encompassing pain included, he’s sent into a coughing fit. Ajax is still between his legs, and he tries to pull away. His body is filled with lead, and he barely moves an inch before his vision flashes in and out of darkness.

With a final cough, his body gives out and he falls beneath the dark tide.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think they should be in the same room as one another,” a familiar voice murmurs, distant but still managing to thump painfully against his ear drums. His head feels like it’s about to explode.

He groans, long and low as his senses slowly return. Everything aches viciously: skin, bone, muscle, all of it. The noise of his complaint draws someone toward him, and he reaches out blindly, only to regret the action when the movement sends a ripple of burning pain through his shoulder and makes his skin sting as if it’s been rubbed with nettles.

“You gave us a bit of a scare there, old friend,” Baizhu’s tender voice breaks through the haze, crystal clear. Wriothesley blinks his eyes open and shut until the Mender’s silver-streaked hair comes into focus. Someone else rushes up beside him, a blob of blonde hair that slowly comes into focus, along with a pair of sapphire blue eyes.

“Bit of a scare? I thought you were dead!” Navia half shrieks.

“Cadet Caspar,” Baizhu tuts. “You’ll have to refrain from shouting. There are other patients here who require a lot more rest than your friend here.”

“Tachelli,” Wriothesley grits out. “Is he ok? I didn’t…”

Navia’s expression falls and he’s not sure what to discern from that, but Baizhu leans over him with his classic soft smile and nods, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling with the movement.

“He’s on the mend.” His smile is gentle at first, then cracks into something sly. “You’re good, but you’re not that good.”

Relief courses through his body, loosening his hideously tense muscles which delivers a short respite from the pain. Baizhu’s sly jab doesn’t go unnoticed, just unanswered. The mender’s familiar face disappears from view whilst Navia’s leans in closer.

“How do you feel?” she asks nervously. He can see her hands reaching for him, but she refrains, like she’s afraid he’ll break or cry out in pain if she touches him anywhere.

“Mm fine,” he lies. He’s definitely felt worse before, much, much worse than this. “Did I lose?” he asks the dreaded question. Navia bites her lip hesitantly.

“Sort of? Not really?”

“You say it like you’re unsure. What did Mavuika say?”

“Not much. Didn’t declare a winner. I think she was a little confused by how close the two of you got to killing each other. Challenge matches between cadets rarely get to that stage, apparently,” she shrugs. “Pretty sure you might have won by a hair’s breadth because Tachelli knocked out like three seconds before you. I don’t think you’ll get to keep his swords though.”

“Mm… They would have been nice to play around with,” he hums to himself, thinking of those uniquely shaped blades and the flash of blue that’ll haunt the rest of his living memory. Speaking of blades, he carefully manages to dig his hand under the blanket until his fingers wrap around the straight flat handle of the blade he won from Kuki Shinobu. “I forgot to give you this.”

Navia quirks a brow as she can hear the muffled screech of the blade being unsheathed, then leans in as Wriothesley swivels the handle toward her. There’s still blood dried to the blade – not exactly the best gift he’s ever given, but Navia shouldn’t complain.

“Oh?”

“From Shinobu. Thought it was a good size for you,” he explains. “It’s served its purpose.”

“Thanks,” she says with a genuine smile.

“Was I out long?”

“Not really. They rushed you up here for ‘significant blood loss’. Baizhu mended you as best he could, then went to Tachelli. He said you’re going to have to rest a while.” She laughs to herself when a thought occurs to her. “Professor Mavuika was absolutely pissed that you ruined another mat. They had no hope of cleaning it.”

Wriothesley chuckles but regrets it immediately when a sharp stab of pain has him crying out in pain. Navia’s eyes widen and she steps a little closer.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she whispers, eyes darting over to the other side of the room. He assumes Baizhu is over there tending to Ajax Tachelli. By the lack of an arrogant voice filling the room, the kid must still be out of it.

“A beer would be nice.”

Navia balls her fist up and goes to hit him, only to stop herself when she’s inches from his face. Unfortunately, he can’t stifle the laugh that rises in his throat.

“I think you’re well enough for me to go back to class now,” she smiles to herself.

“Just kidding. Go on.” He taps her forearm affectionately with the back of his knuckles.

Later, Wriothesley hopes to escape the infirmary before Tachelli awakes, but as soon as he manages to stand up straight, the sudden change of position sends his head whirling and sparks swimming across his eyes. He sits back down unceremoniously with a thud that draws a little attention.

“Mister,” a soft, airy voice echoes beside him. He looks down to find a small, big-eyed, ghostly pale child standing right next to him, which promptly scares the shit out of him. He flinches backward and the kid doesn’t even move. It’s unsettling to say the least.

It’s been a while since he’s seen a kid anywhere. They’re not exactly roaming the halls of the Rider’s Quadrant, though on occasion, he’s seen Riders take their kids to outposts. Thankfully, he’s never been asked to babysit like a few unlucky Infantry Lieutenants.

“You need to lie down and rest,” the kid directs, unblinking.

He looks side to side to make sure everyone else is seeing this ghostly-looking kid and sits back down on the bed. The kid keeps staring at him and he shifts uncomfortably.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks, hoping to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation.

“Qiqi,” she replies simply and keeps staring. “How old are you?” He can’t begrudge her an answer. It’s sheer curiosity, since the infirmary is usually full of cadets in their early twenties and Wriothesley certainly doesn’t look like a professor of any sort.

“Thirty-two.”

“Wow. Not as old as my dad, but that’s old,” she sighs in amazement, big eyes widening.

Wriothesley laughs. “It’s nowhere near as old as some people in Meropide,” he eyes the back door of the infirmary that leads to the Healer’s Quadrant. Baizhu’s gotta be a stone’s throw from sixty by now. “How old are you, Qiqi?”

The kid finally blinks and looks down at her feet, index finger tapping at her bottom lip as she thinks.

“I’m eight,” she declares slowly, as if she’s not sure.

“Ah, you’ll be growing into a teenager in no time.”

She doesn’t smile or anything, but looks back up to him, eyes running across the scars criss-crossing whatever skin of his isn’t completely covered (which is to say, not a lot of skin visible, still a lot of scars).

“Did you get those fighting a monster?” she asks.

“Yeah, I did.” He allows his voice to become more animated as he notices he’s piqued Qiqi’s interest. “It was a huge undersea monster that tried to eat me and my squad. But we fought it off and told it’s very unkind to eat people.”

Completely enraptured, Qiqi asks, “And what did the monster say?”

“Well, the monster was angry at first and tried to eat us again. But then we taught it a lesson, and it said it was sorry. It said that it was lonely and just wanted some friends.”

“And did you make friends with the sea monster?”

“No.”

Qiqi’s expression falls.

“We did find it a nice whale to play with. I hear they’re still friends to this day.” It’s such a load of shit, but it’s worth telling the tall tales to entertain the kid for a moment.

“Oh, papa,” Qiqi murmurs distractedly, her smile fading away for a moment, but it returns as her eyes focus on something behind him. “There you are.”

Wriothesley turns around to find the last person he’d ever expected to be called ‘papa’.

“She’s yours?” he blurts, wide-eyed as he takes in Baizhu standing at the foot of his bed.

The elder gives him a wry smile and pats Qiqi’s head affectionately as she waddles over to him. “Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. There’s not much resemblance between them, except that he can tell they’re both from Liyue.

“You didn’t tell me you had a kid!” Wriothesley whisper-yells, conscious of the fact that there are people sleeping or resting around them.

“And you didn’t come back to get your stitches out,” Baizhu shoots back with a pout. “Twice!” he adds, as if it incriminates Wriothesley further.

“As if that matters?”

Baizhu releases a gusty sigh and ushers Qiqi out of the room, murmuring fondly to her. He returns, hair frazzled and sits at the end of Wriothesley’s bed with a little too much exasperation. The bed frame moves with a screech under his sudden weight.

“She’s very strange, but adorable,” Wriothesley says with a tight smile.

“Indeed, she is,” Baizhu sighs fondly as he dissociates momentarily into memory. “I adopted her a few years ago. Her parents were from my hometown, killed in a mining accident out near Mingyun Village. They sent her back to Chenyu to live with her grandmother, who died shortly before I came to visit my family. Now we’re here.”

He hums an answer back at Baizhu, unsure of what to say. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“I think I might be the lucky one.” Baizhu closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “Do you think you’d ever do it?”

“What? Have kids of my own?”

Baizhu nods.

“Fuck no.” Both of them bristle at his abrasive answer. “I’m far too much of a bastard to be looking after a kid. That and I’d die on them. I don’t wanna be leaving a kid orphaned… You’d make a great dad. You are a great dad,” he rambles.

Baizhu only laughs and shakes his head. After a beat of silence, he pats Wriothesley on the shoulder and hauls himself back to his feet with a classic old man groan. Wriothesley lays back and watches Baizhu do his rounds and teach the first- and second-year healers who are tending to others.

On the opposite side of the room, Baizhu kneels down at Cadet Tachelli’s bedside. They speak quietly together for a little while. Tachelli’s back is to him, but Baizhu briefly exchanges a glance with him over Tachelli’s hunched shoulder and subtly shakes his head.

You’re not going anywhere, the look says.

He’ll be stuck here for the next few hours whether he likes it or not. It’s awfully cold in the infirmary, so he busies his mind for a few moments unfolding the blanket at the end of his bed. Truly, there is nothing for him to do to pass the time other than pick at the fraying strands of fabric sticking out of his mangled wrist wraps. He’d need to go to central command to get them replaced and they’ve already seen enough of his face over the last six weeks with the number of shirts he ruins.

“Are you going to kill each other if I leave the room?” Baizhu asks upon approach. Dark shadows sit heavily beneath his eyes, and his skin has lost most of its colour.

Wriothesley sucks in a deep breath in deliberation and sighs out an answer. “I’d probably be killing you by proxy if I did try to kill him. You’re too dear a friend for that.”

The smile doesn’t quite reach Baizhu’s eyes. Gently, he places a hand on Wriothesley’s shoulder, leaving it there for a moment before departing the room without another word.

It doesn’t take Ajax long to stir, dragging himself up into a sitting position. Wriothesley watches warily from the other side of the room, wishing he was a little closer to the supply shelf, so he’d at least have a scalpel within reach in case the kid tries anything funny.

Ajax’s bleary gaze settles on him after a moment of scanning the room. The muscle of his cheek shifts as he grinds his teeth, refusing to look away from Wriothesley. Tiredly, he returns the sentiment, staring back at the kid. The moment Ajax shifts slightly; his eyes follow and his body tenses against his will.

“Relax,” Tachelli sighs. “Killing old men in their sickbeds is not one of my hobbies.”

“I’m not old,” he says flatly.

Ajax laughs, a genuine chuckle. “You fucking look it.”

“Whatever.” He bristles. “I suppose killing people during sparring is one of your hobbies then?”

“Mm, wouldn’t say so.” Tachelli lounges back, tension leaving his body. “Sparring is my hobby. Accidents just seem to happen more than usual around me.”

Wriothesley looks at him lividly, unsurprised by the cadet’s blasé attitude toward consequences and his lack of remorse.

“I won’t be so gentle next time,” Ajax winks.

Out of sheer exasperation, Wriothesley lets his head fall back and hit the pillow, proceeding to ignore cadet Tachelli for the better part of a much-needed three-hour nap.

🌊🐉🌊

Much to his own surprise, he watches Navia get a proper rematch with Rosaria Alig later that week. She gives the fight a red-hot go, and he can see exactly where she’s learnt from previous experience, and where she’s learnt from sparring him. But Rosaria Alig is nothing but vicious, evidently having a dark and wild history by the dirty way she fights.

Their fighting styles clash like paint stripper and pretty tea cakes. Ruthless fire and sweet grace. For a moment, Navia gets the upper hand, using the dagger he gifted her. He cheers, far more loudly than he should. But she lets it slip when her grip falters during a lock she hadn’t quite perfected in their earlier training sessions. She taps out early, saving herself some unnecessary hurt.

The loss is disappointing, but Navia picks herself up and even shakes Rosaria’s hand, taking the other woman by surprise with her courtesy.

Freminet ends up matched with someone of mirrored stature and skill. No one in their right mind would choose to challenge him and risk looking like they took the easy way out of final challenges. He manages a win and walks out of it beaming with an impressively lightweight broadsword.

At the end of the week, after being forced to take a break from training both Navia and Freminet, Wriothesley manages to talk Navia into helping him complete that paragraph from Professor Neuvillette’s first assessment.

“No, that’s not how you spell it!” Navia sighs aggressively, thumping him in the shoulder with her fist.

“Why don’t you just let me submit what you’ve written down for me?” he grumbles, just about snapping the quill in his hand.

“Are you thick in the head?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off.

“You’re trying to get back into the Professor’s good graces. Turning in what obviously looks like someone else’s work and claiming it as your own is as good as telling him Queen of the Gods, Varnari herself, came to you in your sleep and blessed you with enough wisdom to finish your assignment.”

“Ugh, fine. Just stop berating me for my shit spelling. Teyvat commons is ridiculous. There’s no logic to it. It’s got words like diaphragm or thoracic – which is spelt like someone had a stroke whilst they were inventing the word.”

Navia settles down with a tired laugh. “Just finish the last two sentences and walk it straight to his office. I don’t wanna look at this word massacre for any longer than I have to.”

“Since… the unification… the names for… dragon anatomy,” he mutters under his breath as he tries to copy what Navia wrote down for him when he dictated his answer to the assignment. It seemed like a good system, the work was still his own, but having to copy it down is agonising. At least this way he doesn’t lose his train of thought the moment the quill hits the parchment. “…have changed… over time…  therefore you can’t draw a… conclusion… about whether dragon… physi—physiology has changed… since they first… bonded with humans…”

His head aches from staring at the page with more concentration than he ever has in his entire life.

“Fuck it, I’m done,” he drops the quill and ink splatters over the table and his fingers.

“You still have one more sentence to go,” she reminds him.

“Nope. I’d rather stab myself with this quill. I’m done.”

“Fine. Go turn it in already. Your jumpy leg has just about shaken all the patience out of me.”

With a little too much enthusiasm, he jumps up from his seat and snatches the slip of parchment from the table, practically skipping out of the meal hall, only to find his steps faltering when he realises, he has no idea where the Professor’s office is. Asking Navia is out of the question; she’s lost her patience with him already. Freminet is off somewhere else. And that’s about it for his options. Sad, meagre bunch of friends he has.

Refusing to lose momentum, he beelines straight for the dragon studies room in the hopes of catching the Professor between classes. For all he knows, the Professor might be in the middle of a lecture – he doesn’t know the Quadrant timetable. Navia would know it.

As he rounds the corner, Wriothesley seriously considers converting so he can thank the gods properly.

The door to the room is wide open and Professor Neuvillette leans back against the desk, mindlessly waving his hand about in bored, fluid motions. The sight of him so relaxed and unguarded makes Wriothesley hesitate for a moment before crossing the threshold into the room.

It feels incredibly stupid making such an effort to hand in a vastly overdue assignment at the ripe age of thirty-two. But if he wants Furina off his back, he might as well make an effort where it matters most – or at least where he thinks it matters most. He likes Professor Neuvillette. Not just because he’s one of the only Professors that hasn’t actively tried to drag him through the mud, but the content he teaches is probably the only thing Wriothesley has ever found himself interested in. The strange curling feeling in his stomach that rises whenever he thinks of the absolute enigma of a man is the other reason.

He stops a little short of the Professor and peers toward to the basin to watch strange soft blobs of water swirl around each other in a strange pattern of three overlapping swirls that seemed to perpetuate inward.

“Cadet Wriothesley,” Professor Neuvillette greets quietly without taking his eyes off the watery forms above basin in front of him. The break in silence jars Wriothesley from his concentration.

“How’d you know?” he asks, impressed, almost missing the slight twitch in the corner of the Professor’s mouth.

“I’d know the sound of those ridiculous boots anywhere.”

Wriothesley bites the inside of his cheek, hard. A lot of unidentifiable things bubble up through his torso, and he has no choice but to kill them before they take shape. Vaguely, he remembers the parchment in his hand when Neuvillette’s gaze comes to rest on it. It crinkles a little as he strides forward to hand it over.

“I—um…” he hesitates, not sure how to explain himself. Saying something stupid like ‘I’m trying to make you like me again’ is not going to cut it. “I know it doesn’t mean much because it’s late, but I did that paragraph you asked for a while ago.”

Professor Neuvillette’s brows crease and his eyes flicker between Wriothesley’s face and the parchment in his hand a few times before he takes the sheet. “I won’t be marking it,” he says firmly.

“I know,” he nods, swallowing uncomfortably as Neuvillette’s piercingly cold stare sends a nervous shiver through his guts. “It’s still better late than never.” His voice drops off quietly as Professor Neuvillette starts reading his paragraph and the weight of unease in his throat feels like something too big to swallow is stuck there.

It takes the professor quite a while to get through it and Wriothesley realises a little too late that it’s too awkward to leave halfway through, not wanting to watch the Professor’s crystal-clear eyes squint at his illegible handwriting anymore. When he’s done, the professor lowers the sheet with a soft sigh and a nod, then hands it back to Wriothesley.

“Thank you. I said I cannot mark it, but I can at least tell you it’s of a… satisfactory quality,” Professor Neuvillette nods, the faintest hint of a smile hidden by his pursed lips.

“I can work with that,” Wriothesley nods, releasing a pent-up breath. “Thank you.” He nods and turns on his heel to leave, chest a paradox of airily empty whilst bursting at the seams with twisted and complicated thoughts.

🌊🐉🌊

The first week of October marks the beginning of Gauntlet. Wriothesley’s squad is remarkably intact despite six back-to-back weeks of challenges wearing them down to smooth stone. Even poor, unlucky Bennett Ziegler made it through in one piece with a not one, but two, wins under his belt.

Alberich’s lessons must have paid off.

Early on the Monday, before the fog has lifted (which isn’t very early by waxing autumn standards), Mavuika leads the first years through the gateway that leads to the flight field above where the college sits on the mountain. The pathway there is a long, twisting set of stairs carved into the mountainside. The grey stone steps have been worn smooth by generations of riders making their way up to their dragons. Wriothesley stands there for a minute, staring up at the sight, breath curling in front of him. The temperatures are starting to drop sharply overnight, but the days are still pleasant enough.

Mavuika draws their attention to the left where the steeper face of the cliff has been chipped away and is decorated with what looks like an impressively deadly obstacle course, complete with platforms, ropes, logs and a deadly drop over the gorge that separates the Rider’s Quadrant from the rest of Meropide.

“And we thought Parapet was hard,” Navia grumbles beside him. Chancing a look behind him, Freminet looks incredibly pale, shoulders hunched forward in defeat.

“At least we’ve got a few weeks of this to practise before Presentation,” Wriothesley reassures the two of them – and himself. Just looking at the sheer drop beneath the platforms is enough to make his stomach churn. They truly do not give a single shit about how many cadets die trying to become riders.

Professor Mavuika leads their group toward the death trap that winds all the way up the cliff face to the flight field.

“So,” she claps her hands to gather everyone’s attention. “Welcome to Gauntlet. It’s an obstacle course designed to mimic the skills you will need in order to mount your dragon and remain mobile whilst in flight. As you can see, there is quite the drop beneath the course. Call it… motivation. You’re not going to want to fall off your dragon whilst hundreds or thousands of metres in the air. This is no different.”

A few unsettled murmurs ripple through the group of first years. Navia inhales sharply and Wriothesley finds himself sighing as he’s continuously reminded of the Rider’s Quadrant’s flagrant disregard for their Cadets lives. This shit wouldn’t fly in Infantry. But then again… nothing flies in Infantry.

Professor Mavuika gestures behind herself to the Gauntlet course. “You can see that there’s four sets of ropes on the cliff, evenly spaced across the course. Should you fall,” she pauses for a moment, “try to grab onto one of them before you hit the bottom.”

The fall isn’t as terrible as the one from the Parapet, but it’s still enough to kill anyone upon impact if they fall from anywhere above the first level of Gauntlet. 

“I should remind you, that at the end of this month, on the assessment day of Gauntlet, if you fall and catch yourself on the ropes, you can kiss your dragon rider dreams goodbye. Your squad time will suffer, and you will not be participating in Presentation,” Mavuika warns in a tone that could cut each and every one of their throats if she so wished it to.

“I’m so fucked,” Freminet whispers beside Wriothesley. He’s got that walking to the gallows kind of look about him again, though, Wriothesley’s not sure that look has ever left him in the first place.

“Last but not least, do not fall into the habit of helping your squadmates during Gauntlet. On the assessment day, it is against the Codex to provide or receive assistance from another cadet. This is supposed to be an assessment of individual skill, helping your squadmates will do more harm than good when it comes to working with Dragons.”

Navia leans in close and murmurs to Wriothesley, “It’s free reign until the assessment day. I’m sure that makes your big helping-hand-ego flutter with excitement.”

“Oh, shut up,” he hisses back, bumping her on the shoulder with the back of his knuckles. “Forgive me for not wanting any of our squadmates to die because of this stupid training exercise.”

Professor Mavuika gestures for them to come forward and lines them up at the first platform of the Gauntlet course.

“I’ll space you about a minute apart for now, but on the day you’ll all be spaced thirty seconds apart. Use today to get a feel for the course. It’s okay if you don’t finish it today, but you will need to work on that in our following sessions,” Professor Mavuika instructs. “Since I’m not in the best position to be demonstrating,” she whacks her knee and a hollow sound echoes out to illustrate her point. “I’ve invited your Squad Leader to show you all how Gauntlet should be run.” She nods to the space behind them all and Wriothesley turns around to find Aether Travelis walking up the stairs to meet them, gait a little awkward. Then, trailing behind him, a ginger head of hair pops up and Wriothesley’s breath hitches.

“You’ve gotta be fucking with me,” Wriothesley mutters beneath his breath as Ajax stops just behind Aether with a shit eating grin. His smile has a cocky edge to it despite the faded bruises that still mar his complexion, courtesy of Wriothesley.

“I remember inviting Travelis, not Tachelli,” Professor Mavuika states, arching an eyebrow. “Was my messenger a little hard of hearing?”

“My apologies, Professor,” Aether says earnestly, clasping his hands in front of him. “There was an… accident last night. I don’t think I’m in any shape to run the Gauntlet. I didn’t have time to tell you this morning, but I brought a replacement.”

Mavuika closes her eyes and inhales slowly, exhaling with a long breath to try and keep her calm. “Let me guess,” she says dryly, “You were volunteering for levitation training with your friend, Scar?”

Aether blanches at her unimpressed expression. “Maybe… Besides, Tachelli’s been bugging the entirety of First Wing Leadership to demonstrate the Gauntlet in return for getting out of classes until Presentation.”

“Alright. You’ve twisted my arm. Come on Tachelli. Run it in under ninety seconds and I’ll excuse you until Presentation,” she offers,

Ajax pumps his fist in victory. “Fuck yes,” he hisses under his breath and goes to join Professor Mavuika at the starting point.

Tachelli rolls his shoulders back a few times as he steps onto the platform with an easy confidence. Wriothesley can tell that he’s still not fully recovered from their fight last week by the way his left shoulder tenses with reduced mobility and the way there’s a slight lop-sidedness to his gait. Nonetheless, he’s still doing far better than a few of his squadmates – Wriothesley and Aether included.

“Alright, go ahead, kid.” Mavuika juts her chin out in a gesture to let him begin, and steps back with her arms folded across her chest.

“Watch carefully,” he says as he brushes past Kaeya Alberich at the front of the line. It makes the deep blue haired cadet huff and roll his eyes.

Aether sidles up near Wriothesley and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Look closely,” Aether suggests. “I saw him run it last year when we were doing the assessment. He makes it look like nothing moves.”

It’s strange to think that Aether, competent second year, Squad Leader, had been running the Gauntlet at the same time as Tachelli.

Ajax takes off with a run, practically flying across the first level of the course with an uncanny amount of agility. He passes over the wooden beams like he’s walking on solid ground instead of a plank of wood less than a hands width wide, suspended over a gorge with a deadly drop. When he gets to the second half, he slips between the wooden poles that disrupt the direct path of the beam, weaving between them as fluid as water.

A rope ladder connects the first level of Gauntlet with the second, and Ajax climbs up it like it’s nothing, flying on to the second level where four sets of logs protrude from the cliff face. It takes a moment for Wriothesley to realise the logs rotate… They fucking rotate. He watches with thinly veiled awe as Ajax completes the remainder of Gauntlet in what must be record timing, swinging from rope to rope on the third level, and jumping from a few sets of suspended swinging logs. He finishes the fourth level with a vertical climb up a rocky pillar, followed by a headlong sprint into an almost vertical run up a ramp to the final landing.

From the top of the cliff, Ajax waves down at them with a satisfied smile, his other hand subtly pressed against his chest, likely to ward off whatever pain he’s caused himself by going all out on a demonstration. Wriothesley sighs to himself. Restraint is definitely not Tachelli’s strong suit.

“Thank you, Cadet Tachelli,” Professor Mavuika calls out. “Eighty-nine seconds. Now get back to your other classes.”

“Pleasure to be of assistance, professor,” Tachelli calls as he crosses to the stairs and jogs down. “I still want that fight, Mavuika!” he adds right before he disappears down the stairs, back into the quadrant.

When Wriothesley turns back, he finds Professor Mavuika thoroughly unimpressed, upper lip twitching with the beginnings of a sneer. He’s so sure he hears her murmur something along the lines of ‘that kid will be the fucking death of me.’

“Same,” Wriothesley grunts quietly.

“He’s going to get himself killed one day,” Aether sighs quietly beside them, then addresses the whole squad. “I don’t want anyone trying to go anywhere near that fast today. Take your time, work through it slowly. If you get stuck, it’s just a problem to solve. Don’t let it get to you. I’ll be very upset if I see any of you on the death roll tomorrow, understood?”

Each of them nods in agreement, appreciating the advice.  

“Thank you, Travelis.” Mavuika nods to dismiss him. “Alright, with all that out of the way, I now invite each of you to make an attempt. Just don’t forget to grab onto those ropes before you fall to your death. No death roll tomorrow morning would be nice.” Mavuika steps aside and gestures for Alberich to start. She walks back to a worn-down patch of grass where she can see the entirety of the Gauntlet more clearly.

Wriothesley watches keenly as Kaeya Alberich walks across the first beam, arms out to balance himself. He’s surefooted, almost the entire way, but falters in his pace when a cool breeze rushes up the gorge, making strands of his dark hair flitter above his head. Alberich makes it through the first level and Professor Mavuika calls out the next name and Xiangling Mao follows in suit, more confident than Alberich had been.

Soon, it’s Freminet’s turn and by the bloody gods, if Freminet shakes any harder from nerves, Wriothesley is sure the screws in the beam will come loose. He moves agonisingly slowly, despite appearing to have excellent balance. Navia follows behind him, an easy confidence about her. It feels like watching her cross the Parapet all over again, except this time, her hair is secured in a thick plaited rope behind her head, and she’s got two months of training behind her.

It would be a lie if Wriothesley didn’t feel a flush of pride well up in his chest as he watches her cross the first level of Gauntlet with an ease he has not seen outside of a classroom.

For him, the first level of the Gauntlet seems straightforward. That is, until he looks down. It’s not as far down to the rocks below as the Parapet but it sure as shit does nothing to stop the full-bodied cold flash of fear that rockets through him. It’s a long way to fall.

“It’s not that far,” he tells himself, and forces his eyes back up, like he can pretend the deadly drop isn’t there. “It’s not that far, it’s not that far.” It becomes like a mantra or a prayer to some god out there that nobody believes in anymore.

He makes it to the first platform and feels relief trickle through his tight and tingling muscles as he completes the rope ladder climb, thankful that there’s solid ground only two or three metres beneath him. As he gets to his feet, he’s met with the back of Navia’s head. She watches anxiously on as Freminet struggles to cross the rotating logs.

The blonde in question is plastered up against the cliff face, desperately holding onto whatever fingerholds he can as he refuses to move his legs an inch in any direction as he straddles the space between them.

“Come on, Freminet,” Navia calls encouragingly. “You’ve got to move, somewhere. You can’t stay there for the rest of time immemorial.”

“De Hearth,” Professor Mavuika’s voice echoes up the cliff face. “If you cannot continue further, you’ll have to get down to let others pass.”

“H-how?” Freminet asks, far too quietly for Mavuika to hear.

“You’ll have to jump,” Wriothesley interjects. “And catch one of the ropes on your way down.”

Freminet’s eyes widen comically. “I can’t do that. No way.”

 “Trust in your own strength,” he says, eyes fixed on him as if the act can transfer his own strength into the blonde. “We’ve been working on this. If you can’t trust yourself now, you might as well give up and let go.”

“Wriothesley!” Navia hisses, elbowing him in the ribs. It genuinely hurts as she knocks him right where he’s just had a set of stitches taken out the day before.

“Not everything can be solved with coddling, Navia,” he grimaces, putting pressure on his side to ease off the sharp stabbing pain.

Freminet remains stuck and shaking with exertion as his body begins to tire. If he doesn’t grab the rope now, he’ll be too exhausted to save himself when he eventually falls to his death. Fucking gauntlet. If it didn’t mean an almost guaranteed slip and losing battle with gravity, Wriothesley would go out there and save Freminet himself to save everyone else the trouble.

“No. He’s right,” Freminet whispers, screwing his eyes shut and pressing the side of his face against the rock. His own words seem to taste like poison. “Fuck.” The kid breathes in and out heavily to the point where it starts to sound like he’s hyperventilating and then he moves.

The second Freminet’s weight shifts, the log beneath his foot rolls. It happens in a blur. His thin, frail body cracks against the log and slides off in a flailing mess. He’s too far from the rope. Falling.

Wriothesley and Navia dash to the edge of the platform, almost falling over the edge as they watch Freminet fall, screams dying in their throats until somehow, the rope flicks toward Freminet and the kid latches onto it like a lifeline. His body jerks to a sudden stop and thwacks against the rocky cliffside.

Navia gasps, pressing a clenched fist to her mouth and Wriothesley’s insides jerk tight with worry. Freminet doesn’t move for a few moments and the only way Wriothesley can tell he’s still alive and hanging on tight is the exaggerated movement of his chest.

“You alright kiddo?” he calls out.

It takes a moment for Freminet to find his voice, so he looks up to Wriothesley with wide, terrified eyes, tears glistening in the morning sunlight, and nods. “I’m not dead?” he winces.

“De Hearth,” Professor Mavuika calls out. “Climb on up a little and walk yourself across the rockface. There’s a platform just below the starting point where you can get back up.” Freminet nods and very slowly does as he’s told. “Caspar!” Mavuika shouts. “Get going, you’re holding the rest of your squad up.”

Navia groans and swears beneath her breath so foully that Wriothesley can’t believe his ears. She makes it across the rolling logs — barely, having fallen on the second log, but gripping onto it like a possum saves her from falling the way Freminet did.

Wriothesley is next and the second his foot leaves the platform, his head spins and his guts clench with a fierce wave of pins and needles. Going slowly doesn’t feel like an option. It’s guaranteed torture and high likelihood that he’ll end up crawling across or stuck like Navia and Freminet.

Failure is not an option.

He grits his teeth and charges across, making it almost two thirds of the way across when the rolling momentum of the logs finally catches up with him. Sending him falling forward a sickening metre before the breath is knocked clean out of him when he slams into the second last log. Desperately, he clings onto the log but finds himself slipping further down to the point where he almost loses his grip.

“Shit, shit, shit, ffffffuck,” he curses as a moment of weightlessness shoots through him.

He stops falling when he manages to shift one of his arms beneath the log to the other side, effectively immobilising it. Foul and accursed gods, he wants to throw up so badly as he hangs there limply in the air, nothing beneath his feet but air and distant jagged rock.

“You alright there?” Navia’s voice is surprisingly close, and it shocks him out of the awful state he’s in. He turns to his right to find Navia’s head poking over the edge of the second level platform. She must be lying flat across it.

“Oh yeah, just thought I’d… hang out here for moment,” he jokes with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s no hiding the hollowness in his shaking voice. Navia doesn’t laugh. He pulls himself up gracelessly and collapses with relief the moment he feels solid material beneath him.

“Go on,” he waves at Navia. “No need to wait for me.”

She backs away tight lipped and begins the climb to the third level of gauntlet, where he joins her shortly after. The third level of Gauntlet is different, consisting of a chain between the two platforms and several ropes spaced evenly apart. At the end of each rope is a thick knot, where one can use their feet to secure a solid footing. Wriothesley isn’t sure if his vision is just shit or the knots slowly become smaller as one approaches the other side.

Navia swings from rope to rope with a smart strategy, ensuring she always has solid footing and grip before she lets go of the other rope. Wriothesley follows in suit, doing his best to ignore the drop beneath them. As he gets to the end, he realises the rope is far too short to reach the platform comfortably with a simple swing.

It’s a guaranteed two seconds in the air where his stomach will clench and the wind will rush around him, and he’ll feel like he’s falling from the claws of a gryphon again. Why was volunteering for a second round of Meropide a good idea?

He screws his eyes shut (stupidly) and swings as hard as he can, launching his body through the air, stifling the shrill scream that threatens to rip through his throat as the platform hurtles toward him. Something cracks or pops as he lands awkwardly on his feet. The pain doesn’t come; the relief a drug that dulls it for a few moments.

As he turns around to watch Navia struggle with a third attempt of the increasingly difficult climb up to the fourth level, he finds his attention drifting toward Bennett Ziegler. The white-blonde kid that Alberich likes to train for swordplay and perhaps the unluckiest cadets in the entire Quadrant.

If Clode was real, the bitch had it out for him.

He’s got skill. Luck just isn’t on his side. Truly, it’s a miracle the kid’s made it this far.

Bennett pauses on the last rope and Wriothesley can see the same realisation that he went through dawning on the young man’s face. There’s barely a hint of fear in his determined expression as he resolves to swing back and forth to gain momentum. The second he lets go, Wriothesley realises he’ll land short.

Adrenaline spikes and his body moves of its own accord. He throws himself down against the platform, reaching his arms over the edge in a desperate attempt to catch Bennett’s outstretched hands. The kid’s gloved hands slip through Wriothesley’s, and he manages to catch his desperate, wide-eyed expression before his body tilts over. His leg is caught on the rope but slips free the second his full weight bears down on it.

Wriothesley watches helplessly as Bennett falls headfirst for an obscenely long time, unable to catch one of the ropes along the mountainside. His body breaks on the rocks below, shattering like scarlet glass.

Everyone stills for a gut-wrenching moment. But the world moves on. The sound of a distant waterfall, the wind in their ears, the quiet calls of the birds. It all continues on the way it always has.

He could have saved him if he was a moment quicker, reached further. But it’s no good wasting time feeling guilty over something he cannot change.

Above him, Navia releases a horrid, wet sob.

They’d just lost their first squadmate.

Chapter Text

“Keep going,” Professor Mavuika’s strong voice booms up the cliffside. “The battle does not stop when your squadmates have fallen.”

Despite Mavuika’s orders, everyone remains still, staring at the blood splattered rocks beneath them.

Everyone, except Wriothesley.

Call him cold-hearted, but he finds movement an excellent way to deal with grief. If he stood around grieving his squadmates and underlings every time they perished, he might as well join them. It doesn’t mean he does not feel the empty ache in his chest at all, it just becomes more bearable if he doesn’t stop.

He bites the inside of his cheek to distract from the prickly feeling behind his eyes as he climbs to the fourth level. Such a waste of life. A waste of potential. All thanks to the Rider’s Quadrant. He finds Navia sat up against the rock, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Does anyone know if he was a follower?” Navia asks in a wobbling voice, looking to their remaining squadmates who are stationed across from them or above.

“He was,” Kaeya’s voice echoes flatly above them. Of all people in the squad, Wriothesley’s sure Kaeya might take this one the hardest. “Prayed to Clode every damn day, and that didn’t even save him. I’ll take his belongings to the burn pit tomorrow morning.” There’s a grimness to his voice. It doesn’t wobble or catch in his throat. It just sounds like all the colour has faded from him.

The burn pit is next to the temple in the Rider’s Quadrant. Wriothesley has never been there but knows that it’d be like the burn pits at the outposts he’s been stationed at. A circular courtyard surrounding an ever-burning pit of flame. A stone face of Niennë watches over all that burns. Upon the death of a follower, their body (or what is left to it) burned along with their possessions to return all that is theirs to Niennë.

Wriothesley finds it a strange ritual, perhaps a little callous that none of their belongings can be left behind and their name not to be spoken aloud again. It’s the choice of the Followers and he’s obligated to respect it.

“How can you just keep going?” Navia’s wet voice pierces through the haze of his thoughts. She sounds angry. “Don’t you feel anything?”

“Not everyone can afford to sit down and cry every time someone dies,” he grits out. The second the words leave his lips; he regrets his phrasing. He turns back to his task, to continue the last level of Gauntlet before the final climb and ramp.

Uselessly out of earshot, he corrects himself: “I don’t want to become paralysed by grief every time someone dies.”

🌊🐉🌊

There’s a brief, sharp pang of emotion that runs through Wriothesley when they call out Bennett’s name for death roll that morning. The formation remains incredibly still as the longest death roll since Conscription Day is read out.

It’s not just First Years; it’s Second Years too as they’re finishing a unit of something Wriothesley’s heard of only as ‘RSC’. Peering around, he can spot more than a few Second Years looking like they have just come home from their first battle. Hollow eyes, tousled hair and more than a few bruises and bandages mottling their skin.

Navia hasn’t spoken a word to him since yesterday – not a feat of any kind. He’s kept his distance from the remainder of the squad, hoping that, in time, they too will become numb to loss. The hurt they exhibited yesterday is infectious and the last thing he wants is for his hardened exterior to slip because of some kids who are still wet behind the ears.

Freminet, on the other hand, is somehow less wary around him, despite the dislocated shoulder from Gauntlet yesterday. Though the fall seems to have shaken him down to the very bones, his little brush with death seems to have inspired some level of confidence in himself. He actually initiated their training session last night, which Wriothesley didn’t expect him to, given they’d just lost Bennett.

“If I sit around thinking about it for much longer, I’ll throw myself off the Parapet,” Freminet claimed in a soft voice. Wriothesley couldn’t agree more and proceeded to run the both of them ragged with leg exercises and a masterclass in grappling and throws.

The session left them aching, shuffling to History that morning. Their post-workout glow is then wiped cleanly away by Professor Venti providing a detailed breakdown of the De Hearth Treachery. Wriothesley quietly watches Freminet devolve into madness beside him as the lecture continues, before poking him in the side, suggesting he leave for the sake of his sanity.

“Upon uncovering the House of the Hearth’s elaborate scheme to assassinate the King and use a coup to overthrow the court, they found that the roots ran much deeper than ever anticipated. The entire House was a web of spies, plotting against Teyvat, to dismantle it from the inside out, covering every city across the union.” Professor Venti’s voice lowers as if he’s sitting by a campfire and telling a group of friends a scary story, complete with ominous hand gestures and wary side-to-side gazes.

“Normally a crime against the crown would be punishable by death for those directly involved, but since the Rebellion in Natlan had only happened a year prior, the King decided that the punishment delivered to the Rebellion leaders and their children was not unique. And thus, a second round of public executions and the marking of the children was completed,” Professor Venti surmises with a tired sigh, as if the mere weight of the knowledge were something that haunted him. Strangely, he perks up and finishes his lecture. “Following the second marking, Teyvat’s internal affairs have seen peace akin to the political climate of three hundred years ago. Though, it would not be wise to assume it will stay that way for long.”

With a sharp clap, everyone in the room jerks to attention as Professor Venti begins to dismiss them.

“Don’t forget, the final test for the modern history unit is next week. Handouts for today are on the desk if you wish to take one. Truly, I hope I’m not keeping the Scribe’s printing press busy for no reason.”

“That was fucking grim,” Wriothesley grunts as he stands up to leave, shooting a glance toward Navia to test the waters, hoping she’s had the day to stop looking like she wants to punch him in the throat.

“Could be worse,” she sighs. “You could be stuck in a room where everyone stares at you with utter hatred for something your parents did.”

Wriothesley chews the inside of his lip nervously and walks alongside Navia. She takes a handout sheet and thanks Professor Venti. He’s sure she’s one of the only cadets that does.

“I’m going to check on Freminet.”

“I’ll come with.”

Navia stops in her tracks and turns around to eye him suspiciously. “So now you have a heart?”

The accusation makes his jaw clench and his hackles raise. “I’d much rather spend my time thinking about the living than the dead,” he grits out between his teeth. “But if it offends you that much, I’ll leave the little De Hearth alone.”

For a moment, Navia stands there, jaw working as she rethinks what she’s about to say at least four separate times.

“Fine. Come with me then.”

🌊🐉🌊

Later that day, the three of them sit shoulder to shoulder on their squad’s table after dinner, bent over Navia’s collection of notes and handouts. Only Charlotte Moreau sits at the other end of the table, writing her own notes and doing a terrible job hiding the fact that she’s eavesdropping on their study session. The extra pair of eyes makes Wriothesley incredibly nervous about his academic ineptitude becoming more well-known to his squad.

“Wriothesley,” Navia hisses. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you, what were the three changes made to the trade agreements with Snezhnaya when King Paimon ascended to the throne?”

Fuck. He hasn’t been paying attention, again.

“Uh…” He wracks his brain. He knows the answer to at least one of the three things, given he was manning the outpost across the border from the Nod-Krai trading post in Snezhnaya around that period of time. It was all a numbers game of ‘more this for that’ and ‘protecting the domestic market’ and ‘strategically driving profit’. But the one thing he remembers was the ban placed on Waking Salts. Along the border, the one thing the troops would use to stave off the cold, the hunger and the fatigue was Waking Salt. When the Waking Salt stopped coming in, everyone was pissed — him included. “I know they banned the import of Waking Salt and that’s why it’s no longer used at outposts.”

He can feel the table shaking with his incessantly jumpy knee. Consciously, he stops it because he knows it drives Navia up the wall. But it always starts up again a few minutes later when it slips his mind.

“You’ve got that right,” Navia nods, but raises her brows, hoping he remembers a little more. “Come on, we only went over this two weeks ago.”

“I don’t remember.”

“They changed the quotas for coal and offered increased agricultural goods in return,” Freminet helpfully supplies. “And the increase of trade frequencies from three times a year to four.”

“Thank you, Freminet,” Navia says plainly. “Will you cut that out?”

Wriothesley stills his shaking leg once more and occupies his hands with tearing out the loose and frayed threads of the wraps around his forearms. Navia continues asking questions and Wriothesley answers when he can, anxiously glancing toward Charlotte as he stumbles over his words. The whole situation makes his body unbearably itchy.

“I think I’m done for today,” he interrupts Navia mid-sentence.

She sighs with her entire body, tossing down her notebook with a loud slap. “We only just started. It’s been—” she glances away for a moment to check the clock in the centre of the wall “—just over fifteen minutes. I swear you have the attention span of a fucking medaka.”

“Navia…” Freminet gasps quietly, eyes wide.

“You wanna say that any louder?” Wriothesley asks, exasperated, curling in on himself in embarrassment. “I’m not trying to get out of studying, I just…” he trails off for a moment, contemplating his next words carefully. “Need to get some fresh air.”

“Fine,” Navia says with finality, stacking up her notes and getting to her feet. She seems pissed… again. Wriothesley doesn’t blame her.

“I don’t mean—”

“No. I’m coming with you. So are my notes. And so are you, Freminet.” She eyes him with urgency and Freminet scrambles to his feet. “We’re all going for a walk, and we’ll continue studying that way.”

Over an hour later, the three of them have walked through almost every corridor in the Quadrant, taking a particularly long detour to the Dragon Rotunda to use the statues as inspiration for their dragon studies questions. The constant movement keeps Wriothesley’s distracted mind sated and studying much more bearable.

“Who knew all you needed was to walk and study at the same time,” Navia grins, thoroughly satisfied by their progress. “Maybe I was onto something back when I came to study during your training sessions.”

“Look, I’m still forgetting shit,” Wriothesley shrugs almost defensively. It was true, keeping his body moving kept his mind mostly clear. It would still wander off like any normal person’s would, but that unbearable itchiness in his body was kept at bay. “But it’s… better.”

“You looked a lot less like you wanted to kill us every time we asked a new question,” Freminet adds quietly. Wriothesley bites the insides of his cheeks and shakes his head. “I agree with Navia. You’re better at this when you’re moving.”

“Alright, alright. Maybe we can do this walk and talk shit every now and again,” he agrees reluctantly, but sends Navia a look of silent thanks.

🌊🐉🌊

Wriothesley had almost forgotten he was supposed to meet with Headmaster Furina on the Thursday of the first week of Gauntlet. The only reason he did not forget, was that Clorinde slammed a crumpled envelope to his chest as they passed one another in the hallway. It was a rather aggressive move on her part, but he appreciated that it meant they didn’t need to talk to one another.

Now, he stands nervously in front of the double doors of the Headmaster’s office, no breakfast muffins in hand this time, breathing deeply. He shouldn’t be nervous about something like this. He’s put in the extra work and made a deal with Navia that’s seen his marks improving now that he can ‘read’ things more easily. The writing part is still giving him hell.

“Uh,” one of the guards to his right clears his throat. “It’s unlocked, cadet.”

Wriothesley bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. “I know,” he says impatiently. “I—” he cuts himself off before he says something stupid in front of the guard and knocks firmly at the door.

“Come in!” The Headmaster’s whimsical voice calls from inside. He’s still got no idea how that woman can be so… chipper whilst running a complete death-trap of a College in the middle of a war hundreds of years long. Something about pragmatism – he doesn’t remember what Navia said exactly.

Wriothesley takes another deep breath before pushing the door open and striding in. Faking confidence has already got him this far; it wouldn’t hurt to keep face. Furina sits at her desk, humming a tune as she signs off what looks like a supply order from afar. Wriothesley takes a brief look at the map on the wall, noting that it’s different to last time he visited the office, which of course it is, it’s an up-to-date map of all the most recent battles and skirmishes. It’s still vastly different to the map in Battle Brief he and the rest of the quadrant were looking at.

“Something caught your eye, Cadet?” Headmaster Furina’s voice makes him freeze on the spot as he realises his eyes have lingered too long.

“Nothing really,” he plays it cool, walking straight to her desk with an impartial expression. Accusatory expressions or tone in this environment can earn you a one way ticket to being court martialled. “Just noticing the map is different to the one in Battle Brief.”

“You have a keen eye.” Furina smiles gently, but there’s something in her eyes that twitches, either nerves or agitation. “We find it’s best not to overload the cadets with too much information, otherwise Battle Brief would last three or four hours. You know how it is out there.”

He nods in agreement. Back on the frontlines, the outposts weren’t always privy to all available information. As inconvenient as that was, it was better that way in case the outpost fell or there was a spy. It protected the integrity of their information network. Infantry were, by default, ranked lower than riders, so even with his own high rank of Colonel, Wriothesley was never privy to most of the Rider’s movements, he’d just receive command from them half the time and execute accordingly.

“I see you have made an improvement to your marks since we last spoke,” Furina smiles approvingly and slides her papers out of the way, replacing them with a beautiful porcelain tea set. It’s different from the one she used the last time. She must have a collection. “I’m very glad. Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

She pours two cups of a very pale-yellow tea and slides one toward Wriothesley. There are no cakes this time, but he doesn’t mind one bit. She doesn’t offer milk or sugar this time either, likely remembering Wriothesley’s preference. It’s disarming, seeing the Headmaster like this. He feels less like a cadet and more like… not necessarily an equal or a friend, but something more respected than a first-year cadet.

From where he sits, the steam from the teacup wafts over to him and he sighs pleasantly as the scent of jasmine fills his nostrils.

“I feel very spoilt, thank you, Headmaster.”

“Hah, think of it as positive reinforcement for your improvement. You still have aways to go. I’m told your handwriting is horrific,” she giggles with the absurdity of it, but Wriothesley bites the inside of his cheek.

“It’s not my strong suit, no.” He plays it off with a coy smile despite the sickening hot flush of shame that washes over him.

“My offer still stands for a tutor.”

“You’re very kind, but no thank you. I have… friends helping me,” he smiles to himself.

“Ah yes, I hear you have quite the soft spot for Cadet Caspar, quite unfortunate what happened to her father. And the frail little De Hearth boy too – that surprised me.”

“I try not to judge the son for the sins of his father,” Wriothesley recites with a sigh. “It’s easier for me, with the De Hearths…”

Furina nods knowingly. There’s a long beat of silence where the two of them sip at their tea and silently remark on its soft and sweet taste. As awkward and nerve wracking as it is being in the Headmaster’s office, Wriothesley’s beginning not to mind it all if the tea is this good.

“You’ll need to improve your marks in History. I know Professor Venti is… well,” she hesitates awkwardly, grimacing behind her teacup. “He’s just that way. You know very well how differently people react to being out there.”

Wriothesley nods. He didn’t want to assume, but now it made sense why the professor always smelled quite strongly of wine and was easily swept up in fantastical stories of history.

“I would encourage you to speak with him personally to see how you can make improvements.”

He gives a tight nod. He’d rather not speak to Professor Venti at all if it could be helped.

🌊🐉🌊

“I can’t do it,” Navia sighs.

It’s later in the week, Gauntlet training again. Wriothesley is starting to get the hang of the first three levels of it. The rolling logs still get him and by the gods is he embarrassed by the scream he let out when he fell onto the last log in the series.

“Don’t say that,” he sighs tiredly. “You say you can’t, then you’ll never get there.”

They’re both stuck at the fourth level of Gauntlet, the stone pillar climb. Well, Navia is stuck. Wriothesley is waiting for her to figure it out. She can get almost halfway up before she unceremoniously slides down the rocky surface with jelly-like limbs. Meanwhile, Freminet is busy trying not to kill himself on the rolling logs down below. Wriothesley can’t watch him, knowing that watching him fall will hurt much more than watching Bennett Ziegler fall and splatter across the rocks below

“Okay then, genius,” Navia snaps with whip-like sarcasm. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Hey, you’re the smart one here,” he shoots back. “I’m not the one who threw away a perfectly good Scribe education to chase a murderous pipe dream.”

Navia glares daggers at him.

“Look, we’ll do some exercises in training to get you strong enough to do this yourself on the assessment day.” He places his hands out in a placating gesture. “In the meantime, why don’t I just help you get up there. Mavuika said it doesn’t matter if we help each other until the day.”

“And how do you propose to help me?”

“I’ll just lift you up and you can start from the halfway point.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sighs. “You can’t lift me.”

“Certainly fucking can,” he states crossing his arms and cocking his hip to the side in a gesture of challenge. “With your permission of course.”

“Lord Varnari, help me,” she mutters beneath her breath. “Fine.”

Wriothesley wastes absolutely no time walking over to the pillar and squatting down with his knees far apart, almost bracketing the rock structure. He holds a hand out to Navia and pats his knee to show her where to put her foot.

“Alright, climb up until you’re on my shoulders.”

Navia does just that, carefully climbing up until both her feet are on Wriothesley’s shoulders. As he stands up straight, he braces her ankles to keep her steady, then walks back a single step.

“Okay, what now?” Her voice is all wobbly and her breathing is uneven.

“Put your feet on my hands and I’ll push you upward. Just keep your body stiff and use the pillar to make sure you don’t fall backward.”

“This is insane,” she whispers, tentatively stepping onto Wriothesley’s hands. Under her full weight, his arms shake a little. She’s not heavy, just well-built, it’s just a lot to carry an entire human being in two hands at shoulder height. A scribe wouldn’t have this much muscle, since the heaviest thing they carry is books. It makes Wriothesley wonder where she gets her strength from since it’s not always useful in the way it needs to be here.

“Would it help to know that I’ve done crazier things?” he asks, barely masking the exertion in his voice.

“Maybe?”

“One, two… Three!” On three, he throws all his strength into pushing Navia up above his head until his arms lock, keeping her in place. She almost screams but manages to grip onto the pillar and slowly release her weight from Wriothesley’s support. As she climbs up, she’s completely silent with concentration, then manages to haul herself over the edge and flop onto the landing.

“Cadets Wriothesley and Caspar,” Professor Mavuika calls out from below. “Gentle reminder that you won’t be able to do this during the assessment on Presentation Day.”

“Perfectly aware,” Wriothesley calls back as he tackles his ascent up the pillar. If Freminet gets to this point in the course, there’s no way he’s going to be able to finish the ascent no matter how hard Wriothesley trains him.

At the top of the pillar, the final ramp looms above him. From up close, it’s so much bigger than it looks from down on the ground. Earlier this week, he hadn’t had time to even attempt climbing up it. Navia runs at it, bounds up about two metres of it and loses momentum a metre or two from the top. She slides down almost comically, the last of her hopes evaporating. She’s not fast enough yet, nor is she leaping upward far enough.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” she hisses, sitting on the curve of the ramp, legs splayed out.

The thought from before comes back to him and he blurts out his question before his mind catches up with his mouth. “What did you even do in The Spina before you got here?”

“Well… I ran it in place of my father.”

“I mean before that,” Wriothesley clarifies quietly.

“A little bit of everything. My father wouldn’t let me help with cases until I was old enough, so I tutored children who couldn’t go to school and helped with a lot of food deliveries,” she explains, voice soft with nostalgia. Surely, it was a time where things were much simpler, and she had a father to love her unconditionally.

“Ah, it’s all coming together,” he mumbles to himself.

“What do you mean?”

“I got really confused when I first met you. Calloused hands, much stronger than expected,” he begins delicately as Navia stands up to prepare for another run at the ramp. “It didn’t make sense why you weren’t, y’know… trained.”

Navia rolls her eyes with a sigh. “Truly, Wriothesley, you can be so tactless sometimes.” She runs at the ramp and loses momentum too far from the top.

“Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t raised right,” he rolls his eyes. “Let me have a go at this ramp thing.”

Navia moves out of the way and lets Wriothesley sprint at it headlong. On the ascent he loses momentum quickly but pumps his legs as hard as he can to gain some height as his hand slaps the top lip of the ramp. His fingers slip and he slides down with an embarrassing squeak. Navia laughs at the sound, and he shakes his head at her as he walks back.

It takes two more tries for him to get a solid grip on the lip of the ramp and haul his body upward.

“Come on, I’ll haul you up just this time.” He stretches a hand out low enough for Navia to grab onto.

“Just this time.”

She runs up and makes it higher than she did the other eight times and locks onto Wriothesley’s outstretched hand. He pulls her up over the lip and they both peer over in time to see Freminet fall on his ass from the pillar on the fourth ascent. The fabric of his pants is ripped on the inseam and his legs look battered and scraped.

There is no getting Freminet past Gauntlet in one piece.

He looks to Navia with an agonising grimace, and she too shares the sentiment.

“There’s gotta be a way to get him through this…” Navia grits out.

The little voice in Wriothesley’s head wants to argue ‘what’s the point? If he can’t complete the gauntlet, he’ll never be able to mount a dragon. He’s a liability to the entire squad’, but he catches it before he has time to verbalise it. (He’s not always completely tactless – thank you very much, Navia.) It’s how the Quadrant wants him to think. Despite what his professors are desperately trying to instil in him, Clorinde’s challenge goes against it and appeals to him far more.

“You ever broken Codex before?” Wriothesley asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“I’m still here and alive, so no,” Navia shoots back sarcastically. “Don’t tell me you’re going to break the Codex just to help Freminet.”

“I think it might be our only option.”

“You’re insane.”

“I prefer the term imaginative.”

🌊🐉🌊

If getting into Professor Neuvillette’s good graces was a sport, Wriothesley would have a gold medal.

He’s spent the past few weeks studying intensely – well, as intense as one can get when it’s Navia reading out a book like it’s a bedtime story – and improving his marks a little. The ‘writing under test conditions’ is really the only thing screwing him over. By the time he’s struggled through spelling three words, the rest of his answer has left his mind completely.

If Professor Venti has noticed any improvement, he hasn’t said anything. Not that Wriothesley would take it personally, the Professor seems to be on another plane of existence entirely.

Professor Neuvillette resumed loaning him books last week and Wriothesley has just about chased Navia around half of the Quadrant, begging her to read for him. He’d feel bad for asking, but at least they’re even with him training her.

“Before we delve into the wonderful world of turquoise dragons, I will briefly discuss some recent news that has come from Mondstadt,” Professor Neuvillette begins, drawing Wriothesley’s attention like a magnet. “Our lessons do not focus on the Sovereigns as very little information is known regarding them. However, a brief overview of what we do know would provide some much-needed context for the upcoming discussion.”

The topic of the dragon Sovereigns intrigues Wriothesley. It’s not something he’s asked Professor Neuvillette about extensively, though he has asked what the Sovereigns look like. To which the Professor pursed his lips and replied, “I have not personally seen any of the Sovereigns, save the Sovereign of Fontaine before he was last sighted twenty-three years ago.”

When the Professor saw how disheartened he was by the answer, he elaborated, whilst slowly forming an image in the basin between them.

“The Sovereigns typically embody the soul of their homeland. For example, the brown dragon Sovereign is known to appear quite stocky, with thick spines. Azhdaha is his common name, or he can be called the Earth Sovereign. Though few have ever seen him since the Sovereigns typically reside deep within their respective dens.” As Neuvillette spoke, the image in the basin formed into a strangely shaped dragon, with long, tendril-like spines protruding from its spine, elbows and chest. “I’m sure you can imagine how perilous such a journey would be for a human. Therefore, the Sovereigns are rarely seen.”

Wriothesley had no idea how he managed to pay attention to both the Professor’s words and image, but they stuck with him.

“Is this the dragon Sovereign of Fontaine?” he asked, gesturing to the watery image. It was crystal clear in the most marvellous way.

“Yes,” Neuvillette nodded.

“He’s beautiful.”

The Professor pursed his lips before responding, “His common name is Leviathan, or the Water Sovereign.”

The memory of Leviathan sits in his mind as Professor Neuvillette continues his lecture. Of all the dragons he’s seen in his life (from a safe distance), Leviathan is certainly the most unique and mesmerising.

“The six dragon Sovereigns of Teyvat form the Empyrean, which we could equate to a form of government. The six form the laws of dragon-kind and enforce them however they deem fit. Humans are not privy to the discussion of the Empyrean, with very limited exceptions, so it is unknown how the laws are formed, adjusted or debated.”

Professor Neuvillette begins to pace around the basin at the centre of the room. His eyes are trained on the ground, which is unusual for him, and his hands are clasped at his back. As the Professor passes by him, Wriothesley notices that he is worrying the fabric of his gloves with his fingers.

“Returning to the news from Mondstadt. Leadership may disagree with my sharing of this news—"

Wriothesley’s heart plummets. He knows that Leadership at Meropide has always been tight, despite a few differing opinions of professors here and there, but an internal spat being aired in the classroom was not on his bucket list for Meropide round two.

“I think it is best to discuss such a thing openly before misleading rumours begin to spread,” Neuvillette continues, keeping his voice level despite the minute twinges of his body. “It is known that the blue dragon Sovereign has not been sighted for some time and the green dragon Sovereign has been afflicted with an ailment for perhaps two centuries or more. It has recently come to light that the turquoise dragon Sovereign has fallen ill. The ailment is likely the same as that of the green dragon Sovereign.”

Murmurs spread around the room like wildfire and Wriothesley turns to Navia, eyes wide and face numb. Three of the six Sovereigns… They’re more fucked than they ever thought they would be.

“Silence!” a deep voice booms, punctuated by the echoing thuds of a cane smacking the ground three times. The chatter dies down quickly as the atmosphere of the room cools significantly. Wriothesley’s not sure if the temperature drop is something the Professor is responsible for but won’t exclude it from the realm of possibility.

“As worrisome as this may seem, it is no cause to panic,” Professor Neuvillette clarifies with bitingly thin patience. “As far as we can tell, the ailment is not life threatening. However, it seems to have made the Sovereign quite aggressive. Therefore, it is important to keep this in mind with regard to how this may impact the Empyrean’s decisions and additionally the safety of villages located near the dragon den in Mondstadt.”

Before anyone can raise their hand to ask questions, Professor Neuvillette stations himself in front of the basin and begins his lecture on turquoise dragons.

Wriothesley desperately wants to ask what kind of illness may befall a dragon to make them so aggressive they’d go out of their way to attack human settlements. Though, he gets the feeling that he won’t get a straight answer out of the Professor.

🌊🐉🌊

Following a very tense lecture, in which Wriothesley thankfully learnt all the practical things he would need to know about turquoise dragons and approaching them during Presentation or Threshing, he continues his habit of asking the Professor whatever questions come to mind. It seems like a very bad time to be doing this, given the tension still circulating the room, but Wriothesley is an idiot at heart and will stop at nothing to have the Professor’s attention all to himself for thirty more seconds this week.

Navia is in the habit of waiting outside for him and knows that if he takes too long, he won’t be offended if she leaves to go to their next lesson or meal.

When he approaches the Professor’s desk for what feels like the first time all over again, since his palms are sweaty, and his throat feels tight despite not having spoken. Everyone else has had the good sense to leave the room – except him. Neuvillette is efficiently stacking his materials up on his desk, back turned.

“Professor,” Wriothesley greets nervously.

Neuvillette stiffens visibly before turning to face him. His stony expression smoothens into a gentle smile, though it is still tight at the corners.

“I know you might need to head off, but I was wondering if you had time for one more question.”

Professor Neuvillette gives him a tight smile. “I have to go quite shortly.”

Wriothesley’s heart sinks for the second time in an hour. “That’s alright,” he says with his own tight smile. “I’ll uh… try to remember to ask next week.”

He turns on his heel to leave, only to find the Professor huff a single breath of what sounds like laughter.

“If you hadn’t improved so drastically in this class, I’d be beginning to suspect you just want an excuse to talk to me.” There’s no malice in the Professor’s tone, he seems quite pleased with himself for telling, what Wriothesley hopes is, a joke. All signs of tension within the Professor’s body seem to have evaporated.

Nervously, Wriothesley laughs and rubs the nape of his neck.

“It’s a genuine question, I promise.”

“Alright, I’ll allow it,” Neuvillette says graciously. However, he begins to gather his books and papers in a pile and hefts them up into his arms. “Shall we take a walk?” He sweeps up his cane in a fluid motion and turns to the door.

“Uh, sure.” Wriothesley hurries after him once his mind snaps out of its brief stupor. They’ve never done this before. “Where are we headed?”

“My office.” The answer is short but sweet. He’s never been to the Professor’s office before. He’s not sure many people have. “I hope that wasn’t the question you have been waiting to ask.”

The unintentional humour Neuvillette delivers his line with sends Wriothesley’s stomach for a six.

“No, I...”

The hallways are relatively full, just easing off the peak of post-class rush. Full of eyes and ears. One wrong move and he’s rumour fuel for the month. He and the Professor walk side by side, Neuvillette keeping pace with Wriothesley despite his armful of books and cane.

“Are you sure I can’t carry any of those for you?” He motions toward the stack of books. Chivalry be damned, he wishes he could just take them without asking.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Professor Neuvillette hums. “Your question?”

“Oh, yes.” It takes him a moment to formulate the words and console himself in advance for the inevitable verbal stumbles he’ll make. “I know we covered only a little bit on Sovereigns today. But I was wondering if you might know how the Sovereign of a dragon den is chosen… or born… or do they fight for it, kind of like we do here? I don’t know what the right word is. I’m just curious, since some of the dens in Teyvat have seen two or more sovereigns in the time since unification.”

Neuvillette’s pace slows significantly over the next few steps as Wriothesley finishes his question. The professor chews on his bottom lip for a moment before turning to Wriothesley, two pensive lines showing between his fair brows.

“There is not an answer to this that I have seen written in a book.” He starts walking again and Wriothesley follows, ignoring just about everything in front of him, gaze locked onto the Professor. “What I can assume from my own research, is they are born, not chosen nor elected in any democratic sense.”

“Interesting,” is all Wriothesley can say before he’s lost in his own thoughts. Is there a bloodline of Sovereigns, or is there something more mystical like fate or divine forces involved? What would it be like witnessing the hatching of a Sovereign?

He’s unceremoniously ripped from his thoughts when Neuvillette suddenly tips sideways then forward under the weight of his books. In a split second, Wriothesley throws his arms around the professor and practically collides with him in an effort to keep him from toppling to the ground. The books and papers clatter to the ground in a chorus of thumps and fluttering parchment, spilling across the floor like a landslide.

The sharp point of Professor Neuvillette’s shoulder digs into his chest and Wriothesley discovers he is much slimmer than his thick clothing makes his silhouette out to be. He’s stiff as a board, petrified with fright or embarrassment, Wriothesley has no idea. He glimpses behind them briefly, capturing only a wisp of a professor’s robes.

“Careful there, Marchosias,” a deep, caramel-warm voice tuts. Wriothesley doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Professor Zhongli. He quickly steadies Neuvillette on his feet, loosening his embarrassingly tight grip around the poor man. “I should not have to remind you that throwing yourself at students is remarkably poor form.”

Neuvillette draws a considerable distance away, wide eyed and hair a few strands out of place, which makes him look quite ruffled given his fastidious manner. But instead of his shock being directed toward Professor Zhongli, his horrified expression is trained on Wriothesley, from the parted lips to the professor’s eyes flicking between him and his own palms like he has just touched a leper.

“I-I’m sorry, Professor,” he sputters, raising his arms in a placating gesture, but not realising quickly enough it may just make things worse. A quick glance down the hallway and Professor Zhongli is nowhere to be seen. “I didn’t want you to fall.”

“I have to go,” is all the Professor can manage, voice airy and without substance. He turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway without another word, or glance, or without stopping to collect the books he dropped.

Wriothesley stands there for what feels like five entire minutes, completely listless in the hallway, wondering what the hell he did wrong. Once his body feels like it can move again without crumbling into a regretful foetal position, he crouches down to collect the Professor’s books and parchment. He doubts Neuvillette would appreciate him dropping off his things in person, so he opts for the next best thing and begins the trek to Professor Venti’s lecture room, hoping the younger professor might be able to return the elder’s belongings.

Professor Neuvillette’s sudden departure leaves two things spinning around in Wriothesley’s head with unceasing repetition: his first name is Marchosias, and he has just irrevocably destroyed his professional relationship with Professor Neuvillette.

Marchosias Neuvillette.

Chapter Text

Despite it being the day of assessment for Gauntlet and Presentation, all Wriothesley can think of is how badly he has fucked up with Professor Neuvillette. He hasn’t stayed after class to ask questions since the incident and the professor’s bright eyes have pointedly avoided meeting his during lectures.

He shouldn’t have touched the professor. He should have let him fall.

Chivalry is truly dead.

“You look a million leagues away,” Navia comments nervously. The loose strands of her plait tousle in the wind.

Every squad in First Wing stands lined up and ready to take on the Gauntlet. The second and third years line the stairway to the flight field and peer over the edge of the cliff, watching over the carnage.

“I’m right here,” Wriothesley hums, shaking his head a little to bring himself back to the present.

“Yeah, sure you are.” He can hear the eyeroll in her voice. “This is supposed to be your cup of tea. I don’t get why you’re nervous.”

“I’m nervous for you,” he lies. “And Freminet, mostly.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” she sighs.

“Would you two like to quit talking like I’m not here?” Freminet asks softly, peeking out from behind Navia.

Wriothesley chews on the inside of his cheek and turns back to the Gauntlet, muttering an apology. Training over the past two weeks has gotten Navia almost all the way up the Gauntlet – the ramp on the fifth level still gives her hell – but for Freminet, it has proved a useless endeavour. He can get halfway up the pillar on the fourth ascent but it’s not enough. He also can’t build up enough speed for the ramp to even get close to the top.

“Are you sure it’s going to work?” Freminet murmurs.

“No idea,” Wriothesley admits. “But I sure as shit trust Navia’s judgement over my own when it comes to the Codex.”

“I’m like, ninety-three percent sure. The Codex is very clear. The cadets and professors live and breathe that thing,” she reassures them. “Wriothesley, I know you’re supposed to be making up time for Freminet and I, but don’t go too fast. I’d hate to see you slip and fall.”

“You and me both,” he huffs.

Currently, the cadets from Flame Section are scampering up the Gauntlet, one by one. Professor Mavuika and a scribe are stationed at the top, timing each cadet’s ascent and totalling it into a combined squad time — the combined squad time being the only ‘teamwork’ aspect of the Gauntlet. The fastest squad will have the honour to be first in line for Presentation later today.

Their Wingleader, Clorinde, is also watching from below, piercing eyes combing through the line of cadets. What she’s searching for, Wriothesley doesn’t want to know.

His stomach kicks giddily as he thinks of walking down an avenue of dragons, seeing the terrifyingly beautiful creatures up close and trying not to get made into charcoal. Although he would like for his squad to be first in line so they can make a good impression on the dragons earlier, it’s not looking very likely. Capturing the attention of a strong dragon would be most preferable. That way, he could be more useful on the frontlines.

The three squads in Flame Section finish up on the Gauntlet with no one falling to a gruesome death. By now, the Gauntlet has already devoured most of its victims, but one never knows when a cadet will eat shit on those spinning logs.

“Remember to take your time,” Aether urges, standing beside the line of his squad. “I don’t care if we’re the fastest, I care that you all make it across in time.”

“Yes, sir,” most of the squad echo with a stern nod.

Kaeya Alberich is first in line, chomping at the bit to hurtle his agile body across the Gauntlet to make a good time. Professor Mavuika calls out for him to go, and he races across the first level, surefooted. The kid’s arms go flying around as he loses balance and momentum on the spinning logs and Wriothesley looks away, unwilling to watch the kid meet Bennet Ziegler’s fate.

There is no scream, no gasp from onlookers. It’s safe to look back.

Kaeya makes it in good time. So do Nilou, Xiangling and Heizou. Charlotte almost stacks it on both the second and third level, then struggles up the fourth and fifth ascents, but makes it eventually. Inwardly, Wriothesley is screaming over how terrible their team time is going to look. Outwardly, he’s brooding over all the questions he wishes he could have asked Professor Neuvillette before Presentation — it’s far too late now.

“Cadet Wriothesley, start,” Professor Mavuika calls and Wriothesley shoots off across the first level, chanting ‘don’t look down, don’t look down’ to himself, in the hopes that it stops him from panicking.

First level, done. He hasn’t looked down. By know he knows exactly where everything on the Gauntlet should be. He could do it with his eyes closed – which is a terrible idea with the spinning logs coming up.

And then he makes the mistake of slowing down the moment he sees those accursed spinning logs. It’s enough to paralyse him for a few crucial moments as his muscles lock. Below, the drop is hair raising, seizing his chest in a rapidly tightening vice. Time is slipping away, and everyone is watching him hesitate — everyone, especially Clorinde Magloire.

He needs to make up time for Navia and Freminet, but here he is fucking it up. With a sharp inhale, he backs up and charges forward without another thought in his head. The trick was to be light on your feet and maintain speed when crossing the logs. He makes it almost all the way across when his foot slips on the last log and his centre of gravity is thrown backward.

For a moment, he’s airborne and his stomach flips horribly before his ass slams down on the platform at the end. He flings his arms out to break his fall before he splits his head open. In a frozen in a mix of panic and relief, he lays there for a moment while his muscles figure out how to work again.

“Come on, Wriothesley!” Navia cheers from the ground.

It’s enough of a reminder to get him to his feet and hurtling across the remainder of the Gauntlet. As he comes up to the fifth level, the final ramp, his entire body is aching from pushing it harder than normal. Halfway through his sprint up the ramp, something twinges, and his leg instinctually locks to prevent further damage.

His body thumps against the ramp and he slides down it with an almost comical screech of his skin getting caught on the smooth surface.

Fucking hell, what was going to go wrong now?

Sharp, aching pain pulses through his knee. He hasn’t done anything to it to make it hurt that much, but that doesn’t seem to matter to his knee. Walking back to the starting position for the ramp, he realises he’s got a limp and no matter how much he tries to shake it out, the stupid joint still aches, like something’s pinched between the bones.

There’s no making it to the top of the ramp in this condition. Not unless he takes that pain and does what he does best with it: shove it away, lock it in a box, pay for it later.

Teeth gritted as hard as he can manage without them breaking, he tells himself he’s fine, completely functioning, and only has to get up that ramp. He breaks into a headlong sprint, focusing only on what is in front of him, powering up the ramp until his fingers smack against the lip of it at the top.

The pain comes back the moment he scrambles to his feet and nods to Professor Mavuika to add his finishing time to the list. The limp is hard to hide as he joins the rest of his squad, peeking over the cliff as Navia starts the Gauntlet.

Going through Presentation with a limp is a surefire way to look incredibly weak. The dragons would take one look at his awkward gait and dismiss him as a frail, older man, far past his prime. He’d be left unbonded following Threshing and would have the choice to repeat the year or return to the frontlines with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Neither of those options are things he’d ever want to live through.

Navia is much slower than everyone else in the squad. It’s not a bad thing per say, it just means she is more careful, deliberate with every move. It eases the vicelike grip anxiety has on Wriothesley’s chest a little. She makes it across the spinning logs by sticking close to the rock wall and spreading her weight evenly as she crosses to prevent the logs from rolling beneath her.

As she comes to the fourth level, she begins to climb the rock pillar, slowly edging her way up, arms and legs shaking with the effort. Wriothesley is dangerously close to falling off the edge as he peers out further to watch her, trembling with anticipation. He’s just about to shout her an encouraging line when she slips almost halfway down the pillar.

“Shit,” Wriothesley mutters, surely at the same time as Navia. She’s only mastered the full climb last week. She may not have the strength to redo part of it. “Come on, Navia! You know what to do,” he calls out, hoping like hell that she doesn’t lose faith in herself.

She struggles up the last part of the pillar and flops into a pile at the fifth landing, chest heaving. Thankfully, she doesn’t waste time and tugs herself to her feet.

This is the part they aren’t sure about. Well, the part Wriothesley and Freminet aren’t sure about, but Navia has complete faith in.

She takes her hatchet out from the strap at her side and runs at the ramp with it in her hand. Professor Mavuika’s neck almost snaps with how quickly she turns her head, just in time to see Navia miss the lip of the ramp. But her axe doesn’t.

She swings the head of the hatchet up so the hook of the blade catches the lip of the ramp, and she hauls herself up. The axe slips and her eyes widen as she too slips. Though, not far.

Navia makes it to her feet and gives the brightest smile Wriothesley has ever seen her make. Laughter bubbles up in his chest and he walks over to high-five her for the win.

“She can’t do that!” A voice calls out from the stairs. Both Wriothesley and Navia whip around to find their squad mate Chasca scaling the stairs, brows furrowed with anger, lips pulled back.

“I certainly can,” Navia replies, hands on hips. “In accordance with the Codex, section two, subsection four b, the items a cadet carries across the parapet with them are considered part of them, unless lost during challenges. Therefore, I am not receiving assistance whilst completing the Gauntlet.”

“That’s bullshit,” Chasca hisses, much closer now. “And you lost that hatchet in your first challenge.”

“I won it back,” Navia counters.

“Unofficially!”

“It’s still mine.”

Wriothesley steps back. This isn’t his fight.

“Cadets,” Professor Mavuika interrupts, barely a hint of patience remaining in her voice. “Enough.”

“Everyone should make it through Gauntlet fair and square,” Chasca bites back, voice quiet as she wrestles with the desire to shout. She knows she will be judged more harshly because of the relic curling up her cheeks and down her bare arms.

“That’s what the Codex is there for,” Navia shoots back, the daggers in her voice barely disguised. “To make it fair for everyone.”

“If you have to find a loophole to get through the challenges that are designed to make sure you’re ready to become a Rider, you don’t deserve to be here.” It’s the killing blow and Chasca delivers it without hesitation, fists curled by her sides.

“Cadet Vuka, that’s enough,” Clorinde’s low and calm voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

“Wingleader Magloire,” Professor Mavuika greets. “I’ll leave this decision up to you.” the Professor steps back from them and calls out for Freminet to start.

“Thank you, Professor,” Clorinde says quietly before turning to Navia and levelling her with a razor-sharp look. “Cadet Caspar. It appears you have been accused of breaking the Codex.”

Navia only nods, lips pulled into a tight line.

“I’m here!” Aether interrupts, a little out of breath from sprinting up the stairs. When he sees Clorinde, he stands to attention. Clorinde’s mouth hardens into a line. “What’s the issue?”

“Cadet Vuka is accusing Cadet Caspar of breaking the Codex. Caspar states Section Two, Subsection Four b is Caspar’s defence,” Clorinde summarises efficiently, then levels Aether with a challenging look. “What would you determine from that information, Squad Leader Travelis?”

Aether briefly looks uneasily between Chasca and Navia, not wanting to take sides, least he gets caught in their electric crossfire. “I think the Codex can be interpreted in many ways, despite its… specific contents. I say Caspar’s interpretation is sound. The right way isn’t always the only way.”

Clorinde gives a sharp nod. “It doesn’t appear that your actions have broken the Codex,” Clorinde says, a subtle softness to her authoritative tone. Navia instantly relaxes and then her eyes go wide.

“Clorinde, you—”

Clorinde cuts Chasca off with a simple flick of her hand. Her eyes don’t leave Navia’s.

“That’s Wingleader Magloire to you, Cadet Vuka,” Clorinde hisses, then breaks eye contact with Navia to dismiss Chasca.

“Thank you,” Navia murmurs.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Clorinde huffs and turns away.

Navia gulps audibly and Aether pats her on the shoulder, then leaves. Wriothesley joins her side once more, letting out a long-held breath.

“That was… tense,” Wriothesley whispers.

“Tell me about it,” she sighs, then tugs Wriothesley forward to they can watch Freminet make it up the rest of the Gauntlet.

Thankfully, the little De Hearth has made it past the first three levels of Gauntlet without dying. Wriothesley and Navia spot him leaning precariously over the third level landing to reach across and grab the rope that people are supposed to grab if they fall.

Behind them, Wriothesley can hear Professor Mavuika slap her forehead and groan in frustration as Freminet uses the rope to walk up the side of the pillar climb on the fourth ascent instead of the usual hugging climb everyone else did. Surely, wherever Chasca is, there’s got to be steam coming out of her ears.

Freminet makes it to the top, and then much like Navia, he runs at the ramp with two daggers in hand, stabbing them into the ramp as he loses his final bit of momentum. He can’t pull himself up, so instead he twists his weirdly flexible body around and hauls himself up feet first.

Once on his feet, he sheathes his daggers and runs full pelt into Navia’s arms.

“I did it!” he half sobs into her chest. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Professor Mavuika sighs, loud enough for the three of them to hear. “Let me guess, Cadet Caspar, you’ve got a section of the Codex to read out to me to tell me why Cadet De Hearth’s run time should count?”

“Actually,” Navia winces. “It’s quite the opposite.”

Professor Mavuika raises an eyebrow in challenge. Clorinde stares at the three of them over the Professor’s shoulder, lips pursed with barely concealed disappointment.

“There’s nothing in the Codex, nor the rules for Gauntlet, regarding use of the ropes, since they are considered part of the Gauntlet.”

“I’m going to retire at the end of this year,” Professor Mavuika murmurs to herself without meaning.

🌊🐉🌊

“Remind me again what you’re supposed to do if approaching a black dragon,” Wriothesley asks, heart in his throat as he stares down the expanse of the flight field before him. He knows the answer, but it would bring him a lot more comfort to hear it once more.

The flight field is a wide, open area between the peaks of two mountains, surrounded by steep cliffs on three of its four sides. It’s far above the college, so it’s colder than inside the courtyard where they stand in formation every morning.

“Maintain eye contact. Move slowly and deliberately. Do not challenge them,” Navia lists off, voice vague and airy as she too takes in the expanse of the flight field.

Wriothesley is shaking, with fear or anticipation, he can’t figure it out. But he can see two lines of dragons, all six colours, stretching to the end of the field. It’s a mess of swishing tails, battering wings, hot sulfurous air and cacophonous growls. It’s like walking into a den of vipers.

He can see Professor Neuvillette stationed at the beginning of the walkway between the dragons. Not an ounce of fear on his face, although it looks like he hasn’t slept well. He’s seemingly at home with the dragons not even flinching when the blue behind him swishes its sharp daggertail only a metre from him, much unlike Mavuika, who stays well away from the unbonded dragons.

The idea of Presentation suddenly seems ridiculous to Wriothesley. Parading between two lines of vicious beasts completely capable of killing them in the hopes that their puny human bodies will be eye-catching enough for a dragon to choose them during Threshing at the end of the month. Are they insane?

Probably.

The pain in his knee has eased up a smidge now that he’s had some time to rest it whilst the rest of the first years from each wing made it up Gauntlet; with only two deaths, courtesy of the spinning logs. He’s still walking with a slight limp, but it’s much easier to mask.

Their squad had placed a little below average, but thankfully not last. So now, they’re stood at the very edge of the flight field watching a steady line of cadets walk between the dragons. So far, only two excessively arrogant cadets have been torched. The foul smell of charred flesh and burnt hair hangs in the air.

Aether walks down their line, speaking with two or three of his squadmates at a time. His jaw is tight and his expression is a little grave, as if he’s sending his underlings out to battle. Wriothesley knows the feeling intimately. Aether shouldn’t be fretting this much. In here is far safer than what’s out there.

“We’re supposed to talk to one another as we walk, right?” Navia asks as their squad is called for Presentation.

Aether takes the words right out of Wriothesley’s mouth. “Yes,” he responds urgently as he makes it over to the three of them. “Idle chit-chat is a good indicator of a well-functioning squad and can give the dragons an idea of what you’re like.”

Wriothesley’s left feeling like there are bees in his stomach.

The line moves closer to where Professor Neuvillette is stationed, watching over the cadets. The bee swarm in Wriothesley’s stomach practically doubles in intensity. He tries his best to keep his eyes plastered to the ground, but seriously, who can look away from Professor Neuvillette for long? Not this idiot.

“Remember not to walk too close together,” Professor Neuvillette reminds their squad before gesturing them forward. “Show no fear. You know very well that they can smell it.” The Professor narrows his eyes as Wriothesley passes and it makes every hair on his arms stand on end.

He’s certain Professor Neuvillette can smell the fear on him. Though, it’s not the pants-pissing kind of fear, more the ‘I fear a world in which we are not on good terms’ kind.

At the front of the line, there is a rather large red swordtail with big amber eyes and the tell-tale signs of fire in its throat. Across from it, a particularly judgemental brown clubtail stares them down. The red swordtail hisses at the other red dragon beside it as it moves a little too close.

“We’re going to die,” Freminet murmurs behind them.

“You will with that attitude,” Navia shoots back.

Wriothesley stifles a laugh that rises amongst the bitter anxiety that he’s asphyxiating in. That’s definitely something he would say. “What should we talk… about?” he asks as they slowly walk by the two red dragons and brown.

“Um,” Navia hesitates. Even without seeing her, Wriothesley knows her eyes are wondering about, when she should be fighting against her instincts and looking straight ahead. Not making eye contact with the dragons is the best way to remain living until Threshing. “Breakfast was good this morning?”

“Don’t lie,” Wriothesley counters. “Those eggs were rubbery, and you know it.”

“Fine. Alright. Anything been on your mind, Freminet?”

“Nope. Just that I’m thankful to have made it up the gauntlet in once piece. And that your plan worked.” A turquoise dragon cranes its neck toward them and snorts a huff of hot air straight at Freminet, who whines quietly. “And maybe that I’d like to get my hands on that new companion meka set before it sells out,” the blonde adds quickly.

“You like meka?” Wriothesley finds himself asking, brows furrowed. He despises meka with all his soul. For good reason.

“Yeah,” Freminet replies softly. “I was an artificer before… y’know.”

“That’s cool,” Navia replies. “Well, we all know what you did before you came here, Iron Wolf.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Wriothesley hisses as the words catch a black daggertail’s attention. The magnificent beast’s huge face lowers to his eye level and slowly moves toward him. His entire body locks up as his eyes slowly edge toward the black dragon and lock onto it like he’s supposed to.

“Keep moving,” Navia whispers. “Slowly.”

Every step forward feels precarious as the black dragon sniffs at him, then snorts — with approval or disapproval, it’s not clear — and backs up.

“Other interesting things to talk about…” Navia hesitates as she passes the black daggertail. It doesn’t move or show any interest in her. “You knew my father.”

“I did,” he answers simply. “It’s not new information.”

“I know, but I was thinking. I might have met you, once maybe when I was a little girl. My father said you were quite a troubled young man.”

A blue dragon, Wriothesley can’t see its tail, chuffs hot air at them and wiggles its spine, almost menacingly. It does well to make gooseflesh prickle up Wriothesley’s forearms.

“Your father was certainly right about that. He got me out of a pretty shit situation back then. You couldn’t have been any older than eight back then,” he says. “I think I remember seeing a little blonde girl around one the few times I visited him. Never thought of it much until now.”

“I can’t believe you never mentioned it to me.”

“I thought it was best not to bring up anything related to your father,” he admits, the taste in his mouth sours as he fights to keep himself in check as he leaves the spindly blue dragon behind. “You seemed pretty upset when I first spoke about him.”

Navia is silent for a moment and Wriothesley has to will his feet to carry him forward, aching knee and all, so he doesn’t turn around to check if he’s really upset Navia.

“If you knew him,” she begins uneasily, “why didn’t you know what happened to him?”

“News doesn’t always make its way to the frontlines.”

Two green dragons start to move toward Wriothesley and his steps falter for a moment, until he realises they’re moving toward Navia. Freminet has remained awfully quiet for much of the conversation.

“I suppose not,” Navia hums in a shaking voice as the two green dragons eye her off.

Silence falls between the three of them. They’re over halfway through Presentation and so far, almost all of the dragons seem very strong and deadly. Part of Wriothesley hopes that black daggertail might choose him, it seems feisty and powerful, which is something he would like in a dragon.

There is a small gap in the dragons on the left side, about three quarters of the way down. It draws Wriothesley’s attention, and he keeps watch of the space as he nears it.

A small high-pitched screech echoes through the air; not human, not dragon, but Wriothesley can hear the beating of much smaller wings. His blood runs cold. His first thought is gryphons. Inside the wards? But no one else is reacting.

No one else around him knows what a gryphon screech sounds like.

From high up on the cliff, Wriothesley spots a small moving shape. It’s almost snow-white, but shimmers with a light blue sheen in the afternoon sun. The shape glides down and as it gets closer, Wriothesley realises, it’s a dragon.

Not just any dragon, but a kind of dragon he has never seen before. It’s so small. The little dragon lands in the empty space and growls at the two dragons next to it, forcing them to move slightly to the side. The little blue… turquoise… cyan? dragon looks like it only comes up to about Wriothesley’s height, maybe a little taller. Its tail is very unique and… feathery.

“Gods, what is a feathertail doing here?” Kaeya, who is at the front of their line, exclaims. “My, my, such a little thing would get shredded to pieces in a heartbeat,” he remarks in a chastising tone as he walks past.

“That’s why they don’t bond or fight,” Nilou Iravani answers, gentler than Kaeya. “Probably pacifists.”

It is true. There is no record of a feathertail bonding with a cadet. Whether it was because they were simply too small to carry a rider or were the peace-loving type, no one knew. If a feathertail were here at Presentation, it only meant one thing.

It was looking to bond.

Part of Wriothesley hopes that the feathertail would choose Navia or Freminet. If the little dragon can’t carry a rider, it would mean Navia or Freminet would never have to go to the frontlines and see the kind of shit he’s seen. Navia could simply become a professor at the college or go to the Scribe Quadrant where she was meant to be. For Freminet, it would mean Wriothesley (selfishly) wouldn’t have to constantly look out for the kid. It’s already giving him grey hairs. Well… new ones anyway.

A feathertail wouldn’t choose him. He’s far too rough around the edges for a gentle beast like the one he’s about to walk past.

The feathertail’s eyes follow Wriothesley’s as he walks past. He’s unsure whether he’s supposed to meet eyes with it, but given the gentle stare the dragon is returning to him, he’d say it’s safe to look. Sunlight reflects off the feathertail’s scales, more luminously than any other dragon on the field, gorgeous, but the opposite of stealthy. He nods in appreciation, then his eyes trail down to the dragon’s claws.

Only, there are no claws.

His eyes widen as he takes in the soft, pawlike feet of the feathertail. Fucking hell…

He keeps his mouth shut. All dragons, no matter how deadly (or not deadly in the Feathertail’s case), deserve respect. They could all easily bite his head off if they really wanted to. That’s enough for him to keep a safe distance.

As he walks away, he risks a careful glance back to the feathertail and finds it staring after him, with big, pink eyes. There’s something so soft, so innocent about them. Lamb-like almost, blissfully unaware of the horrors of reality. A soft smile creeps up his lips as he turns away. They really are lucky to have seen such a rare dragon this year at Presentation and he’s not sure many of the other cadets would realise this.

Up ahead, Heizou Shikanoin can be overheard in conversation with Charlotte Moreau. The two of them, know-it-alls, always wrapped up in other people’s business. Truly perfect for one another.

“I’ve heard that General Ei’s dragon, Blade Breaker, is mated to the black dragon Sovereign and that’s why she returns home to Inazuma so often, despite being needed at the frontlines,” Heizou practically brags.

“And I’ve heard that’s simply not true,” Charlotte counters. The two of them are locked in one of their typical gossip brags. Wriothesley hates gossip. “And anyway, have you heard about Headmaster Furina’s dragon, Sea Gazer?”

“Oh, do tell me. I’m on the edge of my—”

Cadet Heizou Shikanoin is cut off when a black scorpiontail whips around and releases a stream of liquid fire straight at him. Wriothesley slaps a hand over his mouth, and he can hear both Navia and Freminet stifle a scream of shock. Everyone in the squad freezes and the cadets in front of where Heizou was standing dare to look back.

There is only a black scorch mark on the ground where Heizou was.

Gods on high…

Charlotte steps around the scorch mark with shaking legs and a trembling lip. She keeps her hands clasped at her chest as she catches right up to Xiangling Mao.

“Keep your distance from me,” Xiangling warns. “I don’t want get torched alongside you.”

Charlotte, obviously cut by the remark, hangs back as far as she can without absolutely hightailing it out there.

Losing Heizou is the squad’s second loss. They’re not even halfway through the year and they’re down two out of the nine first years in the squad. Though, if one wanted to talk statistics, only two or three of the nine cadets would survive through to graduation. Wriothesley is determined to make sure that includes at least himself and Navia, no matter what shit he has to pull to make that happen.

He steps around the scorch mark, biting his cheek as a short-lived wave of sorrow clenches his stomach. There’s nothing left of the young man but a small pile of charcoaled human flesh.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

🌊🐉🌊

21 years ago

Fen was rapidly approaching his twelfth year of living, which was bad.

He did not know when his birthday was, which was not a bad thing in itself. The bad part of it was that none of the boys or girls in the home made it far past twelve years of age. He was running out of time, along with Ben and Lee.

Telling the other children the truth was a terrifying idea given what happened to Edd when he was ‘adopted’. Edd had gone to the Gardes, begging for help when he knew he had said too much. The Gardes turned their back on Edd, dismissing the ‘outrageous fantasy’, because the kid was known to be a troublemaker. They’d do the same to Fen, if he asked but he was running out of options. So, today after an innumerable amount of time in the workshop, he was on his way to find the Gardes office in the factory district. Ben and Lee weren’t convinced that he wanted to go for a walk by himself to visit some old friends – he had lost contact with Micah and Celeste long ago – but let him go anyway.

His palms were sweaty, and his chest felt strangely numb as he took the most direct path to the Gardes office — something he had never done before. With every step, he rhythmically recited what he was going to say to the Gardes, knowing that the second he would open his mouth, he would stumble all over his words.

How could one describe the situation to someone so far removed from tragedy?

Upon stepping foot through the threshold of the Gardes office, his heart rate soared. Every muscle in his body was begging him to hightail it out of the monster’s den. When really, the monster’s den was where he had been living the past few years.

“Can I help you, boy?” one of the Gardes asked, looking down his nose at Fen. He froze under the gaze, locked into place as the Gardes eyes searched him, assessing what danger he would pose to everyone else in the room.

He knew this garde. Not by name, but by face.

With trembling lips, his words became stuck in his throat. He needed to tell the garde, but the first sentence tripped him up so terribly, there was no getting his rehearsed speech out. ‘I need help’ was what he wanted to say.

“Th-the lady— mother, she— and father, they’re… they’re—”

“Spit it out, kid,” the garde sighed. “I don’t have time for jibber jabber.”

Fen took a deep breath and swallowed several times over before his racing thoughts could make sense.

“My mother and father are selling children to farmers,” he managed to get out between gritted teeth. “They’re killing any of us who find out the truth.” The sense of relief that flowed through his chest once the words left his mouth was immense.

For a moment, the garde looked at him, brows knitted with concern. Until the concern faded into anger.

“Kid, if you’re just here to rile me up, I’ll make you—”

“Please, sir!” he urged.

Another garde from further inside the office got to his feet at the commotion and stumbled out to lay eyes on him. “What’s the commotion all about?”

“I need you to arrest my mother and father,” he implored once more, using that big wet-eyed look he had mastered long ago. The other garde softened and with a sigh, ushered him out of the building.

Once outside, she knelt down so that she was a little shorter than Fen and placed his hand between her palms.

“Just because your parents are punishing you for being naughty, does not mean you can get back at them by telling tall tales to the Gardes,” she said in a gentle voice.

Fen could just about have screamed in the garde’s face. Her gentle features hardened when Fen ripped his hand away.

“You people never listen,” he hissed and without another thought, he turned on his heel and ran back to the home with tears blurring his vision the entire way.

🌊🐉🌊

The next day, he was interrupted mid-way through assembling a complicated clockwork mechanism when there was a knock at the door above the workshop. Every single person in the workshop froze.

No one knocked at the door to the home. Especially not during their working hours.

“Upstairs, now,” mother’s firm voice echoed down the stairway.

Without another thought, Fen and all of the other children dropped what they were doing and marched upstairs. Mother directed for them to sit in front of the hearth and be silent whilst father spoke with someone outside the door. The boys whispered amongst each other; the younger ones had no idea what this was about, but the older three knew what the exercise meant.

A garde was visiting them.

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, they were to be on their best behaviour, or they would not be eating for three days. The last garde visit meant Edd went close to three days without a meal and time in ‘the hole’.

A garde Fen was all too familiar with stepped through the door, guided by father. Santallier was the kind of Garde whose face was frozen in a permanent scowl that made his bright blue eyes appear far more menacing than they had any right to be.

“Just here to conduct a welfare check,” Santallier grunted, surveying the room. Mother stood in the doorway to the kitchen with a pleasant smile gracing her features.

“We’re doing quite well thank you, sir. Is there something the matter?” Mother’s words were sickly sweet, the antithesis of what Fen saw every day.

“Not sure,” Santallier hummed, eyes combing through the children. “Stand for me, in a line.” He gestured and each of them looked to mother for a split second to see her nod her head in approval. They got to their feet warily and stood in complete silence as Santallier down their line. He asked to see their teeth and show their arms.

As much as Fen loathed Santallier, he could not help but look up at the man with his most subtle version of a desperately pleading expression. There was no way to tell the garde the truth. He was just a child. Nobody listened to children.

Satisfied with their condition, Santallier let the children be and turned to father.

“May I see the paperwork for the child that was most recently adopted?”

Father nodded and disappeared into a room that was always locked. He returned with a small stack of papers and presented them to Santallier, who scanned the contents, noted a few things on his notepad, and returned the papers.

“Apologies for the inconvenience sir,” he turned to mother and nodded his head respectfully. “Madam.”

Without another word, Santallier left, and Fen felt his hopes evaporate.

Chapter Text

21 years ago

Fen waited for weeks.

No one came to arrest mother or father for their crimes.

It was only a matter of time before Ben or Lee would be ‘adopted’. His own life was teetering on the edge of a knife. The anxiety of it all was beginning to run him ragged — more so than usual.

If no one would help him, he would have to do the only thing he knew how to do.

It was almost bedtime when Ben disappeared. Fen noticed within moments and quietly slipped away. Mother was, surprisingly, nowhere near the kitchen as he crept down the stairs. He made a short stop to retrieve something, then escaped out the back door, only minutely delayed by the complicated latch on the door that usually prevented them from leaving at night.

If there was one thing he was thankful for after so much time in the workshop, it was the ability to understand the way a meka might function just by looking at it.

The night air was cold despite the early stages of autumn providing a break from the bone chilling winter ice. All he could hear was his own breath and footsteps on the damp cobbles as he made a beeline for the spot where all the transactions took place. He’d had enough. They took Edd. They won’t take Ben from him.

His stomach roiled at the thought.

The moment he rounded the familiar corner; he stopped dead in his tracks as the amber light of the alleyway brought him straight back to the memory of when he and Edd had watched Nina be sold to a farmer. His body convulses with the force of the shiver that ran down his back and his knuckles whitened around the handle in his palm.

Both mother and father are stood in the space before him, backs turned and hands gripping the shoulders of the children before them. Ben was on the left, held by father and Cara was on the right, held by mother. Fen hadn’t even noticed Cara was gone, but then again, he rarely noticed the girls since they were separated almost all the time.

The buyer was nowhere in sight. It was all too easy.

Now was his chance.

Fen saw red as he charged the short distance between himself and father, the knife in his hand poised to bury itself in the man’s back.

It was over so quickly, he didn’t remember what happened between the glint of steel and the soft wet sound of the knife burying itself in father’s flesh four times. One moment Fen was screaming, the next father’s body hit the ground, blood pooling beneath him as several dark red marks across his back glistened.

A shrill scream erupted into the air and Fen jumped back in time to see mother fly at him. Her eyes were terrifyingly wide, and her mouth was twisted into a horrific shape as she bared her teeth. Fen flew back as the force of mother’s blow knocked him to the ground, vision flashing white as his head connected with the rough cobbles.

“What have you done?” mother shrieked, her weight coming down atop him, pinning him to the ground. “Stupid, ungrateful boy!” She swiped at him desperately, punching him and drawing blood as she tried to wrestle the kitchen knife from him.

But he was faster.

He was always faster.

She made this gods awful gurgling noise as Fen hurriedly slashed the knife across the tight space between them in a desperate attempt to push her away. She clutched her neck, expression paralysed as she realised the unforgivable thing Fen had just done to her. The blood dribbled across Fen’s chest and face in hot spatters. It got in his eye, his nose, his mouth.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit.

“Fen, what the—?” Ben’s shaking voice pierced through the haze as mother’s body fell sideways. “What have you done?

The knife clattered to the ground as Fen tossed it aside like it was poison. His hands shook uncontrollably, and he held them out in front of his face, horrified by how sticky they were. His vision swam and his body felt like it had evaporated into thin air.

“We need to go back home,” he said between huge gasping breaths. With a great amount of effort, he sat up, spat his mother’s blood from his mouth and wiped the thick film of blood from his face. “Get everyone out. Now.”

The commotion had roused a few nearby residents. Fen could hear shouts, dogs barking, and the tell-tale signs that a squadron of Gardes was headed their way.

“Why?” Ben finally managed to ask.

“Rin,” Fen gasps. “They killed Rin. So many others…”

Ben blanched.

“They weren’t going to—”

He cut Cara off with a voice that no longer sounded like his own. “They were going to sell you. They’ve sold everyone that’s been adopted.”

The briefest of silences fell between the three children as all the pieces came together.

“But—” Cara began in a small voice.

“Go!” Fen urged. “Tell everyone the truth. Tell them they’re free and won’t have to worry about being sold for mother and father’s gain.”

The two children spent a moment looking between Fen and the two bodies that lay in a mess behind him. They slowly backed away from the scene before whipping away to sprint home.

The Gardes arrived moments later to find Fen stood between the two bodies, hands held up in surrender, eyes plastered to the ground.

His eyes caught the torchlight as he raised his head to see which of the Gardes had come to arrest him. Each of them had stopped short as they realised, they were faced by a mere child who had committed such an atrocious act.

Santallier was there, amongst other Gardes he knew.

“You never listened,” he gritted out between his teeth as the Gardes surrounded him.

🌊🐉🌊

Fen couldn’t tell if the Gardes felt sorry for him or not.

He did not speak to them when they took him to the nearby office and put him in a cell. He did not utter a single word as they questioned him. He did not sleep because when he closed his eyes, the image of mother’s throat slashed open flashed before his eyes.

Some of the Gardes wanted to beat the answers out of him. Others knew that only something truly horrific would drive a child to act in the way that Fen had chosen.

They told him his court date would be in mid-November and they would be holding him until then. He didn’t know what that meant, but he resigned himself to waiting.

Ben visited to tell him all of the children had been sent out to other orphanages within the city. He was happy they no longer had to work all hours of the day for their bed and bread. Fen could only nod in response, grateful for the news.

On the day that was mid-November, the garde that had told him off weeks ago for coming into the office came to tell him it was his court hearing today. She handcuffed him and led him out of the jail, through the office and outside where a carriage awaited him.

The garde did not say a word to him the entire time until she passed him over to the Gardes at the courthouse.

“I’m sorry,” was all she said.

The courthouse was a large stone building with stained glass windows; the nice kind that Hotel Debord had. It towered over him, and he gulped in the hopes that it would make the sinking feeling in his stomach go away.

“Come on, boy. Quick smart,” the new garde urged, practically pulling him up the steps and inside the mouth of the building. “We don’t have all day.”

Inside, it was bustling with clerks and several official looking people with long flowing robes. He was ushered past all the commotion until he was put in another cell with several other people. None of them smelled very good. Neither did he. Some of them looked despondent, others desperate and a few downright murderous.

Fen did his best to be as unobtrusive as possible. If he remained invisible, no one would bother him, he’d be safe.

One by one, people were taken out of the cell and were not returned. Fen did not have to wonder where they all went.

When it was his turn, he was taken into a large room, larger than any he had ever been in in his life. The ceilings were high and arched and rows of pews took up much of the space between the door and the high benches at the other end of the room.

The garde sat him down at a table to the left of the room. An old man sat high up behind the bench in the centre of the room, and another was seated at the bench to the right of Fen.

The old man leaned forward in his seat and peered at him through the spectacles perched at the end of his nose.

“Name of the accused?” the old man called out.

The room went silent as everyone awaited an answer to the old man’s question. The garde behind Fen bumped his shoulder and hissed “that’s you.”

“Oh… Uh…” he hesitated quietly, voice croaky from disuse. “Fen.”

“Last name?” the old man asked impatiently.

“I don’t have one,” Fen admitted.

The man across from Fen piped up. “Just put his father’s last name. Thibaud.”

“Very well,” the old man sighed. “Before we begin the trial, I will ask you Fen Thibaud, would you like to face a trial or fight in a duel against our champion to prove your innocence.” He peered over his bench, thin lips pressed in a firm line, then gestured to a dapper looking man in his late thirties with a shiny sword and tight uniform.

The champion tightened his grip on his sword and subtly shook his head when Fen’s gaze met his. He wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight against a grown man, especially when he had eaten very little recently.

“Trial,” he answered quietly, not fully understanding what that meant either.

“Do you plead guilty to the murder of Jacques Elaine Thibaud and Veronique Melissa Thubaud?” The old man in the centre asked.

Fen didn’t even have to think of the answer. There was no point in lying.

“Yes.”

Silence fell as his answer startled just about every person in the room.

“Well…” the man across from Fen sighed pleasantly. “That makes my job a lot easier.”

The old man sitting high behind the bench blinked quite a few times before leaning over the bench to fix his eyes on Fen. “Might I ask why, boy?” his voice softened. There was something in the old man’s eyes that begged Fen to trust him, that promised he would listen. Despite his instincts screaming at him not to talk, he wrestled away the urge to remain silent.

“I had no other choice.”

By the time Fen concluded his explanation, he could spy the beads of unshed tears in the old man’s eyes. At times, the man across from Fen would interrupt to question the validity of his statements, but the old man silenced him.

“My boy,” the old man mused, voice melancholy and stone heavy. “Whilst you believe you acted in self-defence; it was not your life in danger, nor do you show any remorse for your actions.”

Remorse.

The word sat on Fen’s chest like a stone.

“I find you guilty of the murder of your foster parents and sentence you to ten years imprisonment with eligibility for parole after seven years.”

As Fen begins to refute the old man’s words, a sharp bang echoes through the room as the old man dismisses him with his gavel. The garde behind him forces him to his feet and without another word, he finds himself in another cell.

This time, a few of the people are crying and the remainder look hollow eyed.

“Where are they taking us?” Fen whispered to the middle-aged man who was sat next to him.

The old fellow sighed and responded in a gruff voice. “Ipsissimus.”

🌊🐉🌊

The carriage ride to Ipsissimus was long. They didn’t stop, even when one of the women passionately begged for a piss break.

The carriage stank of urine to the point where it was suffocating to breathe if they didn’t press their mouths against the small vents in the sides.

They didn’t stop when one of the men passed out and wouldn’t wake.

Fen lost track of the sun and moon very quickly, becoming lost in his own mind until the doors finally opened.

Ipsissimus was a tall, thick tower, surrounded by a wide, high wall that was topped with the glimmer of blades. There was salt in the air, though Fen could not see the water from which it originated from.

Fen knew the next ten years of his life were going to be hell if this was the way they would be treated. What he did was wrong, but he knew he shouldn’t be treated like this. The anger he had carried from the courtroom rose to the surface, clawing at him from beneath his skin. The Gardes who ignored his pleas for help should be sent to prison right along with him.

They were unloaded from the carriage into a yard and lined up. One by one, their clothes and possessions were taken by the Gardes in an almost mechanical fashion. Each of them was handed a uniform and then sent to a clerk sat behind a desk inside the building.

“Name?” the clerk asked when it was Fen’s turn.

He did not want to give the clerk his name. Not the one mother had forced upon him. Instinctually, the sight of the garde uniforms surrounding him stirred a reflex in him. He blurted out the most ridiculous and heinously confusing name he could come up with.

“Wriothesley.”

“What?” The clerk’s brows knitted together.

“Wriothesley,” he repeated.

The clerk hummed and took a few attempts to write it down. He had no idea how it was spelt. He’d never been taught to read.

“Last n—”

“Don’t give me one,” he said hurriedly, shuddering at the thought of carrying that awful name, Thibaud, around like an ugly scar.

The clerk rolls her eyes and tiredly. “You still need one.”

“I won’t. There are no other people named Wriothesley here, right? I don’t have a family. Do not give me a last name,” he urges.

The clerk sighs and moves to the next question, “Birth date?”

“Today. Twelve years ago.” He doesn’t know his birthday.

“Alright. November twenty third,” the clerk muttered beneath her breath. “Not exactly a happy birthday…”

“No. It’s not.”

🌊🐉🌊

Now

No matter whether it’s a weekend or a weekday, Threshing is always held on the thirty first of October. The entire Quadrant stops all classes and events to watch the first years venture out into the forest in the valley below Meropide.

Wriothesley is still reeling from Presentation, which was days ago. He’d been waking up at the crack of dawn every morning, gasping as a pair of pink dragon eyes haunted him in his dreams. Everyone in the First Wing dorm has started to get really sick of him waking at odd hours, often gasping for breath. Thankfully, if they survived tonight, they would find themselves in their own private rooms for the first time since coming to Meropide.

“Attention cadets!” Headmaster Furina calls. She’s come down from her office to send them off for their big moment. Though, there’s no podium or dais for her to perform on down in the valley, so she really does appear quite ordinary.

Alongside Headmaster Furina are Professors Mavuika, Zhongli and Venti, in addition to another professor Wriothesley hasn’t cared to become acquainted with. Professor Neuvillette is nowhere to be seen. Wriothesley supposes that’s better. He’d crumble like sand beneath the weight of the Professor’s gaze at this rate.

The Wingleaders and Squad Leaders are also present, standing with their respective groups of first years.

“I can now say that I am proud of each and every one of you for making it this far. However, today is the big day.” Furina’s eyes brighten, and she shakes her fists in excitement.

“Fucking kill me,” Wriothesley groans to Navia, who is practically vibrating with anxiety beside him.

“Don’t ask me. I won’t hesitate,” Navia warns.

“Threshing will decide whether you are worthy of a dragon and can continue your journey here in the Rider’s Quadrant,” Furina announces. “Your future rests upon the blade of a knife today. Everything can change in an instant.”

Wriothesley’s first thought is about how death can change things quite instantly. His second thought is that Headmaster Furina is correct: his future is dancing precariously along a blade. One wrong move today and he will cost himself the rest of his life and his honour.

Ajax Tachelli is eyeing him off from about ten metres away, like a rishboland tiger locking in on its prey from beneath the cover of a bush. It’s only a matter of time before he pounces on Wriothesley for round three.

Briefly, he wonders if anyone else he’s faced off with during Challenges is going to chase him down. A quick scan of the crowd confirms that Thoma Glassner and Kuki Shinobu are not glaring daggers at him.

Furina steps back and gestures to the forest behind her.

“There are two hundred and thirty-six of you here today, and only one hundred and forty-two dragons willing to bond. Dare I say, it’ll be more of a bloodbath than previous years,” Furina murmurs with a pained grimace. “Many of the dragons willing to bond are out there now, but the remainder will arrive when the bell rings at the tenth hour. You will all have until the seventeenth hour to bond with a dragon and meet your cohort on the flight field,” Furina instructs them. “And remember, you’re competing against one another during this time. Have fun.”

Upon their dismissal, Aether Travelis rounds them up into a huddle.

“I want to see every single one of you on that flight field tonight. Stick together for the first hour. Don’t let any other groups intimidate you,” he urges, eyeing every single one of them off one by one. “Help each other where you can. And for the love of the gods, hold on tight whilst you’re on the way to the flight field. So many cadets fall to their deaths during the first flight.”

With that, he slaps Xiangling and Kaeya on the back, as they’re either side of him, and walks back to where the rest of the Wing’s leadership are stationed.

Right on cue, the bell for the tenth hour rings out above them and almost every first-year breaks from the crowd and sprints full pelt into the forest, weapons drawn. The more cadets they cut down, the greater their chances of bonding with a dragon today. Wriothesley jogs behind most of them, wanting to save his energy for later when a hoard of cadets make the ill-informed judgement that he’s easy pickings. That, and he’ll need it if a dragon decides to give him a free cremation.

Both Navia and Freminet follow behind him for now. They’d agreed to stick together for the first hour of Threshing to avoid the carnage as other cadets pick each other off, but they know they need to go their separate ways eventually. Dragons aren’t too fond of cadets when they’re in groups, and it’s smart not to get between a dragon and their mark. Free cremations aplenty that way.

Part of Wriothesley wonders whether they encourage cadets to split up during Threshing to prevent large groups from ganging up on other cadets. At least that way, a one-on-one fight really proves who’s best.

“Where are we headed?” Freminet asks, barely keeping up. His brows are twisted in pain as they jog through the uneven terrain.

“Well. Our best option is to stay out of the middle, get to a vantage point, split from there,” Wriothesley instructs, ducking under a low hanging branch.

The leaves above them rustle, then the rustle turns into an almost deafening chittering of leaves scraping against one another as a gale wind forms. The trio pause and look up to where the pale grey sky is dotted throughout the canopy. A massive dark shape flies right over them, so close it’s almost touching the tops of the trees, whipping up wind in its wake.

The three of them look amongst each other wide eyed. This is definitely real. Threshing is absolutely happening right now.

After jogging further into the forest, it’s not long before the three of them run into trouble. About twenty minutes in, Freminet skids to a halt and falls back with a whimper as a knife thunks into the tree he’s passing.

“Get behind me,” Wriothesley grits out as he hurriedly scans the forest for the source of the blade, whilst backing up. It’s a group of two cadets – no, three – sparsely covered by the underbrush. He doesn’t know any of them. Another knife comes rushing toward him. Shit. He twitches to the side just in time for it to spin right past his ear. He doesn’t figure out whether it’s broken skin or not until his ear starts to sting.

Behind him, Navia draws a dagger, and he follows in suit with his short sword. Freminet gets to his feet too and scampers for cover.

“You wanna fuck around, find out?” Wriothesley calls across the forest to the three cadets.

“Oh shit,” he hears one of the cadets murmur.

Then, a blade whirls through the air and lands in one of the cadet’s diaphragms with a wet thump. The cadet clutches the hilt of the dagger and wheezes, sinking to her knees. It’s not Wriothesley’s dagger, nor is it Navia’s.

“Niennë, forgive me,” a rasping voice whispers behind him. A quick glance to his right reveals a wide eyed Freminet, right before Wriothesley charges forward, sword raised. He only needs to fight two of them now. The glint of another dagger coming straight for him sets his muscles on edge as he flicks his sword to deflect the blade. It clatters against the steel before falling limply to the ground.

Behind him, Navia gives an almighty roar as she charges into battle behind Wriothesley. He clashes with the first cadet, bowling him over with his weight and momentum. The cadet, brown haired with a forgettable face, flies back and hits the ground as the second cadet, black haired and heavy browed, locks blades with Wriothesley.

“You’re not the man everyone talks you up to being,” the black-haired cadet hisses as Wriothesley deflects a killing blow, then locks the cadet’s sword arm in a grapple. He’s stronger than Wriothesley anticipates from his lean physique, ending with them both trapped in a grapple, staring at one another, spit flying as they grunt dissonantly in an attempt to break the grapple.

“The stories are full of shit. So are you,” Wriothesley bites back, then thrusts his head forward, the crown of his head smashing against the soft cartilage of the cadet’s nose. The grip on his arm loosens and he drives the black-haired cadet back.

Bleary eyed, the cadet grips his nose as blood spills between his fingers, then launches forward to strike at Wriothesley once more, only to find himself skewered on Wriothesley’s sword. The moment the cadet realises his own error, Wriothesley can feel his body tense, then relax, through his blade. He doesn’t want to look at the cadet’s face. He’s just killed one of his own.

Gritting his teeth hard, Wriothesley boots the black-haired cadet in the chest, sending the poor bastard backward with a gaping hole in his stomach that dribbles dark blood over the lighter blood already streaked across his hands. Liver-shot. The cadet will die in a matter of moments.

As he whirls around to look for the brown-haired cadet, he finds the forest miraculously still around him. With shaking breaths, he turns to find Navia stood over the body of the brown-haired cadet, trembling and pressing a fist to her chest. He’s at her side in an instant, peering down at the cadet on the ground.

“He’s dead... I—” She can’t finish her words, cut off by a horrified sob.

Wriothesley’s eyes rake across the body and don’t find any blood, other than a remarkably red mark covering the side of the cadet’s forehead. The longer he looks, the more he’s confused.

“What did you do?” he asks as he crouches down and presses two fingers to the cadet’s neck.

“I hit him while he was down.”

A strong pulse thumps beneath his fingers. “Good news. You’re not a murderer, yet,” he reassures Navia.

“Yet?”

“One assumes there’ll be a body count on your way to exacting revenge upon the Wingleader.”

Freminet approaches cautiously, surveying the carnage upon the forest floor. He makes a beeline to the first cadet, quietly wheezing away as she applies pressure around the blade. Had she pulled it out, she would have been dead by now. Freminet has a second dagger in his hand as he numbly approaches the fallen cadet.

“Please... don’t,” the cadet whispers, crawling back a little, but giving up quickly as she realises the pain is too great for her to go on.

Freminet stands by her side and leans down to grip the handle of his dagger and pluck it from the cadet’s diaphragm.

“Fucking De Hearth scum!” She shouts. As her hands fly to close the wound, Freminet pulls away and watches her bleed out rather quickly. His jaw is tensed, and a hard expression masks the anguish he is trying so desperately to conceal.

Both Wriothesley and Navia find themselves frozen in place as Freminet wipes his blade clean on the dead cadet’s uniform.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Wriothesley whispers incredulously as Freminet stares at the body at his feet.

“You can’t throw daggers during Challenges,” Freminet mumbles simply, before squatting down to close the cadet’s eyes.

“We should get going,” he suggests.

“Good idea.”

Their pace slows significantly after they set off and begin to climb the hills. The forest in the valley is thick in places, making it perfect for wayfinding exercises, but Wriothesley knows the place like a second home. Infantry used to run drills down there all the time.

Wriothesley helps both Navia and Freminet up when they come to a ridge that overlooks most of the valley. They sit there for a few moments, catching their breath, looking over the deep green-grey forest. On a sunny day, it would look welcoming and beautiful. But on a day like today, it’s moderately intimidating They can see the tall outlines of a few dragons with their heads sticking out above the canopy. The eleventh bell hasn’t rung yet, thank goodness.

“How’d you know about this spot?” Navia asks once her breath has come back to her.

“Found it once when I was running drills in second year.”

“Sometimes I forget you’ve already done all this,” Freminet admits quietly, still shaken by his recent near-death encounter.

“Well, I haven’t done this.”

He looks out across the valley, unsure of where exactly he should be heading. Since headbutting that cadet, he’s had a splitting headache for the last half hour or so. He can see the head of a black dragon over near a clearing he knows of further down the valley. He’d have to walk down to one of the bridges that crosses the river if he wanted to get to the clearing in the southwest. Swimming across the river, even in mid-autumn is not a good idea, even if it looks calm, it’s deep with a strong undercurrent no matter what season it is. It’s not like he’s a good swimmer anyway.

“Alright,” he takes in a deep breath. “I’m going to head off that way and maybe snag myself a black dragon.” He points in the general direction of the clearing. “Where do you two wanna head off to?”

“I might head off to the starting area. There’s probably no one around there to kill me,” Freminet says quietly. To Wriothesley, it’s a cowardly plan, but a little cowardice never killed. At least he knows now that Freminet can handle himself if there’s enough space to throw a knife.

“Um, I might stay along this ridgeline for a bit.” Navia keeps her eyes down as she speaks, body quaking with nerves.

The last thing Wriothesley wants to do right now is leave the two of them, but he has to. But they have their own dragons to find and bond with. He hops off the ridgeline and turns back to face the other two.

“I hope you find your dragon, little killer De Hearth,” Wriothesley teases affectionately, lightly punching Freminet in the knee. Navia is already standing, so he has to crane his neck up to speak to her. “And you. Don’t die. There’s still revenge that must be exacted.” There’s no way to part with her via stern handshake, so he does the next best thing and thumps the toe of her boot with his palm.

“In case I don’t see you again,” Navia hesitates for a moment. “Thank you.”

“We’ll see each other again,” he promises, eyes softening. Then he murmurs to himself, “If Ajax-fucking-Tachelli doesn’t kill me first.”

Both Navia and Freminet groan, but their annoyed expressions soften into something akin to familial affection as Wriothesley walks away with his heart feeling heavier than it’s felt in quite some time.

Jogging through the forest of tall cypress and ash trees, Wriothesley finds his heart rate spiking every time a gust of air whips by him whenever a dragon soars past. He’s been trained all his adult life to stay the hell away from dragons, so the reflex to flatten down onto his stomach in the underbrush is hard to fight back.

It’s almost noon now, and so far, he’s run into three other cadets, all of whom took one look at him and walked the opposite direction. There’s one positive to being almost undefeated in Challenges, which that his shit-list is only a few names long and he’s on even fewer people’s shit-lists since proving himself to be quite the formidable opponent.

He’s sure by now he has travelled a fair distance from the College, making his way along the river until he can come to a crossing, searching for a dragon that would do something other than blow a huff of hot air at him in disgust, dismay, distaste. Only a little further to go until that clearing.

The shadows of the trees stretch across the forest floor start to look like dark fingers reaching out to grab anything that moves. Wriothesley’s knees start to hurt, and the fatigue of the day begins to weigh on him. The river crossing is much further down than he remembered, but he should be near the clearing where he saw the black dragon earlier.

“There you are, old man!” a familiar voice calls from behind, imbued with a menacing melody.

Bile rises in Wriothesley’s throat. He takes a deep breath and turns around to face his opponent, plastering a sly smile across his face. He cannot afford to show an ounce of weakness to this man; he’s the only person — aside from Clorinde and Scar — he knows could stand a chance at tearing him to shreds.

“Cadet Tachelli, we meet again,” he beams, holding his arms out in a gesture of amazement, keeping himself walking backward. If he stays in control of the situation, he has nothing to worry about. “Don’t you have a dragon to bond with?”

“Not just yet,” Ajax smiles hungrily. “Thought I’d really make sure I got a dragon this time.” He’s leaning against a tree, nonchalantly spinning one of his blades between his fingers. There’s blood on his pale forearms and splattered up his neck already. Tachelli has been busy.

“I assure you; there’s no need to waste time here,” Wriothesley shrugs. Every day, he wakes up and thanks that fake-ass god, Mar, that Tachelli works alone.

“I know,” Ajax nods, catching his blade a final time and stalking toward Wriothesley with an excited glint in his eye. “But that’s not going to stop me from getting another fight with the Iron Wolf. I want a clear-cut win this time.” He breaks off into a full sprint, charging toward Wriothesley with dazzling determination. He throws a dagger too for good measure, and Wriothesley manages to move aside quick enough for it to only catch on his arm, cutting a shallow line into his bicep.

“Shit.” He breaks into a run. He needs time and distance in order to draw his sword and loosen a dagger. Damn it, he wishes he had his gauntlets with him today. They just seemed so impractical to lug about for an entire day. The river crossing ahead is dangerous, but he’d much rather be on the other side of the river.

He’s much slower than the lithe fighter, Tachelli will catch him in a matter of moments. But it’s enough time for him to ready his short sword and whip around to block Ajax’s blow. Steel against steel screeches and he pushes back with all his strength, sending Ajax stumbling with the force of it. He’s got those fancy electric blue blades whirling around already.

As much as he loathes this kid, he doesn’t want to kill him. He’s already killed a cadet today. Whatever humanity he still has left in him; he’d desperately like to keep intact.

They trade blows, Wriothesley slowly losing ground against Ajax’s onslaught of strikes. He’s so much quicker than him, nicking his skin with his blades every few moves. His only advantage against Tachelli here is that his sword gives him slightly more range, leaving Ajax to only butcher the skin of his forearms.

Ajax isn’t going to stop until one or both of them is dead. The only option is to run faster than Tachelli, which he can’t do – not with his shit knees and big lumbering physique. There’s only one way he can try. And it will hurt.

The sound of steel against steel rings through the forest as Ajax’s blade glances off his. He intentionally leaves his right side open, vulnerable to attack. Teeth gritted in anticipation; he lures Tachelli in. White hot pain sears across his side as Tachelli’s blade runs through the muscles his above his hip. Ajax’s face lights up with delight as he finally does some proper damage, but the glee quickly fades as his face runs right into Wriothesley’s fist. Something cracks.

He makes quick work of Ajax, deflecting the secondary blow of his other blade and wrapping him in a tight headlock as the ginger falls forward.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Wriothesley growls, wrestling the younger cadet into a better grip where he can really apply pressure on his airway.

“Coward,” Ajax chokes out, then his face quickly goes red as Wriothesley tightens his grip, pressing his forearm against Tachelli’s throat, cutting off the blood supply to his head.

“You’re better off fighting the real enemy.”

To that, Wriothesley can only feel the shiver of laughter that ripples up Ajax’s body, before a deep, stabbing pain erupts from his thigh. His grip on Ajax loosens immediately and he shoves the deceitful cadet back enough for him to stumble clear. Looking down, he finds the short hilt of a dagger sprouting from his outer thigh.

“You little prick,” Wriothesley grits out as he straightens himself up. Ajax makes a wry smile as he coughs his lungs up for a moment before getting straight back to business.

As the two of them lurch forward, they both freeze and look up to the sky as a familiar piercing screech echoes above them. The trees rustle with a gentle wind as a shape passes over them, landing in the clearing just after the river crossing.

It’s that gleaming little feathertail.

He turns back in time to meet blades with Ajax once more, only to find him a little distracted. With the half a second advantage, Wriothesley clobbers him and runs for the river crossing, thigh aching with every movement around the blade embedded there.

Only just clear of the crossing, Ajax catches up to him and they clash again and again, and Wriothesley’s energy saps away. He’s tired of fighting. But not tired enough to surrender. He blocks blow after blow as Ajax gains ground, pushing them closer to the clearing.

He lands a deep slice to Tachelli’s thigh, which is returned by Tachelli landing an awfully long but shallow slash across his chest. He’s going to die at this rate. He lets Ajax drive him backwards, that way, he’ll at least die in that beautiful clearing just behind him, in the homeland he’s protected for over a third of his life.

Tachelli disarms him, then tosses his own blades aside to finish the job with his bare hands. Wriothesley is slow, hobbling, but he keeps his guard up as Ajax kicks at him with tightly controlled blows to his knee, side and face. He blocks each of them, feeling his body jostle at the force. He’d kick back, but his thigh is killing him. Ajax kicks again, but it’s predictable, and Wriothesley locks his leg, internally screaming as it presses against the wound in his side. He yanks Ajax off balance, then lands a teeth-clacking uppercut to Ajax’s chin.

Behind him, the little feathertail growls as they approach its space. Feathertails probably breathe fire like the others, so Wriothesley would rather not come any closer to the creature. But fuck... He’s tired, lightheaded and aching; not made of what he used to be.

Ajax comes back at him with a solid left hook and his world spins. Three more successive blows come after it, knocking him senseless. High pitched ringing cuts off the remainder of his senses as he collapses back, rubbing his face. His hands come away wet, red and sticky, and his mouth fills with the coppery taste of his own blood.

Wriothesley spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva, just barely managing to hold himself up. His arms shake from the effort, but he refuses to die on his knees. As he raises his head once more, Ajax strikes him, this time with a boot to the chin. His teeth clack together with the force and his vision flashes white.

He drops to the ground in a dizzy haze, unable to figure out which way was up and down. All he can see is a little pale blue splodge in his vision.

As he brings his hands up to shield his face for the killing blow from Ajax, a different high-pitched sound cuts through the muffled cacophony underlying the ringing in his ears. It only causes panic to surge through Wriothesley, everything comes back into focus all at once.

The feathertail — Tachelli is going for the feathertail.

Ajax Tachelli, the only mother fucker in Meropide College of War that’s brazen enough to go head-to-head with a dragon, is locked in battle with the feathertail. Taking on a dragon is suicidal, idiotic and just plain... disrespectful.

The dragon is as quick as him, dodging almost every fatal blow Ajax deals. It roars in his face, blowing air and flecks of saliva at Ajax — but the cadet remains undeterred. If Wriothesley keeps watching, Ajax will eventually wear the little thing down until he eventually kills it, much like what he just did with Wriothesley.

A quick search of the blurry green grass around him tells him he’s got nothing on him aside from the dagger embedded in his thigh and the tiny dagger in his boot, hardly long enough to be fatal. It’ll do.

He digs his fingers between the leather and his calf with his weak, trembling hands, just barely managing to get his big fingers around the handle. It’s really jammed in there, and for once, he curses himself for putting on more muscle since coming back to Meropide. The food’s been too good and there’s far too much spare time to be spent working out.

That same ear-splitting screech rips through the air between them. Wriothesley yanks the blade free and forces himself up onto his knees. The feathertail’s shimmering scales are tainted by glistening red. It cowers away as Ajax stumbles, trying to straighten up to deal the killing blow.

“HEY!” Wriothesley shouts so hard his voice cracks and wavers. He hurls the blade at Ajax, and it arcs through the air, blinking as it reflects the dying sunlight. It misses the centre of his back, instead burying itself in the tender flesh of Tachelli’s under arm. “Pick on someone your own size!”

Something in Ajax’s eyes snaps as he turns around to face Wriothesley. They shift from that dead blue to something unnervingly akin to violet. Wriothesley doesn’t have the strength to fight him again, but hopefully the feathertail can get away safely now.

“Fly away, go!” Wriothesley shouts at the little feathertail when it doesn’t budge. It cocks his head and those beautiful pink eyes stare at him with a childlike innocence.

Ajax yanks the blade from his flesh and laughs when he sees how small it is. He throws it back at Wriothesley, quick as a whip. He’s got no chance of dodging, and the short blade embeds in his shoulder, missing anything vital. Still, the feathertail doesn’t run — too stubborn to run from its own death.

As Ajax staggers toward him in long, jarring strides. “Guess I still gotta finish this,” he grunts.

The wind shifts suddenly, whistling past his ears, then hard enough to almost uproot the grass.

“Still wanna fight, old m—”

Ajax disappears when a giant blue tipped claw crashes down upon him. The force of the impact shudders the ground beneath Wriothesley, and he rolls away from the impact zone. An earth-shattering roar erupts from above him and he’s certain he’s about to asphyxiate from how hard his chest has clenched in pure shock.

“Climb up,” a deep, earthy voice commands, like a fissure in the earth has opened up and swallowed Wriothesley whole.

The breath leaves Wriothesley’s lungs, leaving him hollow as a shell. The voice feels like it’s rattled his brain around in his skull. He peers up, vision bleary, to find something blue and white towering above him. A rush of hot sulfur scented air ruffles through his hair as he stares dumbly upward to the dragon in front of him.

“I said, climb up,” the voice insists. It doesn’t come from any single direction, only reverberating deep within his mind, surrounding his entire being.

His vision clears somewhat as he sits up, body aching in protest. The dragon, a mere body length away from him, towers up some ten or twelve metres, blindingly white with strange, deep blue, tendril-like spines across its neck, back and chest.

“You’re—”

“Must I carry you like a child?” the voice asks impatiently, still maintaining that deep, regal tone. The dragon cranes its head down to Wriothesley, terrifyingly close. The voice is so clear, Wriothesley isn’t even sure the voice is emanating from the dragon’s mouth — gods’ balls, its mouth is so big, even its teeth are the size of Wriothesley’s leg. He’s beyond terrifying, borderline ethereal, completely white and streaked with cerulean.

“Holy shit… you’re beautiful,” Wriothesley murmurs in astonishment, despite the terror squeezing his chest so hard he can barely breathe. He stumbles to his feet, completely unsteady and find the beast’s pearlescent eyes piercing through every layer of skin, muscle and bone in his body.

“Come now,” the dragon orders, growling deep within its – his – throat, threatening with the fire of impatience. There’s something about his voice that Wriothesley can’t place.

Wriothesley blinks between the dragon and the tiny feathertail huddled behind one of his megalithic legs. He stumbles forward to gain enough momentum to climb up the dragon’s leg despite the liquid pain that shoots through his entire system, protesting his every movement. He starts climbing, trembling with the effort. The scales are hard as crystal, making it difficult to climb with his exhausted limbs.

The dragon shifts beneath him and for a moment, and Wriothesley’s breath freezes as he’s sure the dragon is about to shake him off, but then his body lurches forward and suddenly the climbing angle is much less steep. The dragon is leaning down to make it easier for him to climb up – a supplicating gesture. Dragons are a proud species, insufferably so. Wriothesley has never heard of a dragon supplicating to a human. But here he is.

What absolute insanity.

With the ascent made almost insultingly easy, Wriothesley practically crawls up the dragon’s leg. He scrambles to the seat – the smooth dip between the end of the neck and beginning of the wings – and grips the thick ridges of the pommel where the dragon’s neck meets its shoulders. God, this dragon... he’s so much bigger than any of the other dragons Wriothesley’s seen.

Without further ado, the dragon spreads his wings and launches into the air. Wriothesley is overcome with that sickening pulling feeling where it feels like his guts are nailed to the earth, but everything else wants to go up. His body slips back suddenly, and he panics, scrambling for purchase with his weakened fingers.

He’s falling. He’s been on a dragon for all of five seconds and he’s already falling. Terror rises in him, sharp and potent as the day he fell from the claws of a gryphon with the promise of death whispering in the air that whooshed past him. There’s no stopping the scream that rips from his throat and the bile that rises right after it.

As if by magic, his hands find purchase on one of the spines on the dragon’s mid-back and manage to hold. Eyes screwed shut, he convinces himself he’s absolutely not afraid flying through the air, despite the cold sweat that forms on his brow and back. They’re ascending, with great beats of the dragon’s pale wings, gods only know how high. He can hardly breathe, and the nausea is overwhelming.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he repeats under his breath. He cannot let fear rule him. The entire reason he came back to Meropide for this was to do something more than sit behind a desk and bark orders. Beating this fear should be entirely possible, but now that he’s rushing through the sky, wind whistling in his ears and stinging his eyes, the task starts to feel monumental.

Then the dragon levels out into a glide, gentle enough for Wriothesley’s entire shrivelled soul to unclench itself. He opens his eyes to find a blue sky above him with the faint hint of orange in the west. Peering over the edge of the dragon’s body, he finds the glimmer of the little feathertail struggling to keep up, almost camouflaged between the grey clouds below it.

He swallows nervously and begins to climb across the dragon’s spine back to the seat. His shoulder and thigh scream in agony with every movement, but he refuses to take the blades out, not wanting to tempt fate by bleeding out mid-air. Climbing across is too much to do with his eyes open, so he screws them shut once more and pretends he’s on the Gauntlet again. The fall from there is less terrifying.

Once back in the seat, he grips the pommel tight as he can manage despite the agony that persists within his body. He feels awfully lightheaded and borderline boneless, but there’s something within him, in the air around him that keeps him from fading away.

“Tachelli...” The thought comes back to him, and he finds himself speaking it aloud. “Is he—?” Wriothesley shouts over the wind, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“Dead? No,” the dragon responds sharply. “Would you like me to change that?” Without missing a beat, the dragon dives into the clouds suddenly and Wriothesley slips once more. He scrunches his eyes closed as he’s airborne for a moment, before slamming against the hard scales of the seat.

“No!” he shouts. “I think he got what he deserved.”

“Hmph,” the dragon tuts, more to himself than Wriothesley. “It appears I made the right choice with you,” the dragon appraises politely. Wriothesley is still just barely hanging on, hoping that the flight field isn’t too far away.

“My true name is Andromalius, Dragon Sovereign of Water, second incarnate. Others may call me Leviathan.” The dragon – Andromalius, or Leviathan – swoops majestically, following the currents of the wind perfectly. “You must remember this once we reach the flight field.”

It almost goes straight over Wriothesley’s head — he cannot even begin to comprehend the gravity of the situation. A sovereign. A dragon sovereign. Not just a dragon sovereign, but the missing Sovereign of Fontaine – Sovereign of the waters. The exact dragon Professor Neuvillette showed him in the basin weeks ago. There’s no fucking way this is real.

“Wriothesley,” is all he can say to introduce himself. There is no title (other than cadet), no lineage, no family name to come after his own name. He is truly nothing to this dragon. Why on earth would a sovereign choose bond with him?

He has to tell Professor Neuvillette about this the second they land – if he’s still alive by then – his stoic academic mask would shatter in a heartbeat. Wriothesley’s heart sinks as he remembers the Professor has all but shut him out.

“I didn’t think sovereigns bonded with riders.”

“They do not,” Andromalius replies simply. “The unbonded cadets will try to kill you to break the bond and win my favour. Do not let them — it would be a terrible waste.” Despite the unwavering delivery, there is a note of sorrow in the Sovereign’s voice.

The response sends a chill creeping across Wriothesley’s skin, stinging where his wounds are still open. How he has managed to hold on this entire time astounds him. His vision is dark at the edges, and he feels terribly cold with all the cool autumn air rushing over him.

“Where have you been all this time?” he asks, finding himself slumping forward.

“That is none of your concern,” Andromalius replies sharply. “We are approaching the flight field. Hold tight.”

They dip beneath the clouds, and the flight field comes into view. Wriothesley can barely see it, but there are about sixty or so dragons assembled across the field, flanked by the high stone cliffs of the mountains on either side.

As they land in the middle of the field, the formation of dragons parts like ants around a footfall. The force of the landing thunders around him, jerking his diaphragm against the pommel.

As he uses his remaining strength to straighten up in his seat, he realises every single head on the flight field, including the dragons, have snapped to attention. The world falls silent as realisation dawns on the hundred or so people that surround him and Andromalius.

The bitter, all-encompassing feeling comes to Wriothesley all at once in that moment. He’s finally bitten off far more than he can chew.  

Chapter Text

Wriothesley doesn’t move from his seat atop Andromalius, anticipating a sudden flood of riders to come pouring forward, ready to kill him on the spot. He’s weak from blood loss and his head is still spinning from the flight. Easy target.

Nobody moves toward him. The unbonded cadets shouldn’t be on the flight field yet. Though, the reassurance does nothing to quell the anguish that digs paralysing claws into his stomach.

Between shallow breaths, he spots the glimmer of the feathertail’s scales as it swoops in to land just beneath Andromalius’ outstretched wing. He can tell the Sovereign is trying to make himself seem even bigger to ensure there’s adequate space around them.

It only takes a few more moments for riders to start closing in around them like wolves circling prey. Andromalius roars, earsplittingly loud, and the sound vibrates through Wriothesley’s bones. The dragon swishes his big head in a serpentine motion and even the dragons, back away. The message is clear. No one is to come near them.

Wriothesley reluctantly shuffles from his seat and slides down Andromalius’ leg. So much movement at once makes his vision fade in and out of darkness. The feathertail hasn’t let up, perched defiantly between the Sovereign’s two front legs, sneering at anyone who dares to look in their direction. Its scales are splattered with blood, though none of it thick or dripping – a good sign that the wound isn’t too bad.

Whilst heavily leaning against one of Andromalius’ huge claws, Wriothesley calls out gently to the feathertail. “Psst, hey. Little feathertail,” he whispers, and is met with those two huge pink eyes that stare right into him, far too deep. “It’s great that you’re here, but you should fly off home where it’s safe. Go!” he tries to shoo the feathertail away, worried that someone else might also want the glory of being the only person ever to fight a dragon on their own and win. He wouldn’t be able to fight anyone else off in this shape.

“But Iron One, you’re hurt,” a soft, high-pitched voice says. It sounds exactly what one of Headmaster Furina’s fluffy little tea cakes with cream would taste like.

“You’re hurt too,” he grumbles back, then does a double take. “Hey, hey, wait a minute, you’re not supposed to talk to humans you’re not bonded t—” when the feathertail tilts her head to the side and flutters her innocent eyes, Wriothesley begins to understand. His blood runs cold as the adrenaline evaporates from his body and everything comes crashing down. Unable to fight gravity any longer, he sinks to the ground beside Andromalius’ claw, landing awkwardly on the damp ground. “There’s no way,” he whispers to himself. “There’s no way.”

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?” Andromalius prompts assertively.

“I’m Sigewinne. Others may know me as Mist Shimmer,” she says as if she’s smiling. “C-can I tend—”

“Not here,” Andromalius interrupts. “Wriothesley, please have our names recorded by the roll-keeper.”

Wriothesley nods but doesn’t move a muscle. His head and body are empty, there’s nothing left of him, all gone with the wind, swallowed by the ether. He runs his hands through his hair, finding it almost completely caked with dried blood.

There’s no fucking way he has not only bonded with a sovereign, but he’s also bonded with two dragons.

Leadership is going to have a fit. He’s going to have a fit. There’s no way he’s worthy of such an honour.

The solid, cool touch of a muzzle to his side brings him back from the internal void he just fell into. Turning his head, he finds Sigewinne’s face pressed against him.

“You have to get up,” she reminds him with a nudge. “You need to look strong.”

As much as Wriothesley hates it, she’s right. Currently, he’s looking like a juicy carcass, ripe for the taking whilst the carrion birds circle around him. If he’s going to survive the remainder of the year with the unbonded cadets nipping at his heels, he needs to present an image of strength.

The wraps on his arms are shredded and soaked in blood. Useless for bandages. He lifts the edge of his shirt to his teeth and barely manages to tear it into a strip with his weak, shaking arms and vision insisting on blacking out. He does what he can to bandage his arms, then uses the rest of his shirt to apply pressure and soak up the blood of that nasty, stinging slash across his chest and the practically gaping hole in his side. Nothing he can do about the two blades still stuck in him until he can get to a healer.

There’s no way he should be walking around with these injuries, but they didn’t call him the Iron Wolf for no reason. Iron Roach may have been more appropriate…

His legs feel completely numb once he clambers to his feet. His surroundings are completely unfamiliar, and he scans the space, looking for the Professors.

Over to his left, he spots a slightly elevated platform where Professor Zhongli and Scribe Nahida stand, with General Ei towering over the two like a storm cloud. Her eyes lock with Wriothesley’s from across the flight field. A sense of unease brews in his stomach as she glares at him as if he’s started a war. She can’t be happy about him one-upping her in terms of dragons and upsetting the perfect balance she maintains.

None of the other professors are nearby. He’d half expect Professor Neuvillette to be running across the field by now to examine the long-lost Sovereign. He must be elsewhere.

Reluctantly, he limps across the field whilst practically every cadet and their dragon watch him. He joins the short line in front of Nahida where the new riders are relaying the full names of their dragons to her. A dragon’s name is only to be kept between the rider and the roll-keeper.

“Ah, Cadet Wriothesley, you should be at the med tent,” Scribe Nahida greets kindly, covering her mouth her hand as the colour drains from her cheeks.

“This is more important,” is all he can manage as he fights to keep his balance.

She writes his name in the Book of Riders, quill hovering over the space where his first name should be. His tactic for long ridiculous names clearly worked out. “For the record, please tell me the name of the dragon who has chosen you.”

General Ei leans over further, wanting to hear the name for herself. She barely even seems to breathe given the intensity of her concentration.

“Andromalius, Dragon Sovereign of Water, second incarnate,” Wriothesley relays to her quietly. His eyes dart side to side and he looks back to see a white and blue blob on the field, probably Andromalius, with Sigewinne tucked beneath his massive body. “Common name, Leviathan.” He chances a look to General Ei and finds her completely wide-eyed, or as wide-eyed as someone as serious as her can get.

“Please tell her my name,” Sigewinne insists politely. Andromalius’ eyes narrow and Wriothesley feels the blood rush to his face. He clenches and unclenches his fists as he tries to build up the courage to break the rules he had so diligently been following.

“Are you alright, Wriothesley?” Scribe Nahida asks, lowering the book. “I think you need to head to the med tent behind you, right now.”

“And Sigewinne,” Wriothesley blurts. He bites his lip so hard it draws blood, and he can feel the tension in the atmosphere crackle with General Ei’s energy. “Common name Mist Shimmer.”

The mottled clouds darken above them and a sharp flash splits across the sky, followed by the deafening crash of nearby thunder.

“Two dragons?” General Ei questions sharply. “You cannot have two dragons.” Her voice cuts through the haze surrounding Wriothesley, even drawing the attention of the other riders on the flight field.

Wriothesley bets she didn’t see the outcome of this battle with her other signet. He clenches his jaw hard enough to feel like his teeth might crack. The last thing he wants to do is to show this woman any inkling of fear, even as his entire body shakes with the effort to keep himself upright. If she can have a second signet, surely, he can have two dragons.

“Her human rules are arbitrary,” Andromalius echoes defiantly. How Wriothesley wishes the General can hear Andromalius, so he doesn’t have to repeat such a bold sentiment to her.

“Leviathan says the dragons do not have a rule against it,” he summarises, keeping his tone level and his voice assertive. What he would give right now to be on his back in the med tent instead of here, quaking beneath the General.

A strenuous silence falls between the four of them, becoming more painful as every moment ticks by. Surprisingly, Professor Zhongli appears, clearing his throat and keeping his gaze on Andromalius as he speaks.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asks. “I thought you would be happier to see the Sovereign we have been looking for so long.”

General Ei’s nostrils flare as she huffs. “This cadet is requesting for two dragon names to be recorded next to his.”

“This could be an interesting case study,” Scribe Nahida interjects softly. “I do not see a problem with it, logistically speaking, as the feathertail is too small to bear a rider. Perhaps it would be best to seek Marchosias’ opinion, General?”

“And where is he?” the General demands.

“Conveniently, he is rather unwell today of all days. Focalors said he would be back within the next day or two,” Professor Zhongli answers with a thoroughly entertained lilt to his tone. It’s strange hearing Leadership refer to one another on a first name basis in front of him.

General Ei inhales sharply, frustration building within her, and the stormy wind picks up, tousling her hair. She casts her gaze downward to Wriothesley once more, blistering with frustration. He feels like an insect beneath her.

“I suggest you tread very carefully, Cadet Wriothesley. Your predicament is a threat to the stability of the College,” her voice is low and quiet, somehow managing to deliver her words with scathing reprimand. She straightens herself with a hmph. “Get a message to Focalors and Marchosias. The Empyrean will undoubtedly meet to discuss this. Cadet, go get yourself cleaned up.”

“Yes, General,” the three of them chorus in acknowledgement.

Wriothesley almost passes out with relief and stumbles to the med tent. Healers aren’t allowed on the flight field, so everyone is treated there and sent to the infirmary at the end of the day if required.

“I must leave,” Andromalius announces suddenly. “The Empyrean wish to meet.”

Before Wriothesley can respond, a rush of wind sweeps through the flight field as Andromalius takes off, with Sigewinne in tow. They disappear out of his mind’s reach by the time he’s sat down and having his wounds tended to. In his head, there’s now a different kind of emptiness he’s never felt before, sloshing around in his conscience. It’s borderline harrowing how hollow he suddenly feels.

“Ah, Wriothesley,” a familiar lilting voice greets him as he all but collapses onto a stretcher, wincing as the pain he’d shoved into a locked box in the back of his mind comes splitting open once more. He glances up to find a bleary blonde figure above him. “What seems to be the problem?” There’s an underlying sense of anxiety to the voice. “Other than the… daggers… sticking out of you.”

“I’m probably about to die from blood loss, if Leadership and the Empyrean don’t kill me first,” he mumbles, words slurred terribly, so his speech is practically unintelligible.

Deft fingers start tugging at his makeshift bandages and every movement sends new waves of agony through his body. He grits his teeth and tries to stay quiet.

“Oh hush, let’s get some pain killing draught into you,” the blonde blob tuts, pressing the lip of a glass bottle to his mouth. He drinks the bitter concoction gratefully and finds himself relaxing within minutes. They spared no expense and gave him the good stuff.

“Yep, you’re gonna need to see Professor Baizhu for this one. And this one… And this one… By the gods who started using you as a pincushion?”

Wriothesley laughs, but regrets it as a sharp pain seizes his chest amongst the light haze of drug induced numbness he’s nestled in. He blinks hard to focus his vision and realises it’s Lyney De Hearth, of all people, tending to his wounds.

“You should see the other guy,” he groans.

“Have you seen my brother?” Lyney whispers quietly as he cleans out the worst of Wriothesley’s wounds. The raw, split flesh is tender as the damp cloth soaks up the blood and wipes away the dirt. What a time for Lyney to be asking such a question. Carefully, he yanks out the blades, stuffing them with bandages soaked in coagulant.

“Your brother?” he gasps.

“Yes, Freminet,” Lyney clarifies impatiently. “Is he still alive?”

“No idea.”

Either Lyney freezes or the numbness has finally taken a hold of Wriothesley entirely.

“He’s surprisingly good with throwing daggers,” he mumbles as the memory floods back to him in a short-lived wave. “Split with him around the eleventh hour. Haven’t seen him since.”

Lyney gulps audibly and eventually returns to patching Wriothesley up before he’ll eventually be shipped off to the infirmary. The bandages he winds around his shoulder and thigh are incredibly tight.

What he would give for Navia to be here right now. To know that she is ok and not strewn across the forest floor amongst the rivers of blood, eyes unblinking. The image makes his stomach lurch. Lyney probably feels the same way about Freminet.

Once he’s properly bandaged, Lyney slips him an extra dose of pain killer before moving onto the next cadet.

He lays there in a daze, trying not to think about Navia, counting the bells as they hit the sixteenth hour, and then the half hour mark. The sun disappears behind the mountains rather early in the day, as it always does, and the dreaded seventeenth hour approaches.

The impending sense of doom starts to set in. Navia is dead. Freminet is dead. Lost to the bloodbath, all for what? A better chance to bond with a dragon? Is it truly an honour worth killing so many for?

The medicine numbs him from pain sufficiently, but what the concoction is completely useless against, is the crushing ache that consumes his chest. A fissure in his dirty, fragmented soul creeps outward until it consumes his entire being despite fighting to keep himself together. His eyes are wet and stinging with the threat of tears.

“Wriothesley, sweet Varnari, you’re alive!” someone shouts, shattering the shadowy void surrounding him.

A pair of arms fling across his chest and a warm cheek presses into the side of his face, eliciting a grumble of pain from him. Despite the shock and initial stabbing pain, he sighs as relief tumbles through him in a tidal wave. He presses a palm against the forearm draped over his chest and does his best to stifle a full-bodied sob of relief.

“I thought you were dead,” his voice cracks and he rubs his eyes fiercely to rid himself of the tears that slipped from them.

“I really wish I was dead right about now,” Navia says gravely.

“Don’t say that.” He presses a firm hand to her cheek and turns to get a good look at her. She’s covered in dirt and small specks of dried blood but otherwise looks relatively unharmed. He relaxes a little and she pulls away to sit more comfortably on the edge of his stretcher.

She doesn’t meet his gaze, keeping her eyes glued to the ground. Wriothesley’s stomach trembles with anxiety as all the possibilities rush through his mind.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t chosen.” The disbelief in his tone is warning enough.

“No, it’s worse,” she whispers, rubbing her face fiercely. Her cheeks are blotchy and red as she attempts to hold back her tears. He sighs in relief knowing that she certainly has been chosen by a dragon, but the anxiety rippling through his innards doesn’t ease as he waits for her to come clean. “I was chosen, brown clubtail. Her name is Jade Heart.”

“That’s great,” he tries to smile, but the anticipation of bad news has him feeling like he’s teetering over the edge of a knife.

“She’s mated–”

Wriothesley’s stomach drops.

“That’s not too bad,” he winces. It’s common for dragons to be mated and choose cadets in the same year.

“—to a black daggertail. Clorinde’s black daggertail, Lightning Thresher.”

The entire world freezes in that moment, Wriothesley’s hopes of surviving the year plummet, his hopes of Navia surviving the year hit rock-fucking-bottom. Nausea creeps up from the depths of his belly and he breaks out into cold sweat.

“We are so… fucked,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head loll back in despair.

Navia doesn’t need to explain the implications of her situation to Wriothesley. He knows very well from his conversations with Professor Neuvillette and the books he’s borrowed (and forced Navia to read to him), that a mated pair with riders in different years is a disaster, let alone the riders being mortal enemies.

Mated pairs can’t stand to be away from one another for more than a few days, separation for too long is as deadly to a dragon as a crossbolt. With Clorinde graduating at the end of the year, it would mean she or Navia would have to visit one another every few days to keep their dragons healthy and happy.

From what he knows, the death of one dragon in the mated pair can often result in the death of the other, subsequently killing both riders. In some extreme cases, the death of one of the riders can set off a chain reaction where all four perish. Sincerely, he hopes that none of that happens to Navia.

To rub salt into the wound, Professor Neuvillette described that a secondary bond usually forms between the riders of a mated pair, allowing them to communicate mentally, the same way dragons can with their own riders.

Navia, for the rest of her life (however long that may be), is going to be stuck with Clorinde Magloire in her head.

It all goes unsaid between them. The look of absolute anguish they exchange barely conveys the full extent of it. Ignorance would have been bliss, but alas he just has to remember every single thing that slips from Professor Neuvillette’s lips.

“You got chosen though, right? Only reason you’d be up here if a dragon bonded with you.” Navia asks nervously, catching on to Wriothesley’s sudden shared pessimism.

“I did,” he groans.

“Why are you ‘so fucked’ then?”

Wriothesley is surprised Navia hasn’t already heard. Word travels fast, especially when gossips like Charlotte Moreau are around.

“The Dragon Sovereign of Water chose me,” he winces at his own words, face turning red with embarrassment. It feels like bragging just saying it, and Wriothesley feels entirely undeserving of the honour.

Navia’s eyes widen and her angst-ridden features are wiped clear by shock. Her mouth hangs open, perfect, delicate lips parted in a small ‘O’. “The missing one?”

“Yes,” he adds, to rub salt into his own wounds, “and the little feathertail from Presentation also chose me…”

“You’re kidding me,” she dismisses, almost laughing as she struggles to grasp the absolute insanity of the situation. When she realises that Wriothesley’s grave expression is still frozen across his features, she takes a deep breath and sits back in contemplation. The weight of her body presses against the wound on Wriothesley’s thigh and he hisses at her in pain. She straightens herself up, then turns to him as another realisation hits her.

“General Ei is going to be so pissed with you,” she whispers, disturbed by the possibility, then confused. Her back straightens and she looks Wriothesley in the eyes with furrowed brows. “How has she not killed you yet?”

“Don’t speak so soon. She’s pissed, dragging Headmaster Furina and Professor Neuvillette into this whilst the Empyrean meet,” he sighs.

“By the blood of Niennë… You’ve also pissed off the Empyrean?”

“I mean… Can’t be that bad if I’ve at least got one of the six on my side?” he winces.

Navia hums and sighs listlessly as her gaze turns to the flight field. They stay like that until the bells of Meropide ring out for the seventeenth hour, the closing of Threshing.

Their hearts sink with the certainty of Freminet’s passing. Even if he’s unbonded, he’s as good as dead. Across the tent, he can just barely see Lyney’s crestfallen expression before he dons a mask of indifference.

The second and third years manning the med tent start to rouse the injured first years, telling them it’s time to return to the flight field for the final ceremony. Neither Wriothesley nor Navia budge the first time they’re told. The second time, Navia straightens up and marches out of the tent like she’s given up control of her body. Wriothesley struggles to sit up, body protesting all movement as his wounds are jostled and whatever scabs have formed over the past hour or so are ripped open.

He stumbles toward the flight field, body strangely light and refusing to coordinate. It’s borderline embarrassing as he returns to the field, skin soaked in a sheen of sweat that makes him feel even colder now that the sun is properly gone.

Andromalius isn’t on the field, neither is Sigewinne. Mentally, he can feel the ghost of Sigewinne’s presence in his mind, but Andromalius is long gone.

“Look to the east,” Sigewinne’s soft voice suggests. It sounds like she’s speaking through layers of cotton. Wriothesley does as he’s told and peers out to the end of the flight field where he can see two dark shapes in the sky, getting larger with every passing moment. They’re too big to be Sigewinne. A ridiculous feeling overcomes him for a moment, making his stomach lurch.

He kills the flutter of hope in an instant, telling himself not to be stupid. Unable to look away, he watches the two shapes approach, realising it’s a blue clubtail and a red swordtail once they’re close enough. They land at the very edge of the field with a roar to announce their presence.

They must be the last dragons of the day, stragglers who only chose their riders at the very last minute. Even with the cacophony of riders and dragons on the field, he’s overcome with the ominous thought of the forest below becoming dead silent the way a battlefield becomes when the last of the blood is spilt.

“No way,” Navia whispers just ahead of him. “No freakin’ way!” She practically shouts, then takes off in a sprint across the field, regardless of whatever dragons she’s about to run past.

“Navia, be careful!” he calls out after her helplessly.

As she runs past in a flurry of movement, a few dragons snort in complaint and blow streams of hot sulfury air at her in warning, but she pays them no heed. She’s going to get herself killed.

She stops short of the blue clubtail at the very end of the field and waves excitedly. Wriothesley can barely see that far but glimpses a smear of platinum blonde hair and immediately understands.

Freminet has made it.

Part of him wants to journey across the field to congratulate him on beating the odds, the other ninety-nine percent of him wants to collapse right on the spot. He’ll have to wait until later. And he does exactly that, though, a little more graceful than a complete collapse. He’s propped up against a conveniently placed rock right next to one of the braziers lighting the field. It’s pleasantly warm, but he still shivers, unable to regain his lost body heat since he’s without a shirt.

How many of their squadmates survived threshing? They’d lost Bennett and Heizou in the months before. Where are Nilou, Xiangling, Charlotte and Kaeya? He’ll know in the morning.

Most of the first years are now stationed in front of their dragons in formation on the flight field, looking around awkwardly for some kind of direction as Leadership have all but vanished from the podium at the front of the field.

“What’s going on?” he hears one of the cadets closest to him asking. One of the volunteering second or third years that passes by stops to reassure the cadet.

“There’s been a delay with the ceremony. Just wait there,” she says before walking toward the podium.

He waits, drifting off into near unconsciousness, when he’s rudely awakened by someone shaking his shoulder.

“Cadet Wriothesley, come with me,” a gentle voice says. He blinks hard and groans, finding a head of white hair covering most of his vision.

“Scribe Nahida?” His voice is pitifully cracked and airy. He’s awfully stiff, so it’s difficult to even get up. Despite her small stature, Nahida helps him to his feet and leads him to where Leadership are secluded behind the screen that backs the podium at the front of the flight field.

They fall silent upon his arrival; stern faces lit only by the firelight they’re stationed around. Headmaster Furina is there, sporting a tight expression. Professor Neuvillette is nowhere to be seen. Professors Venti and Zhongli stand either side of General Ei, along with the other professor Wriothesley is yet to know the name of. Professor Neuvillette must still be in bed recovering.

“Cadet Wriothesley,” Headmaster Furina greets dispassionately.

“Professors,” he nods to them. “General.”

There’s a beat of silence where Wriothesley finds himself swaying to the side, putting too much of his weight on Scribe Nahida beside him. She doesn’t complain, or move a muscle, holding him steady. He makes a mental note to thank her for her fortitude later.

“We have not reached a conclusion with regard to your… predicament,” General Ei states coolly.

“In the meantime, Professor Neuvillette has provided me with a message,” Headmaster Furina counters, keeping her tone light despite her frazzled look.

“I don’t know how you place the utmost trust in every word that comes from Marchosias’ mouth,” Professor Zhongli grumbles quietly, obviously not a fan of whatever Professor Neuvillette’s message was. “He’s conveniently absent today of all days. He’s never missed a day such as this because he has fallen ill.”

Despite his injuries, Wriothesley wants nothing more than to launch himself over the fire and strangle Professor Zhongli.

“Oh hush, Morax,” the other professor sighs. “Your academic rivalry with Marchosias is giving one, such as I, a headache.”

Professor Zhongli prickles but stays quiet.

“Back to the matter at hand, Professor Neuvillette said that we must accept what the Empyrean decides. He assumes they will agree in your favour. Blade Breaker is closest to the Six, and says they’ve almost concluded,” Furina says, eyeing Ei warily as she speaks of the General’s dragon. “Once they have confirmed their decision, we may continue with the closing ceremony.”

“Someone find the cadet somewhere to sit and wait. He looks dead already,” Professor Venti helpfully adds.

“Thank you. I’ll take him,” Nahida pipes up beside him, voice strained with the effort of holding him up. She leads him away.

“Not in front of everyone,” is all he manages to say to her as she leads him back toward the med tent.

“I’ll send someone to get you when the ceremony starts,” she says before leaving him alone in the med tent.

About a half hour later, Wriothesley feels the naked, empty spot of his mind bloom back into existence. To say the feeling is a relief would be putting it lightly. It feels like he can finally breathe again and there’s shimmering warmth surrounding him. Is it perhaps what magic is supposed to feel like?

“Andromalius?” he whispers aloud.

“You are not required to speak aloud for me to hear you,” Andromalius’ deep, earthy voice floods through his mind, leaving the skin on his forearms prickling.

“You’re back.” He tries speaking internally this time, hoping he’s doing it right.

“I will be shortly. The Empyrean were... thorough with their opinions,” Andromalius responds, voice hitching at the last part.

“What did they say?”

“Humans are not privy to the conversations of the Empyrean,” Andromalius warns, but then his voice softens. “But, fortunately for you, the majority ruled in your favour.”

“I am delighted to hear that,” Sigewinne interjects smugly. “I’m coming back to the flight field too.”

“How are the sovereigns of Sumeru and Mondstadt doing?” he asks, curious as to what additional information he may be able to glean since there’s been no updates since the news about Mondstadt’s sovereign broke.

“They are alive. I will say that much.”

Just in time, a second year comes to the med tent saying, “Scribe Nahida s—”

“Yep, I’m coming,” Wriothesley cuts him off, hauling himself back to his feet with far more effort being required as the pain killing draught starts to wear off. The moment he’s upright once more, a wave of dizziness hits him full force, and he almost drops back down onto the stretcher. It’s truly getting ridiculous at this point. Baizhu will scold the shit out of Leadership for leaving him up on the flight field without trained healers for this long.

Aether, the second year, stands at the opening to the med tent flap, hand extended toward Wriothesley. His expression is unreadable as Wriothesley trudges toward his Squad Leader. He doesn’t take the young man’s hand, not wanting to appear weak in front of half the quadrant. Instead, he places a hand on Aether’s shoulder as he walks past him.

“You never cease to surprise me, Cadet,” Aether hums. “Don’t let it get to your head. You’ll end up burning first to fuel the war.” He speaks like there’s a thousand years of wisdom propping him up.

“Trust me, Travelis,” he whispers, voice gravelly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he leaves the med tent, he finds Andromalius’ pale form landing at the centre of the flight field. Again, the other dragons and riders break formation to accommodate him. Whether it’s out of respect or fear, Wriothesley’s sure the answer will come to light in time.

It’s a long, cold walk – well, stumble in his case – across the flight field to Andromalius, where he’s joined by Sigewinne standing proudly in front of him, completely dwarfed by his massive stature. Once he reaches them, she presses her muzzle to his back, keeping him upright because by the gods does he need it right now. Her muzzle remains spitefully cool to the touch in the crisp evening air. He’s wearing only pants and what constitutes as half a shirt made entirely out of blood spotted bandages.

Navia is a few rows behind him, standing proudly in front of Jade Heart, jaw tight as she tries not to think about how her life is now tied to Clorinde’s. Wriothesley hasn’t seen the Wingleader all day, but he’s sure she’s had plenty to say to Navia already.

“Cadets, stand to attention,” Furina’s voice calls out across the field, more clearly than when it does during morning formation. She must be using some kind of lesser magic to make her voice carry. “We apologise for the delay as the Empyrean were required to meet and make a decision regarding Cadet Wriothesley.”

General Ei takes to the centre of the stage and just like the headmaster, her voice too, carries across the entire field. “While tradition has shown us that there is only one dragon for each rider, there has never been a case in which two dragons have choosen a single rider,” she pauses, looking everywhere but in his direction. Wriothesley wishes he would just die right on the spot with Leadership airing out his dirty laundry in front of almost the entire Quadrant. “While this may not necessarily seem equitable, dragons ultimately have their own laws. Both Leviathan and Mist Shimmer have chosen Cadet Wriothesley. We must allow for it.”

As General Ei steps back, allowing Furina to come forward once more, the cadets surrounding Wriothesley mutter quietly amongst one another. The remaining unbonded cadets have made their way up to the flight field by now and surely all of them have Wriothesley as the number one target on their lists. He’s got not one, but two dragons and one of them is a sovereign – one of the six most powerful dragons in Teyvat. Baizhu better patch him up ASAP if he’s to stand a chance getting through the next few weeks alive.

“Have some pride,” Andromalius huffs at him. Wriothesley does his best to straighten up but can’t really find the strength to do so.

“You’re ours now,” Sigewinne adds with childlike wonder.

“Congratulations, cadets,” Headmaster Furina flourishes, though her voice breaks a little with the fatigue of the day. “You have earned the honour and privilege of being selected by a dragon today. You may now call yourselves Riders.”

Many of the new riders around him cheer in celebration, but Wriothesley cannot bring himself to celebrate so vigorously.

“Dragons,” Furina calls over the crowd one final time. “The honour is yours!”

Another wave of cheers rolls through the formation, cut off abruptly by a hot sulfurous wind and many of the new riders crying out. A hot coil of agony unleashes itself across Wriothesley’s back, spreading across his upper arms, down his right leg and – Niennë have mercy – his chest, right over his heart. It’s all consuming, knocking the breath from him and he crumples over, gasping for air, as if it will help with the white-hot pain that sizzles across his flesh. Fingers gripping the moist earth beneath him, he realises the burning torment of it has subsided rather quickly.

“What the f—” he rasps, barely able to finish his sentence, chest heaving to suck cool air down into his lungs. He presses the ball of his fist against his chest, then shoves the bandages aside to find a pale mark right over his heart, partially bisected by the angry red gash across his chest. The mark itself contrasts his olive skin tone and is a little smaller than the size of his palm, shaped like a feathertail.

“I hope you like it,” Sigewinne says warily.

“I do,” he gasps. “Is it a relic?”

“Yes,” Andromalius responds.

A relic. It must be how the children of the Natlan Rebellion leaders and the House of the Hearth were marked. What Freminet went through when he was just shy of conscription age. However brief the pain of it… They were practically still children at the time…

“Would you like to see what I have bestowed upon you?” Andromalius asks.

“Yes,” is all he can manage.

The image of his own back replaces whatever he’s seeing in front of him. Even between the bandages wrapped around his torso, he can see the midnight blue silhouette of a dragon with outstretched wings, spanning from his upper biceps to his neck, with the tail trailing all the way past the waistline of his pants. As he turns his own head back, he finds himself staring… at himself? No, at Sigewinne behind him.

“Woah…” He rubs at his eyes, feeling a little strange after seeing through her eyes.

“Till death do us part,” Andromalius muses as fondly his stern voice allows him to be.

A brief sinking feeling rattles about Wriothesley’s stomach as he is reminded of Professor Neuvillette’s number one lesson. Your dragon be with you for the rest of your life, whether you or it dies first. It is the price one pays in exchange for magic.

“Till death do us part,” he reciprocates with a shiver.

Which is about to be very soon if someone doesn’t get him to Baizhu in the next thirty seconds.

Chapter Text

Overnight in the infirmary is an ordeal. Not only is he surrounded by injured unbonded cadets, but Ajax Tachelli is there too – not dead, as promised by Andromalius.

“I’m starting to regret asking you to spare him,” Wriothesley mutters, shifting uncomfortably as Ajax blearily eyes him from the other side of the room. Baizhu had pointedly ensured there was maximum distance between them when they first came in.

Despite still feeling like he’s been dragged through a meat grinder, there’s some kind of energy he can feel, thrumming beneath his skin if he lies still enough.

“Justice triumphs convenience. You know this,” Andromalius warns. “You are not an unjust man.”

Wriothesley huffs in disbelief and says nothing further.

“I think I broke enough of his bones to teach him a lesson,” Andromalius continues with a self-satisfied hum.

He misses breakfast, morning formation and dragon studies – much to his dismay – that morning. To top it all off, he has that itch. The itch to get up, get on with it, do the things he needs to do. Namely, talk to Professor Neuvillette. Surely, he can put his personal issues aside for a prime research opportunity. Wriothesley pointedly ignores the fact that it’s just a whole masquerade for him to see the Professor once more.

Baizhu kindly fusses over him, both angrily at Wriothesley’s complete and utter disregard for his life and completely indulgent over the outcome of Threshing.

The fuss does nothing to detract from how painfully obvious Baizhu’s exhaustion is. The Mender’s eyes are reddened and marked with deep-set rings. He spent the entire night exhausting himself mending half the infirmary. In the morning light, he looks properly gaunt, a shadow of himself and every year, there are less dragons willing to bond and thus, more cadets to kill and maim each other. The stress of it can’t be any good for him – he doesn’t know when to stop giving.

Wriothesley even heard the river beneath the College turned red after the rain this morning.

“I’ll see you in about a week for the remainder of those stitches,” Baizhu sighs as he finishes up with Wriothesley. “Stay vigilant. I know there’s a lot of cadets that will stop at nothing to get that Sovereign of yours.”

Wriothesley sighs deeply, deflating back into the pillows behind him.

“I know,” he groans. “Do you know if Tachelli over there is still unbonded?”

“I hear he’s got himself a blue scorpiontail. If that doesn’t say anything about his character, I don’t know what else would,” Baizhu hum, exasperated. “I can keep you here for a little longer if needed.”

With Ajax’s fiery spirit and wild ambitions, Wriothesley thought he’d bond a black or red dragon.

“No thanks,” he says quickly. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

A huff of laughter comes from Baizhu, and he smiles tiredly.

“Very well,” he laments. “Out with you then, you’re taking up precious bed space.” His tone isn’t serious, but Wriothesley is on his feet in a split second. The world swims around him for a moment and Baizhu steadies him.

Despite almost passing out the second he stood up, he’s feeling remarkably better than yesterday, kudos to Baizhu. His stomach growls as he leaves the infirmary with a quiet ‘thank you’ to Baizhu and his students.

Everyone is heading to lunch as he returns to the Quadrant, keeping a hand on the hilt of the dagger at his hip. The simple act of another rider or cadet walking past him too closely makes the hair on the back of his neck stand. It feels like fucking prison all over again.

Too many people have their eyes trained on him as he walks by, raking across his flesh with envy and awe. There is, at minimum, fifty unbonded cadets ready to kill him if he so much as breathes in their direction – as if it weren’t already hard enough to have the ire of the Marked Ones, Clorinde, Scar and Ajax directed his way.

“Breathe.” The mere sound of Sigewinne’s voice in his head makes him flinch, then clutch his chest. He sucks a deep breath in and out, leaning against a wall to steady himself.

“Don’t do that,” he warns. “You scared the piss out of me.”

“It is something you must become used to,” Andromalius interjects, tone deep and scathing.

“Are you two just always going to be in my head like this?” he growls back, stalking toward the meal hall, following the flow of traffic within the hall.

“We feel and see all that you do,” Andromalius clarifies helpfully. “To some extent.”

“We’re not always watching,” Sigewinne adds, copying Andromalius’ tone.

Wriothesley doesn’t know how, but he can feel the older dragon bristle.

There’s some kind of mental presence of the two dragons in his mind, a constant pressure at the back of his head and hum of something beneath his ribcage. He’s never going to have a moment of privacy ever again.

“I heard that,” Andromalius quips as Wriothesley finally enters the meal hall, covered in a thin sheen of nervous sweat. He grits his teeth and lines up for lunch.

When he looks up at whomever is serving the food, he finds it’s not the usual lunch crew and is met with the filthiest glare he has ever received in his entire life – and that’s saying something. It’s a convenient reminder that all of the unbonded cadets are now stuck with the remainder of the first year’s chores. Therefore, he’s no longer on breakfast duty.

He gulps audibly and murmurs a quiet ‘thanks’. There isn’t a chance he’ll risk eating whatever he’s just been served. Someone is bound to gain inspiration from Navia and try their hand at poisoning him.

Looking for the usual table he sits at with his squad, he realises the entire grouping of the meal hall has changed overnight. Charlotte Moreau, Kaeya Alberich and Xiangling Mao from his squad are all missing. A brief pang of misery shoots through his gut as he realises, they’re all either dead or unbonded. Most of the second and third years of their squad have joined Navia, Freminet and Nilou at the table.

One by one, everyone on Navia’s table notices him standing awkwardly in the middle of the hall. Seven pairs of eyes boring right through him with thinly veiled contempt. Even Navia.

“What the fuck?” he whispers to himself, furrowing his brows and striding over to the table, to where there is only one available seat. Their eyes follow his every move, and a shiver crawls up his spine.

Something’s not right.

He sets his plate down at the edge of the table with such intense trepidation that he doesn’t even dare to let the crockery clink. He doesn’t sit. That would feel like jumping into shark infested waters.

“Where’re the others?” he asks Navia quietly, only to be levelled with an utterly withering look. She says nothing, barely holding back a complete sneer before standing up suddenly, bumping both the seat and table with an awful groaning sound and the clatter of crockery. She takes her lunch with her and beelines for another table.

His mouth goes dry and his heart hits rock bottom as he watches her retreating figure. Navia has been angry with him before and come back from it in a day or two. But this… it’s something else entirely. Whatever he’s done or not done, she’s not going to cool off from. A prickle of anxiety crawls over his skin, leaving a numb emptiness in its wake.

A quick glance at the others and Wriothesley finds them giving him a combination of nervous and disgusted looks. In synchrony, the remaining six of them stand, take their plates and join Navia at another table in complete silence. Only Freminet throws him a pitying look as they walk away.

Not only are they silent, but the entire meal hall itself has fallen silent as practically the entire Quadrant watches him get stood up by his own squad. Team spirit is dead.

All of those friendships: evaporated overnight. What? Because he’s got two dragons and that’s not fair to everyone else?

There is a foreign, emotional ache that overwhelms the space in his chest, like his heart wants to swell out of his chest and shatter into thousands of pieces across the floor. It doesn’t feel normal, not like he’s never had to deal with heartbreak and betrayal, but this feeling…

“Hey, champion!” a brazen woman’s voice drags him from his pitiful stupor. A firm hand slams down on his shoulder, and he jerks away, whirling around to see his attacker.

He’s met with a tall woman, thickly muscled, with one eye and deep brown hair. She holds her hands up in front of herself, palms outward, with a sheepish smile.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, big guy,” she teases wryly. She’s a second year, by the two stars on her uniform, and she’s also wearing two patches: a squad leader patch, and the other is one Wriothesley would later come to find is the iron squad patch. “First day after Threshing always upsets the natural order of things. Don’t take it to heart.”

He just looks at her. Lost.

“Squad Leader Beidou She,” she holds out a hand for him to shake and he takes it lightly. He’s so numb he can’t even feel her strong grip. “You’re welcome to sit with my bunch of misfits. Strong rider like you would be nice to have as an ally.”

“I…” he can’t even finish his sentence. There’s nothing left in him.

Beidou She waves a dismissive hand, taking no offense to his solemn rejection. “It’s no water off my back. You’re welcome any time.” Without another word, she nods and retreats to her table. Within another few moments, he spots a few hungry sets of eyes across the room. The rest of them are just going to try to butter him up to gain favour. He’s used to lieutenants doing that to him back when he was climbing the ranks from captain to colonel. But this, with riders who live and breathe arrogance, just makes him sick.

He books it out of there, cheeks dark with embarrassment, back to the refuge of the First Wing dorm.

🌊🐉🌊

It turns out, the first wing dorm has been almost cleared out. The quiet is somewhat welcome, especially with both Andromalius and Sigewinne warily silent in his mind. All of his belongings are exactly where he left them. In infantry, everything in your quarters needed to be pristine and tidy no matter the situation, else they’d beat you or give you extra chores. In the Rider’s Quadrant, that rule doesn’t seem to apply. His space, in comparison to most of the dorm room, has always been frightfully tidy. But now, most beds are made and pigeonholes empty.

The new riders must have moved to their new rooms already, leaving the unbonded cadets slumming it in the dorms still. He realises, belatedly, that coming back to the dorm is a risky choice.

With a sharp inhale, he packs his bag and slings it over his shoulder.

The door swings open with a squeak and his heart thunders in his ears. He turns abruptly to find Kaeya Alberich walking through the rows of beds. Immediately, relief flushes through him because a) Kaeya is alive and b) squadmates aren’t supposed to kill one another.

He gives the young man a careful smile that comes out more like a grimace. Kaeya walks past him, expression flat, eyes hollow. At that point, one can assume he wasn’t chosen during Threshing, and he’s probably as pissed off with Wriothesley as the majority of his squad is.

He slips out of the room with bated breath and heads out to find someone who can tell him where his new room is. The sour feeling that sits in his gut is constant as he asks around.

He finds where the new first year dorms are, the ones with individual rooms, after asking two different riders and getting lost on the way. Only to find out he needs to get a room assignment from someone in First Wing Leadership. Asking Clorinde is out of the question. Aether seems undecidedly pissed with him. He’d rather die than willingly speak to Scar. That leaves Section Leaders Lumine, Dainsleif and Halfdan as his best choices.

Finding Lumine Travelis proves to be difficult. With every rider he asks, he finds himself sent on a wild goose chase. The woman is never in a single place for long and it’s embarrassing asking people questions given they’re either far too eager to introduce themselves to him or just scowl enviously at him.

He’s about to give up his search and opt for Dainsleif or Halfdan when he turns a corner, almost running into none other than Lumine Travelis.

“Watch where you’re going,” she hisses, straightening herself up. Her brows unfurrow the moment she meets eyes with him. “Oh. It’s you.” There’s no sense of contempt in her voice when she speaks, instead there’s something warm and... celestial about her tone.

“Yep. Me,” he shrugs. “Sorry, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

The tips of his ears turn red. Word gets around fast. “I was wondering if you had the room assignments for First Wing.”

“I do,” she says warily. “Don’t know why you’re asking me instead of my brother.” She crosses her hands over her chest and cocks her head to the side.

“It’s a long story.” Complete lie. It’s a very short story, but airing his dirty laundry to his Section Leader is up there with talking to Clorinde or Scar.

Lumine sighs and rubs her chin. “Alright. I’ll walk you over.”

“You don’t have to.”

She’s already walking by the time he finishes the sentence. “Come on. Don’t waste my time standing there like a stunned mullet. I have to pick something up from Dain, so it’s on the way.”

He follows after her, sticking to her right side, just slightly behind her so they’re not walking entirely abreast.

“How’s my brother doing as a Squad Leader?” she asks, keeping her eyes ahead.

“Uh, yeah. He’s good. No complaints. We don’t talk much. He doesn’t talk much.”

Lumine hums, perhaps in agreement. “He’s always been like that. Quiet but still manages to spread himself too thin. Forgets to focus on what’s most important. Too sensitive.” Though she’s critical, there’s an intimacy to her voice and a hint of melancholy. It’s disarming to say the least.

“Is that why he’s not a Section Leader like you?”

She only sighs with a tight-lipped smile in response. “Why are you avoiding him? You don’t seem to have left the ‘everyone loves Aether club’.”

With a woeful chuckle, he can’t help but release the truth from his iron grip. “He’s pissed at me.”

Lumine doesn’t ask what about, only turning to face him briefly to judge him. Her expression softens once more when she notices something. He doesn’t know what.

“Here we are.” She stops short of the long corridor lined with doors and fishes a sheet of parchment from her pocket. “You’re in the one second from the end, on the left.”

“Thanks.”

Lumine turns to leave but hesitates for a moment. “He’ll forgive you,” she says. “Whatever you did, he just needs time to understand why.”

It leaves him with an odd taste in his mouth. Lumine always seemed to be a bit of a hard ass from a distance, but really, she evidently has soft spots too. It also surprises him that she didn’t immediately assume he had done something to deserve the cold shoulder from Aether.

The room second last on the left is lit by a decently sized window, with a wardrobe, desk, shelf and bed lining the four walls of the space. There’s enough room for him to walk between the bed and desk without bumping up against anything and the window opens via a latch to look out across the southern side of the valley.

It’s a good spot, the whole arrangement is similar in size to the rooms for infantry leadership, but instead of one bed, there are usually two to four crammed into the space. Even most of the riders slept in double rooms at outposts. On occasion, he’s sweet talked his way into sporadic occupation of a single room in an outpost whenever outranking officers were away. Made it a lot easier to fuck quietly at least...

But this. Knowing that he has his own room to himself, permanently, is a first. Excitement wells up inside him like a bubble as some long-dead childish part of him inwardly kicks its feet about. It’s his space.

A short hop skip and a delicate jump land him on the bed – his bed. The tension from his taught muscles seeps out in thick warm globs, leaving him moaning obscenely with relief. Whatever the day is supposed to bring him, it can wait.

The joy is short-lived when it is replaced by a sour, festering feeling of betrayal. It’s hooked deep into his stomach, no amount of brushing the feeling away can diminish its all-encompassing hold on him. Deep down, he knows he’s done something wrong to deserve the way his squad has turned on him.

🌊🐉🌊

Darkness and cold sweat envelop him the moment he wakes an unknown amount of time later. The memory of whatever dream worked him up into this state evaporates along with his sense of reality. The only thing he remembers is the damp stone walls of Ipsissimus and suffocation.

Time. He needs to check the time.

Fuck. Whatever Baizhu gave him this morning has well and truly worn off now, because his entire body aches and stings where he’s been freshly mended, and screams in agony everywhere else where there’s bruises, cuts and stitches that needed to heal on their own. And blood of the gods does he feel so hungry he could throw up.

With a significant amount of effort, he hauls his stiff body up and strips off his sweat dampened uniform, changing into a loose shirt he can hardly be bothered buttoning and whatever pants he can find. He was supposed to pick up his flight leathers today, but Central Command can hold onto them for another day. He’s careful to include a small array of daggers at his sides in case someone wants to make his night worse than it already is.

The hallway is dimly lit and humming with chatter behind closed doors. It can’t be too late at night, perhaps only a few hours after dinner. A quick trip to the kitchen on his way to check the time won’t hurt.

The clock in the Dragon Rotunda tells him it’s almost the twenty-first hour. Not too late. Before turning to ransack the kitchen, the statue of the blue dragon in the northwest corner of the hall catches his eye. It looks vastly different from Andromalius’ appearance. Perhaps it was the first Sovereign of the den? Andromalius had said he was the second incarnate.

“You are looking at Wave Strider,” Andromalius interjects, shattering the silence so suddenly it makes Wriothesley flinch at his deep, omnipotent voice. “One of First Six dragons to bond with a rider. His rider was Cassiodor.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” he murmurs aloud, rubbing the ball of his palm against his sternum. It irritates the healing cut across his chest. He peers down to look at the relic Sigewinne gave him, just barely visible in the dim light. “What happened to them?”

“They perished in battle.”

Wriothesley heads off to the kitchen to find some leftover bread and whatever cold remains of dinner that haven’t already been carelessly discarded. He’s not fussy. Food is food, and he is grateful to have any.

“You must have some stories or legends about them.”

Andromalius all but bristles in response. “You may find what you are looking for in your human Archives.”

He all but snorts in response. “Bold of you to assume I can read.”

There’s bread and a pot of leftover soup still in the kitchen. He all but scarfs down the bread and takes a mug of cold soup with him as he leaves, mindlessly sipping at it as he walks back to his new dorm room. Having some food in his belly feels much better and he follows the light, fluttering feeling.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” he finds himself asking instead of pushing the dragon to spill ‘secrets’, which is apparently everything and anything. “Like how old you are?”

“Four hundred and something in your human years. We do not care to count as you do.”

Four hundred would make Andromalius old, even by dragon standards.

“And Sigewinne?” He can feel himself mentally reaching out to her.

“Leave her be. She is asleep,” Andromalius all but growls.

“Forget I asked.”

Silence falls between them and for a moment it feels like Wriothesley has his mind to himself again.

“You’re not going back to your room,” Andromalius states.

Wriothesley stops in his tracks, and it takes him a moment to realise he isn’t where he’s supposed to be. The corridor he’s walking down isn’t entirely familiar – then again, most of the corridors in Meropide look the same. He at least knows isn’t even on his way to the old first-year’s dorm out of habit.

Where is he walking to?

Curious, he walks a little further and comes to a dead end, flanked by three doors on each side. They’re all nondescript with locks below the handles and there is a small line of light seeping through the thin gap beneath each of them.

He should go back to his dorm room.

The next thing he knows, he’s got one ear pressed against the door on the right. If this was back at an outpost, no one would bat an eye if they caught him doing this in the infantry quarters. Here in Meropide, it’s a different story. Behind the door, he can only hear the faint noise of someone, a young man, humming and the dulled clink of a heavy glass being set down.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, he tries the door on the left. There isn’t much noise at all coming from that room. Just as he is about to pull away from the door, he hears the rustle of fabric, followed by the padding of footsteps toward the door.

Shit.

He backs away quietly and in a complete panic, looks around the hallway for something to do to make his presence less suspicious. Heart hammering in his ears, he turns around to the other door and lifts his hand to knock on it.

The door behind him opens with a creak just before his knuckles rap at the door in front of him.

“Cadet Wriothesley?” a deep and polite voice calls out from behind.

He turns around to find Professor Neuvillette partially hidden by the open door. By feat of the imagination, his complexion is far paler than usual and deep bruises mar the skin beneath his eyes, much like Baizhu had appeared earlier today. Though, one could never know if Professor Neuvillette had a grey hair on his head. Even if he looks sick as a dog, it doesn’t stop the strong tingle that runs up Wriothesley’s torso and the stuttering of his lungs.

“Professor,” he says breathlessly. “I was just looking for you.”

Does it count as a lie if he wanted to be there, even by accident?

Professor Neuvillette purses his lips and his eyes trail down Wriothesley’s figure. He can tell the professor’s line of sight lingers on his chest and then he remembers he didn’t do a very good job of buttoning up his shirt. He moves his hands to fix it and is immediately reminded of the mug of cold soup in his left hand and abandons the task, leaving Sigewinne’s relic and the angry pink line bisecting it uncovered for the Professor to drink in the sight of it.

Any other professor and Wriothesley would be embarrassed by his state of undress. He doesn’t mind if Professor Neuvillette sees a little more of his skin and he truly wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of the Professor’s in return.

“I’m not sure why you would want to visit my office at such a late hour.” Neuvillette keeps his tone professional, distant.

Lies. Thinly veiled, traded across the space between them, plucking at strings already fraught with tension.

Wriothesley swallows awkwardly, forearms prickling with the cold wave of emotion that runs through him. His mouth tastes ashy with regret. Gods he feels naked and even the space in his head that Andromalius usually occupies feels suddenly bare.

“Never mind,” he says, tongue dry. “It can wait.”

Without another word, he turns to leave too quickly to save face.

“Good night,” Professor Neuvillette whispers into the empty night.

“Good night, Professor,” he mutters with a thinly veiled sneer as he strides away, hearing the door close behind him.

🌊🐉🌊

He’s going to die.

Or at the very least, he’s going to be sick.

Wind rushes past his face, slipping through the small gaps in his flight goggles. The blades of wind feel like tiny razors on his eyes as he hurtles through the air. Panic, nausea, fear — the entire ensemble — rise in his throat, pulse around his body, sending his head spinning. His useless body is paralysed, muscles locked so hard they’re cramping in agonising pulses. The wind whips away the expressions of terror that die hoarsely in his throat.

Flight lessons are a nightmare.

He has to work through them, he knows he can. All for Teyvat. All to give more to the war in the hopes that he can hold off the Snezhnayans and Eremites a little longer, maybe even turn the tide of the war now that there will be a sovereign fighting amongst them.

“Slow down, you’re going to kill me!” he shouts to Andromalius, who pointedly ignores him and takes the next manoeuvre faster and sharper than how Professor Venti demonstrates up ahead. What Wriothesley would give to have Professor Neuvillette as their flight instructor instead of this nutcase.

Apparently, Venti had taken over Professor Neuvillette’s post as flight instructor this year. The young professor provides no structure to the lesson, just flying around aimlessly with three squads of first years behind him, desperately trying not to fall off their dragons.

“If a human wishes to become a dragon rider with such passion as yours, they should not be afraid of heights,” Andromalius responds in a matter-of-fact tone.

Wriothesley hates that Andromalius is right. Tell him not to do something because he doesn’t have the skills or the gall, and you’ll watch him fight his way there, tooth and nail, just to spite you.

“I’m not afraid of heights,” he snaps back. Then in a whisper, he tells the truth. “I’m afraid of falling. It’s different.”

His stomach jerks uncomfortably as Andromalius rises in the air suddenly, causing bile to flood up his throat and into his mouth. He bites back a grimace and swallows hard, the acrid taste lingering in his mouth.

“You’re not helping.”

Andromalius levels out for a moment and for the first time since they took off, Wriothesley relaxes his nail splitting grip on the pommel. He sucks in a breath, and another, until his heaving chest starts to feel like he’s breathing again instead of hyperventilating.

“Perhaps another approach may help the Iron One?” Sigewinne’s gentle voice interrupts the swirling chaos of his mind.

Sigewinne has been flying beside Andromalius for most of the class, just barely able to keep up with the pace. Wriothesley can barely see her — or anything else for that matter — as Andromalius tests the integrity of his body.

“Iron may be strong, but it is brittle,” Andromalius tuts at Sigewinne’s nickname for Wriothesley.

“Then reforge me into steel,” Wriothesley grits back.

“Very well,” Andromalius responds with the slightest hint of gentleness in his otherwise deep, growling voice.

His stomach swoops once more as Andromalius suddenly dives down and fuck — he shouldn’t have relaxed his grip. He’s slipping from his seat no matter how hard he tries to claw back. Andromalius swoops upward and he’s gone, slipping away completely without a chance of landing a grip as he slides across Andromalius’ scaly back, too far to the right to make purchase on any of the spines.

Then there’s nothing beneath him. He’s falling. A shattering scream rips from his mouth as the harrowing weightlessness envelops him, kicking and screaming. Andromalius twists above him as the air batters his body and the mountains beneath him come rushing up faster and faster. Sigewinne dives for him, but she’s just not fast enough. He’s back in the Liffey mountains again, gryphon above him, body torn and bleeding, falling to his death.

He can’t see Andromalius above him, only the earth below. Two days being bonded to two dragons and here he is, dying already.

Something solid slams into him and then his entire body jerks upward, diaphragm jammed between his own weight and the thing wrapped around his midsection. It tears a hopeless wail from his throat and by the accursed gods, he’s all but ready to cry for the first time since… he can’t even remember. The ground stops rushing toward him, finally retreating and his body starts to shut down.

The edges of his vision start to fizzle with static, and everything darkens like a cloud blotting out the sun. He’s awfully cold, hollow, shivering and the soundscape around him dulls into something unintelligible. There’s not enough air to keep him functioning, no matter how hard he fights to breathe as he’s slowly brought upward.

Andromalius caught him.

“I will always catch you,” Andromalius promises fiercely.

Dragons don’t catch their riders if they fall…

As if to illustrate his point, Andromalius shakes Wriothesley to reposition him more comfortably in his claw, then points him in the direction of one of the first years in the other squad who loses their grip and slides from their seat. He watches in dazed horror as the rider falls and keeps falling, and their dragon keeps flying as if nothing happened.

Until the rider hits the ground, the sound too far away to carry, but Wriothesley’s imagination provides the two separate thunks as the cadet’s body bounces against a rock and shatters into a crimson stain. The dragon ahead of them falters in its flight for a moment, tensing, as if with pain, before continuing on.

“Dragons do not catch their riders if they are weak and unworthy,” Andromalius explains matter-of-factly. “You are neither weak, nor unworthy.”

He has a hard time believing that.

And then Andromalius throws him up in the air, leaving him to flail pitifully as terror floods through him once more. He only falls for a moment, before landing hard against Andromalius’ back. The gentle pace the dragon sets allows him enough time to scramble back to the seat and hold on for dear life while his dragon prepares to wipe another ten years off his life with the last set of flight manoeuvres.

“Or you could do that,” Sigewinne sighs with heavy disapproval. “Next time, we try it my way.”

“Yes, please,” Wriothesley practically begs, out of breath.

“Very well,” Andromalius sighs.

🌊🐉🌊

Navia, in fact, does not get over it in a few days. Neither does almost his entire squad.

Xiao Alatus, the quiet and distant third year who has never so much as given him a second look, seems vaguely disapproving of him. Scar seems to forget to show his disgust and takes pleasure in Wriothesley’s suffering. Xilonen Baraka and Chasca Vuka hardly treat him differently – that is, avoidant and with no shortage of dirty looks. Lyney and Lynette De Hearth pointedly avoid him. Aether Travelis looks pained every time he lays eyes on him. Kaeya Alberich just looks done with him or green with envy depending on the day – still unbonded. Charlotte Moreau (thankfully alive) has enjoyed spreading whatever gossip about him as she can – bored and unbonded, a destructive combination. Xiangling Mao, rest her soul, would probably be pissed with him too were she still alive. She didn’t survive Threshing.

Both Navia and Freminet actively bristle every time he looks over to the pair, like everything that transpired between them since Conscription Day was moot.

He’s had enough.

Early in the evening, he pulls Navia aside into an alcove. He’s not gentle about it but he’s far from being rough with her, sneaking up behind her and taking her by the bicep.

“Get off me, that is wrong with you?” She hisses, jerking her arm away from him as her back bumps against the alcove wall.

“What’s wrong with me?” he says incredulously, then his expression hardens. “What’s wrong with you?”

She scowls, the same cold way she scowls at Clorinde, and shoves past him to leave.

“You’ve been avoiding me all week, you even turned the whole squad against me. All for what? Because I got two dragons or something? You’re not the jealous kind, so what gives?” He tries to keep his voice level, emotionless, but the crackling embers of betrayal ignite into a rage he can barely contain.

“You think this is about your dragons?” Navia asks incredulously, tone bitter. She laughs, a short, loud noise of displeasure, and turns to face him. “You can be so conceited sometimes,” she mutters. “Lynette told me everything I needed to know. You killed your own parents.” The last sentence, she spits out word by word like it’s a glob of poison.

His blood runs cold and the world grinds to a halt around him.

The way his expression falls helplessly, like snow to earth, confirms everything Navia needs to know.

“So, it’s true,” she murmurs to herself, crestfallen for a single moment before her brows furrow with a rage he’s never seen before.

Silence. Any defence he had just washed away with his pride mere seconds ago. The guilt is suffocating.

“How dare you. How fucking dare you,” Navia seethes, lips pulled back in a vicious snarl as she pushes him backward with more force than necessary. “You thought we could just be friends? Even when you knew exactly what Clorinde did to my father, you know what happened to my mother. No wonder why you never told me anything about yourself — fucking liar — you knew I’d find out!” She’s on the verge of losing it, incredulous laughter bubbling beneath every dagger sharp word she throws his way.

“Navia, it wasn’t like that!” He recovers his footing quickly, but keeps his distance, white knuckled and biting back indignation.

“What? You thought if you never talked about it, I’d just never find out that you killed your own parents. You fucking monster — you were a child, and you killed them without remorse.” Tears gather in her eyes, pooling on her waterline, and her voice cracks with strain as she cracks inside too. “These people fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over your head. They loved you and you killed them.” Her fists are balled tightly, knuckles white as she swipes the back of her hand across her tear-streaked eyes. “What I would give to have my parents back and you just threw that away.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he warns.

“I have no idea? You ate from my father’s table! I served you tea when I was just a little girl. Did he even know what you did?” There’s no stopping her now. She stalks forward; finger pointed at him until his back hits the wall.

The question triggers that awful survival instinct buried deep within him. Lie, deflect, escape. Fighting against it is a losing game and he’s drowning inside his mind. He cannot lie to her. Not like this. His answer is so quiet, the noise practically dies in his throat as the backs of his eyes prickle. “Even if he did know, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

The breath that leaves him in that moment also blows apart his friendship with Navia.

“Then I know all that I need to know, and that means we’re done. Don’t talk to me, don’t come near me, don’t even look at me,” she growls, turning to leave in a hurry.

Something twisted and ugly shudders in his belly and crawls up his throat with an uncontrollable burning urge.

“Your father would roll in his grave if he saw you talking like this.” Regret taints the air in his lungs. He shouldn’t have said that, but there’s no stopping him now. “Passing judgement like this isn’t the way of the Spina, nor is this the Navia Caspar I know,” he states, hating the way his voice shakes.

Navia whips back around, loose hair in a whirl around her reddened face. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving Wriothesley amongst the shattered pieces of himself.

Chapter Text

Over the years, Wriothesley has become accustomed to the heartbreak that comes with losing a friend. Though, this time, it hurts an unprecedented amount more when the friend is still living.

The temptation to stick to his room all day and avoid his squad is undeniable. It’s a cowardly thing to do, so instead, he keeps to the far corners of each classroom and makes the sparring gym his new home until his bones are screaming with the threat of breakage and his tired muscles can’t take it anymore.

It’s like prison all over again. And there is nothing he hates more than that.

There’s a reason he doesn’t talk about that portion of his life.

“This is agonising to watch,” Sigewinne murmurs distantly.

“You try being the most hated man in your own squad and amongst the unbonded, whilst the rest of the quadrant tries to brown nose you so hard, they practically crawl into your ass,” he murmurs back bitterly whilst trying his hardest to pay attention to Professor Neuvillette’s latest lecture on dragon bonds. “It’s no badge of honour.”

The Professor eyes him carefully, as if he knows Wriothesley is struggling to follow along.

At least it’s possible for him to understand if he pays attention. Now that most of the remaining first years are Riders, Neuvillette now also teaches the new Physics class. As if Wriothesley’s academic performance could get any worse.

Andromalius has retreated from his mind entirely, therefore having no comment to provide. It’s strange having the old dragon take up so much room in his head sometimes, and then shuddering at the vast, gaping hole he leaves when he suddenly retreats from reach. He shouldn’t feel something like this so deeply, down to the very pit of his soul. Perhaps it’s the loneliness keeping him in a chokehold where every feeling is aggravated to the point where it can no longer be confined within the bounds of his body.

Sigewinne, though her gentle presence flits in and out like a butterfly coming to rest, is constant. He can feel her, like the first breath of a winter’s day, right in the centre of his chest. The lesser magic that he’s supposed to be able to channel from the bond remains stubbornly out of reach. He’s spent his days watching the other first years begin to control the mage lights and lift small objects without their hands, whilst he can’t even make the blue flame of a mage light flicker.

“Can Cadets Caspar and Wriothesley, please see me after class,” Professor Neuvillette’s voice rips through the veil of self-pity Wriothesley has hung around himself.

He does nothing to mask the long-winded sigh that whistles from his nose. Being called up at the same time as Navia can’t be good.

Everyone leaves the room, leaving the three of them in an awkward stalemate, until Wriothesley gets to his feet, murmuring “I’ll wait outside,” as he strides to the door. He’s not one to eavesdrop, but he does stop right out of view behind the door frame, ears straining to pick up the conversation between Professor Neuvillette and Navia.

They speak very quietly, and Wriothesley can hardly hear anything over everyone else passing by in the hallway. He glares at anyone who dares to look at him a little too long as they pass by. The conversation inside the room seems to only be about mated dragons. Perhaps Navia is just asking for advice on how to deal with the fact that her life will forever be tied to Clorinde’s, or Neuvillette is providing her with some unsolicited, but much needed advice on how to cope.

When footsteps start heading his way, he slides further away from the door frame and scratches at his temple, feeling the coarse greying strands amongst the smooth dark ones. It feels like there are more grey hairs there since he returned to Meropide.

This place is killing him.

Navia stalls awkwardly in the doorway, before heading off in the opposite direction. She should be going the other way to their next class, but he doesn’t say anything. His stomach roils at the surge of bitterness within him. It takes a long moment before he can make himself go back in and face Professor Neuvillette.

“Yes, Professor?” he asks too quietly for his own liking. There’s something about bearing the full brunt of Neuvillette’s gaze this time that makes him feel incredibly small, a mere ant beneath the thumb of a giant.

“You may shut the door if you would like,” Neuvillette offers.

His mouth goes dry.

Shut the door?

That can’t be good.

The door closes behind him with a soft sound and he urges himself onward when he realises, he’s lingered in one spot for too long. He smiles nervously as he approaches, helplessly batting away any hint of vulnerability that rises to the surface. Letting Professor Neuvillette know he’s entirely embarrassed about what happened the other night is the last thing he would like to do today.

“I remember you wished to speak with me,” Neuvillette states calmly, tone a little more welcoming, however distant. “Apologies for my appearance that night. I was feeling rather out of sorts and was not expecting any visitors.”

“No, I—um. Sorry. I should be the one to apologise for showing up unannounced and uninvited,” he stumbles through his words, fighting to maintain eye contact as shame floods through him. “Now is a much more… appropriate time.”

Neuvillette nods, then leans back against the desk to steady himself, knowing they’ll be there for a while. “I assume this is about what happened at Threshing.”

“Yeah. You weren’t there, but you know what happened.” He pauses awkwardly as his mind goes blank. He wants to talk to Neuvillette about Andromalius and Sigewinne but can’t form anything coherent. “How can—” he cuts himself off before he says either of the two things that leap up his throat at the same time. His shoulders sink.

“How can a sovereign choose someone like you?” Neuvillette helpfully finishes the sentence for him, watching curiously as Wriothesley’s mouth opens and closes, fighting for an answer. “You know why.” He gives Wriothesley an expectant look.

He swallows awkwardly before reciting a response. “Blue dragons are excellent judges of character.”

Professor Neuvillette nods in approval. “He sees something in you, that you yourself may not be willing to see.”

It shouldn’t warm his heart to hear such a blatant lie, but there he goes, feeling trickles of melted ice drip down the slopes of his frostbitten heart. By the accursed gods, he wants to reach across the space between them and touch Neuvillette so he too can feel just how melted Wriothesley became from his words. He shoves the warmth to the backburner to ogle over later and struggles to make eye contact with the Professor again, almost missing the gentle crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“I guess I’ll have to trust old Levi’s judgement then,” he mutters with a sheepish smile, rubbing at the nape of his neck.

Professor Neuvillette laughs – he fucking laughs – at the nickname for the Sovereign. It’s a foreign sound to Wriothesley’s ears, a deep rumble that lurches into the early sputterings of a chuckle, before he coughs to cover the sound. It’s like he’s glowing with a light soft as flower petals and hazy as a fine mist. The fingers politely pressed against his lips do absolutely nothing to hide his smile.

In that short starburst of a moment, Wriothesley feels like they’re okay.

He bites his bottom lip to hide the crooked grin that threatens to split his face in two. He knows the Professor can see it and the rest of him, all the way beneath the skin and he hates it. There is no hiding from those all-seeing eyes.

Neuvillette coughs again awkwardly and then runs his hands down the ruffles of his shirt to smoothen them – unnecessary, they weren’t even a fraction out of place.

“Apologies, I seem to have lost myself a little there. I have never heard anyone nickname a sovereign in all my years.” He flicks the hint of a tear from the corner of his eye with a quick swipe of a thumb.

The mere flick of his wrist, the idea that a simple chuckle had brought the professor near tears, does something to Wriothesley, deep down inside him. It flickers and burbles, warm as a seat by the hearth and viscous as honey running through his veins. He wants to crumple into nothing, right there and then, staring into Neuvillette’s pale eyes and sinking into the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

In a rush, something lightning hot fills the back of his mind, shooting down to the centre of his chest, prickling through his flesh and leaving sharp sparks in its wake. He gasps, slamming his fist to his sternum in the hopes that it might settle the sudden pain and keep his heart firmly within his chest where the traitorous thing belongs.

Neuvillette jerks forward, hands out to touch him? Steady him? He’ll never know, because they never manage to reach all the way across the vast space between them.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?” Neuvillette asks, hands frozen mid-grasp, fingers slowly curling inward around nothing and retreating.

“Yeah,” he winces, rubbing his chest. As quickly as the shot of agony arrived, it’s gone, leaving him hollow and reeling, with half the contents of his ribcage wiped out of existence. “Heartburn, I think.”

Whatever that was, it was not heartburn.

He straightens up and forces himself to stop comfortingly rubbing his fist against his chest. What he would give to have something to shove into the dark abyss of his chest at this very moment just to fill it. He knows all the colour has left his face, cheeks clammy and numb, Neuvillette’s concerned gaze itching across his skin.

“Do you know if a feathertail has ever bonded with a human before?” he asks in the hopes that talking will stop his conscious from slipping into that tortured little shell it had a moment ago.

Professor Neuvillette straightens up too, leaning back against the desk once more, cementing the distance between them. Whatever hint of friendliness that still lingers on his face is quickly wiped clean when his cold academic facade makes a return.

“Not in living memory,” he answers quietly. “I am not certain the Archives will have the answer you seek either.”

Subtly, Wriothesley clenches his jaw, not wanting to think of the dark, stuffy Archives. It’s truly a wonder how the entire kingdom is carried on the back of dragons they know next to nothing about.

The lack of response from him makes Neuvillette shift uneasily, crossing his arms over his chest and licking his lips uncertainly.

“Did you want to tell me the real reason why you wished to speak with me, now?”

His skin prickles at the question, cursing that the Professor can see right through him as he dances around the topic, like an idiot. He doesn’t want to ask, though, knowing it’ll be a weight off his chest, he draws in a sharp breath and tries to word it correctly.

“I thought it might be…,” he hesitates, looking for the right word. “Useful for your research if I could be a resource to you. Since there’s scant material on sovereigns and feathertails.” Delivering each word feels like lugging boulders up a hill, but he manages.

Neuvillette, to Wriothesley’s utter shock, hesitates. A man as passionate as him should be borderline jumping for joy at the chance to study something so rare.

“I leave you to muse away for five minutes,” Sigewinne suddenly interrupts with a disappointed sigh. “And here you are trying to barter our secrets for attention.”

Very quickly, he realises he’s selfishly mis-stepped. He sends a hurried apology her way and makes a failed attempt to send one Andromalius’ way.

Before he can take it back, Neuvillette speaks. “I would encourage you to reconsider making offers like that on behalf of your dragons without their consultation. After having lived amongst them for many years, I have found that even the dragons you have built the most trust with will never react well to having their secrets passed onto someone outside of their circle. I would tread carefully if I were you,” he warns.

There’s a razor-sharp flash of guilt that cuts through him, stinging Wriothesley’s insides. He’s fucked up again. Even amongst the despairing thoughts, his mind grasps hold of one thing.

“You lived with dragons?”

Professor Neuvillette’s steady inhale and exhale serves as answer enough.

“You’ll have to excuse me. The next class is due to start soon.”

Wriothesley bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. With a curt nod, he leaves and heads straight for the sparring gym.

As he weaves through the tide of cadets, he feels himself start to slip. Guilt churns in his stomach, foamy and agitated like a whirlpool. Excellent judge of character? Unlikely. Wriothesley is a complete bastard, and he knows it. Andromalius is full of shit if he thinks otherwise.

“Watch your tone,” Andromalius growls, suddenly and conveniently back from the void. His ears must have been itching.

Mentally, Wriothesley tries to shove him away, however one may do that in a mindscape. Though, he should really be the one to apologise. All he wanted was for that horrible cycle of approval and disappointment between him and Neuvillette to end. Something just keeps drawing him in time after time and he simply chose not to fight it anymore – at the expense of his dragons.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say until he can show them that he is better than thinking of just himself alone. He is no longer just one person.

Neither Sigewinne nor Andromalius respond, though he can feel something akin to acknowledgement coming from both of them, Sigewinne more clearly.

The chances of getting back into Professor Neuvillette’s good books are next to none with Navia gone. He can’t study or submit assignments the way he used to. Any improvement he’s made in reading and writing under test conditions (of which there is very little) isn’t enough to keep him afloat. Neuvillette must think he’s a waste of potential...

There’s a commotion up ahead. He can hear it escalating as he enters the Dragon Rotunda.

“Shut up! Shut up!” A shrill voice begs. “Stop it! No one cares Kaveh!” The voice comes closer, accompanied by pounding footsteps. “Make it stop! Make it stop! Shut up about your bad grades.”

A tall blonde girl comes screeching through the Routunda, stumbling as she flees whatever is chasing her, hands pressed against her ears.

“Stop, stop, stop! Shut up all of you!” Her voice is raw and desperate as she collapses near the centre of the space. Everyone watches on, unsure of what to do. “Stop whining about Professor Neuvillette, you freak!”

That one cuts deep, knowing that the Professor is practically on his mind all the time. Which makes him a freak in the eyes of others.

His mind.

Shit, that girl is reading his mind.

He tries to think of anything else, lest his secrets be broadcast to the world. And thus, he begins to recite one of Neuvillette’s lectures: Vishaps, creatures of dragon descent, live scattered across the nations. They are not known for their benevolence to humans and possess a small amount of magic thanks to their ancestry. Vishaps do not bond with humans the way dragons do, however, their Saurian relatives form close, non-magical relationships with—

“Oh gods… Escoffier’s an inntinnsic,” someone whispers, fist pressed to their mouth in horror. Her signet is manifesting.

Mind reading is a death sentence.

Everyone in the Rotunda quietens when the cold clip clap of high heeled boots echoes through the northern hallway. An older woman, one of the professors Wriothesley is not familiar with, struts across the space as dead silence falls around her. She looks down her nose at Escoffier curled over on the ground with a pitying look through her red rimmed spectacles.

Wriothesley sucks in an anxious breath as the professor slowly reaches down, long nails dragging up Escoffier’s back until her spindly fingers clasp around the back of her neck. Escoffier flinches but rises to her feet, stifling set sobs as she turns to face the professor.

She does not get far. Her head suddenly twists, hard and fast, with a sickening crack as the professor silences her. The body drops in two separate thuds that echo in the pin drop silence.

Wriothesley releases the breath he was holding and watches the professor bend down to pick up Escoffier’s body. She does so without much effort, and carries it away without another word, uncaring of all the heads turning her way.

“Fuck,” the guy beside him whispers to his squad mate. “That was Professor Xianyun…”

“I don’t think I want a signet anymore…” she quivers.

“You’re not going to believe me, but that is better than the alternative.”

Thoroughly sick to his stomach, Wriothesley hightails it out of there, his plans of returning to the sparring gym thoroughly abandoned. He needs a walk. A long fucking walk.

Forehead prickling uncomfortably with sweat and heart palpitating, he starts making his way to the tunnel that spirals through the mountain and comes out to the valley below. It’s the one they used to make the descent for Threshing.

He rounds a corner a little too tightly and smacks into someone shorter and softer than him, sending them stumbling backward with a grunt.

“Watch it,” a husky voice warns as Wriothesley catches her wrists before she topples backward. “Get your hands off me!”

He blinks once, twice, then shakes his head as Xilonen comes into view. Shit. He loosens his grip in a flash, like he’s touched fire. “I’m sorry,” he blurts quickly.

Chasca, curled over Xilonen’s shoulder like a snake, bares her teeth in disgust. It makes his heart sink as he’s briskly reminded that he is a pariah amongst those who are meant to be his friends. Can he really blame these two? They likely feel the same way as Navia, having had their parents ripped from their grasp before they were fully grown and his hands are wet with their blood.

“Let’s get out of here,” Chasca’s low voice growls. “It reeks of patricide.”

Xilonen inhales and rolls her eyes with barely concealed frustration and begins to walk away. “Don’t forget the matricide.”

🌊🐉🌊

Wriothesley has never talked about prison, or the events leading up to it. He doesn’t think about it if he can help it, though the nightmares have their own reminder schedule. The suffocating loneliness only encourages them to remind him of the worst moments.

Telling his squad what happened would be of little use. They already think he is untrustworthy. Add trying to explain a double murder to the mix and he’ll be talking to a very large stone wall.

After skipping Professor Mavuika’s classes for an entire week, he expects to receive a tense but polite invite to tea with the Headmaster. Mavuika’s classes are the only ones where he is forced to exist within the same space as his squad and interact with them. He just can’t take it anymore.

There’s no invite to tea.

He has to get out of this squad. And to do that he needs to talk to Aether.

Unfortunately, Aether Travelis, beloved by all, is always surrounded by people. Which makes it rather impossible to request to speak to him in private. Writing a note is cowardly and also out of the question.

Initially he was going to ask while they were bathing, but it turns out even Aether doesn’t bathe by himself. All that social interaction must tire him. How does he get any downtime? Lumine did say he spreads himself too thin and Wriothesley can see it.

“Travelis,” he calls, a little too loudly for his liking. He’s spotted his Squad Leader parting ways with a group of friends from flame section and has just about leapt across the hallway to intercept him.

He braces himself for the look of disgust that Aether is about to give him for trying to talk to him. But it doesn’t come. Aether looks at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“I need to talk to you. In private,” he explains in a whisper.

Aether purses his lips in deliberation then nods. He looks side-to-side, indicating for Wriothesley to choose the place he is most comfortable with. It’s a little unnerving not having Aether verbally show his wariness.

He ducks into an empty classroom. It’s dark and the mage lights don’t flicker to life when he steps inside. Aether should be able to turn them on manually, since he’s a second year. All the second years have their signets manifested and can certainly use the lesser magic that the mage lights run on without issue. For a second, his mind wanders to what Aether’s signet might be.

He leaves the door cracked open a little to let a thin strip of light dimly illuminate the room. Aether stands close to him, not quite facing him, then asks in a low whisper, “What is it?”

“I know Lynette or Navia have probably told you–”

“They have,” Aether cuts him off, somehow making it sound good natured.

“I know squad morale has been... good, with significant exceptions,” he says, putting it lightly.

Aether is quiet for a moment, not shocked, just thinking or trying to fight his way through saying something he doesn’t want to.

“I’m starting to realise other people aren’t like me,” he admits, eyes trained on the ground.

It’s such a vague statement, Wriothesley can’t help but release a huff of laughter. “What?”

“Maybe they just need more time.” Aether continues, cryptically. “I thought they wouldn’t assume the worst of you. That they’d work through it on their own, in their own time.”

“I don’t think time is going to fix something like this.”

“Why not? ‘Time heals all, teaches all, shapes all,’,” Aether quotes like it’s a common phrase.

“Where’s that even from?”

“Nowhere,” he hesitates, then shrugs. “Everywhere.” Aether finally looks up at him, the sliver of light capturing the glow of his deep amber eyes. There’s a strange vulnerability in the way he whispers and looks at Wriothesley, shrouded in the darkness.

Wriothesley chews on the inside of his cheek, wishing to steer the conversation back to its original purpose. “I need out.”

“What?” It’s not an expression of misunderstanding, it’s disbelief.

“I’m calling in a favour. Cut your losses, move me to another squad.”

“No,” Aether says softly. “I don’t cut my losses,” he says with a little more determination, brows furrowed.

Wriothesley sighs and rubs his face. “Look, kid, if you’re going to end up in leadership, you’re gonna learn one way or another to stop beating a dead horse. Might as well start now.”

“I’m not a kid,” he grits out. “And I’m not going to change who I am to fit their mould.”

An uneasy silence falls between them. Being stuck in the squad leaves him in this limbo where he’s vulnerable to attack from all angles, with no one to back him up.

As if Aether can read his thoughts, he inhales sharply before locking eyes with him once more.

“I’ll talk to them.” The determination in his eyes is nothing short of fiery. “I’m just not sure they can learn to accept without understanding.”

“Is that how you came to forgive me?”

Aether nods. “It’s easier living that way.”

He can see the value in Aether’s words, the unprecedented level of emotional maturity backing him in that moment. There’s curiosity in his eyes, firmly held back by an iron grip.

“If they hear it from me, they might listen. Tell me what they need to know.”

The request sets off alarm bells in his mind and he feels himself retreat, stepping back into the shadows where Aether can’t see the tension in his muscles and the way his breathing falters.

“I don’t talk about it – I can’t,” he can feel his words getting stuck in his chest, choking him. He stands there, pitifully silent for several agonising moments, then gives in. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake.”

He pushes past Aether and yanks the door open, letting light flood into the room, the contrast blindingly bright. Right as he goes to cross the threshold, Aether catches his wrist in a tight grip.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, for whatever it is you’ve gone through,” Aether says in a quiet, careful voice. Far too gentle for what Wriothesley’s crooked soul deserves. Aether doesn’t let go of him until he swallows tentatively and provides the barest hint of acknowledgement.

His wrist falls limply to his side with the ghost of Aether’s touch aching deep into the muscle. He can’t look at him. Not anymore.

Turning to leave, Andromalius’s presence feels heavy in his head.

“Humans guard their secrets too,” Andromalius practically gloats. He can feel the swish and flick of his voice in his mind.

He doesn’t need the reminder of his misgivings.

 🌊🐉🌊

Isolation whilst surrounded is an intimately familiar feeling, stretching back over two decades. It always makes the night terrors worse, the emptiness calling to them and their shrouded forms seeping from where they were buried.

He knows he’s dreaming when he sees the blood. The dark puddle that quickly cools against his bare feet is all too familiar. In his small shaking hands, he finds the knife, dull and coated with sticky, drying blood. His chest heaves and the panic of reality sets in, making the knife too heavy to hold. It clatters to the ground and the sound of it is incomprehensively deafening. He cannot look up, knowing the regret that will befall him.

He knows he will see the man he called father in front of him, the ugly sneer frozen on his face, the betrayal in his eyes. Even the thought of it makes him break out into cold sweat and the breath catch in his lungs. The woman he called mother, he would see her grasping at her neck in vain, blood spilling between her fingers.

There is no making peace with this. If he were older, smarter, he would have done the right thing.

With the acrid heat of bile creeping up his throat, he turns and runs, wanting nothing more than to leave the scene behind him. There are no streets or alleyways to run through, only a maze of darkness, echoing with his own desperate breath and the footsteps of Gardes coming from nowhere – everywhere.

“Wake up,” a voice whispers, like curls of smoke fading into the wind.

He wants to wake. Leaving this dream — this memory – it’s all he wants to do, but its grip on him is like a vice.

“Wake up,” the voice says once more, only this time it has depth and dimension. An urgent feeling overwhelms his senses, like his entire body is crawling with bugs. He stumbles halfway into awareness, lost in the darkness of the realm between sleeping and waking.

“Iron one! Wake. Up,” A high, shrill voice begs.

His eyes fly open, greeted only be the darkness of his room, too disoriented to distinguish anything defined by the slivers of moonlight that pass through the curtains. His heart hammers in his chest. The glint of steel above him clues him in just as it plunges downward into his abdomen. He rolls away, flinging his arms out, then shouts as white-hot pain paralyses him. His breath seizes and he fights against his own body to strike out at whomever is at his bedside.

Despite the wet, stinging agony claiming his side, he shoots a fist out, catching the culprit’s jaw. Whoever it is stumbles back and takes the blade with them.

Someone’s trying to kill him. He has to get up before they do. He gasps and presses his hand to his side as he rolls off the bed, barely missing whoever is on the floor.

“Shit!” someone hisses.

“He’s awake!” another voice shouts.

Fuck – how many of them are in his room? Between him and the door?

Heart pounding, he takes a sweep of the dim room, finding six cadets. One on the floor, but getting up, four between him and the door, weapons drawn, and a sixth in the doorway. The one in the doorway, short with dark cropped hair, curses and flees.

“Andromalius!” Wriothesley calls in his mind, desperate for any kind of assistance. “Sigewinne!”

If he cannot depend on his squadmates, he has no choice but to beg for aid from his dragons.

Before he has a chance to draw a blade, two cadets launch themselves at him from across the room and his breath hitches. The hand that he’s had jammed to his side comes away wet when he dodges the first attacker’s strike. The man’s dagger slices right through the mattress and Wriothesley smashes his fist into his diaphragm as hard as he can manage. The guy wheezes and Wriothesley pushes him back into the second attacker.

She lets out a yelp as she’s crushed against the wardrobe under her accomplice’s weight. The other two push past their tangled bodies. It gives Wriothesley the barest moment to retrieve the dagger he keeps at his bedside. If he can press the advantage and keep them in one spot, he stands a better chance of not being cornered.

“I’m coming!” Andromalius replies hastily.

“Me too!” Sigewinne calls determinedly.

He’s got no idea how they can help, but their promises are reassuring.

He almost misses the moment a blade slices down at him, nicking his eyebrow before he has time to pull back out of range. His own blade catches his attacker’s clothes, nothing else. He follows through with the momentum, striking the back of his fist against the guy’s temple. It stuns him, but it’s not good enough. The other guy behind him slips through Wriothesley’s defences and slashes down at him, ripping his bed shirt and splitting the skin of his bicep apart. Blood soaks his shirt and he cops a blow to the jaw, sending him crashing against the desk beside him.

His hip knocks against the wood with bruising force and he stumbles, trying to keep his guard up as the two cadets regather themselves. In practised synchrony, the two lunge at him, attacking high and low. He blocks low, and dodges back to escape the swing of the knife aimed at his face, feeling the rush of air as it passes millimetres from his nose.

Fuck. They’re pushing him back.

Again, he blocks and presses forward, sinking his dagger into the second one’s abdomen with a wet thump. The first two attackers are now on their feet and there’s four of them on all sides. Where’s the fifth?

He swings his fist and it cracks against a cheek, sending a whimper into the air. He’s going to die in this room.

“Where are you?” he asks desperately, dodging a blade and slicing up the underside of the attacker’s arm.

A blow to the wound in his side knocks the breath out of him and he stumbles back with a strangled cry. Something curls around his lower leg, then jerks. His unsteady knees give out from under him, and he crashes to the ground, on top of the fifth attacker, who is splayed out on the floor. The force of it winds him and the world around him spins dangerously.

“I’m almost there.” Andromalius sounds as terrified as he feels.

The four attackers tower over him victoriously. He tries to get up, only to find the fifth attacker’s arm snake around his neck. Blade still in hand, he aims to sever the tendon without stabbing himself in the face, only for his fingers to scream out in pain as they’re crushed by a boot. The other cadets move quickly, holding him down, pinning his arms and legs under their weight.

All hope he ever had of living through this evaporates.

“That dragon is mine,” the lead attacker growls as he crouches over Wriothesley, spittle spraying across his face. He settles his weight across Wriothesley’s chest, making it impossible to breathe.

In the pale moonlight, he can just make out the details of the cadet’s face above him. He’s Inazuman, dark hair, dark eyes and an angry sneer that almost convinces Wriothesley he’s truly stolen something from the cadet. He’s unbonded. They all must be. His blood runs cold the moment he feels the press of cool steel against his neck.

“ANDROMALIUS!” he calls desperately, voice fading through the link between himself and Andromalius. “SIGEWINNE!”

“Hurry up and finish him, Enjou,” one of the attackers pinning Wriothesley’s legs down hisses. Wriothesley’s not sure if it’s his own blood, or if he’s pissed himself in fright, but the warm stickiness on his thigh could also be the cadet bleeding to death while he waits.

“No,” Enjou, the one on top of him, growls hungrily. “I intend to make an example of him.” The bitterness in his voice is enough to make Wriothesley’s blood run cold.

Enjou’s blade presses against the tender skin of his neck and with the last of his failing energy, Wriothesley tries to jerk away, wiggle his way out of their grip. Pitifully, he only manages to move a fraction before his body gives out.

“Fuck you, coward,” he grits out through his teeth as the cadet head-locking him moves his arm upward squeezing his jaw tightly shut.

The pathway Enjou’s blade makes down his neck is only skin deep, but fuck it stings like no tomorrow. Instead of cutting right across, Enjou drags the tip from the centre of Wriothesley’s neck down to his mid-chest. The mother fucker is playing with him; he can hear the sick smirk on his face as he breathes unevenly with sick gratification.

He screams in agony, the sound muffled by his locked jaw. Even with no energy, his muscles pull tight as if they can shield him against a blade.

Enjou drags the knife down either side of his neck, all the way down to his collar bones before eliciting a satisfied giggle.

“Hurry up!” the one on the floor growls, voice strained by the effort of keeping Wriothesley’s head still.

Everything starts to dull, like he’s experiencing the world through cotton wool. He can feel the warmth leaking out of his body through the three blazing lines that run down his neck. The welcome embrace of death is irresistible, he wants to go to it before this absolute cunt, Enjou, decides to have any more fun whilst he’s still conscious. There’s a rhythmic thumping he can hear, echoing through his skull. Footsteps or his fading heartbeat, it’s the only thing tethering him to this world right now.

Something piercingly cold jerks him back from the precipice of death.

Water. It’s everywhere, high pressure jets of it slamming his attackers off him. Waves of it whisking their bodies around him, clashing with the furniture in his room like a whirlpool around him. A blurry, blue light emanates from the door and if Wriothesley weren’t shivering cold and soaking wet, he’d be convinced this is a dream.

As quickly as the water arrived, it’s whisked away, smashing through the window along with the debris of his room. His attackers fall to the ground in wet, coughing heaps.

His body shivers all over as the chilly water recedes, leaving him damp and almost lifeless in the centre of the ruined room. The curtains have been ripped open, shining moonlight into the room, illuminating the blurry figure in the doorway. All he can make out is a cascade of white hair, pale skin and dark robes – Professor Neuvillette.

In a stiff movement, the Professor detaches the handle of his cane from the remaining length of it, pulling a long, thin blade out. With the sharp intake of breath, he glides through the room and silences the sputtering attackers with a quick, merciless flick of the cane’s blade.

There’s a single beat of silence where Wriothesley helplessly lifts his cold, clammy hand to press against his throat. Though, he’s doesn’t have the strength to apply enough pressure.

Perhaps this was how mother felt in her last moments.

In the blink of an eye, Professor Neuvillette is above him, his blurry face shining like a moon in the night sky, with endless darkness surrounding him. He pushes Wriothesley’s limp hand away and presses a hand over his throat to staunch the bleeding. He can hear his breath hitch when he realises the wound on his side is also emptying blood onto the slick stone floor beneath them.

“Stay with me, Wriothesley.”

Chapter Text

“I’m here.” He can just make out Sigewinne say through the cotton in his head. Each of his senses has dulled almost entirely. All he can feel is his violently shivering body and the iciness of his own blood all the way down to the core of his body. Blood shouldn’t feel like ice-water.

“Not in the courtyard,” Andromalius warns. “Someone will see.” His voice is slightly clearer than the muffled chaos around him. Someone is carrying him; he can tell by the way his body is being jostled about and the barest hint of warmth against his right side.

He’s fading in and out, coughing and spluttering as he fights to not drown in his own blood. To no avail, something gets caught in his throat and it’s over for him. The shivering stops abruptly and for a single, reckless moment, he’s sure he’s going to be warm enough, before he remembers what everyone in the northern outposts say.

Before you freeze to death, your body will be unable to shiver any longer, and there will be a brief moment of warmth before Niennë takes you.

“No, no, no,” he hears above him, then the left side of his face stings with a fresh wave of pain. “Stay with me.”

A wheezing breath squeezes out of his clogged throat. It feels like his last, though he refuses to let it be. There is no inhale that follows it, diaphragm too weak to draw anything in. The stuffy air around him turns to piercingly cold and damp, wind whipping against his clammy skin as whoever is carrying him stumbles forward. And then he’s wet again. Freezing droplets begin to pelt at his skin.

“I’m here, Iron One.” Sigewinne sounds clearer now, clearly distressed and on the verge of tears. “Stay with us, please.”

A comforting thought comes to him before he lets go, dragons are capable of crying.

His body hits the ground a squelch as he lands in the mud, and the smell of sulfur wafts over him.

“Quickly now,” the voice above him urges, rife with panic. It takes him a moment to remember it’s Professor Neuvillette.

“I-I don’t know if it can save him …” Sigewinne whispers, voice wet with unshed tears.

“I need you to try,” he orders, managing to get his voice level enough to inspire courage.

There’s silence between the three of them as Wriothesley slips away into darkness.

He wakes in agony when something hot falls across his body in several searing droplets. Every muscle tenses as excruciating pain rips through him. It burns and he screams — hoarse and choking.  His wounds feel like they’re being torn apart by flame then cauterised by a white-hot blade. Nothing in his life has ever hurt this much, not even being mended by Baizhu from his worst of injuries.

The agony begins to recede after what feels like spending hours in the hot coals of a fire. He can breathe again, much to his own surprise, though it’s rapid and shallow. His entire body still throbs, but it’s almost nothing in comparison to before. He blinks hastily, trying to clear his bleary vision. The rain doesn’t help at all.

Every droplet that falls to his skin melts away, sucking up the heat of his skin. He can see both Professor Neuvillette and Sigewinne above him. The Professor is covered in blood, silvery hair damp and tangled, his eyes are red rimmed with anguish. He pulls back and the weight on Wriothesley’s wrists disappears – weight that he had not noticed it in the first place. He must have been holding him down whilst he was bring brought back from the brink.  

Sigewinne, also above him, looks exhausted, water droplets cascading down her snout and collecting at her jaw. She shivers with fatigue and shakily lowers herself to the ground, resting her big head on Wriothesley’s torso. She’s not big dragon-wise, but against Wriothesley, she covers most of his upper body. The pressure of it is almost uncomfortable against his tender flesh, but he cannot complain.

“Rest now, Sigewinne,” Andromalius’ soft praise echoes through his head. “You have done well.”

“Pr—” Wriothesley tries to speak, voice croaking horribly and getting stuck in his throat.

“Hush,” Neuvillette coos in a voice softer than anything Wriothesley has ever heard slip from his lips. “Be still.”

It doesn’t take much effort to stay still. Until he starts shaking his last bit of warmth is washed away by the rain, dulling the roiling warmth of his skin back ice. The world starts to spin around him in the most nauseating manner. The threat of a cold sweat prickles down his body and he truly starts to feel unwell. He knows his body is going into shock but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s too weak to remove his wet clothes and he can hardly speak.

“We need to get you inside. You should not be this cold so soon after the healing,” Andromalius’ voice says calmly.

Professor Neuvillette shifts around and taps Sigewinne’s head. She lifts her head off Wriothesley’s abdomen and huffs. She’s almost as cold as he is. She does not have fire within her like the other dragons. There’s nothing else that can save him here.

Whilst Neuvillette tries to drag him to his feet, the mere change from horizontal to vertical is strenuous enough that Wriothesley immediately doubles over and vomits. It’s mostly a foul concoction of the water he’s swallowed, blood and bile. He whispers an apology that doesn’t really come out as anything but a choked noise, then leans heavily on Neuvillette as they walk.

They’re at the very edge of the sodden flight field, hidden from the view of anyone back at Meropide.

“Return to the den and sleep, Sigewinne,” Andromalius says in a warm, gentle tone. “You have done well and must rest.”

Sigewinne says nothing more, giving a sleepy rumble and flies off into the night.

“Thank you,” Wriothesley slurs softly as he watches her pale figure disappear into the blurry shadows. She’s half the reason he’s standing right now – Professor Neuvillette being quite literally the other half.

His legs wobble uncannily as he tries to climb down the stairs with his arm slung over Professor Neuvillette’s shoulder. It takes a long time, the two of them limping down each step as carefully as possible, since the Professor does not seem to have his cane with him.

“Where are w—”

“To my office.” The reply is short, sharp and breathless. Neuvillette braces himself with his palm against the walls as he lugs Wriothesley’s useless, lumbering figure through the endless hallways.

It feels like an eternity before they reach Neuvillette’s office. Wriothesley is well and truly on the way to passed out, eyes barely open, body weak as a dish rag and he’s only just stopped shivering with his entire body. Now, it’s only just his teeth chattering.

He can’t take in much of the office, not in the dim light of the room. Neuvillette drops him into a chair and rummages around the hearth to get a fire started. He must use some kind of lesser magic, because before Wriothesley knows it, there’s a glowing fire beside him.

Neuvillette stands and turns to him with a grave look upon his face. He comes closer, in slow, tentative steps then bends down to speak to him in a polite whisper.

“Your clothes are soaked. I need you to take them off. Can you do that for me?”

Fuck… he might be on the verge of death, but if Professor Neuvillette wants him in his office, stark naked, there’s no stopping him from doing exactly as he’s asked.

Weakly, he paws at his shirt, managing to get it open almost all the way, before it gets stuck around his shoulders. After a moment of silently struggling, Professor Neuvillette reaches in to help, freeing him of his shirt and sleeping pants. Pointedly, neither of them touches his underwear, even if it is pitifully damp and incredibly uncomfortable. Neuvillette disappears for a moment, then returns with a blanket.

Warmth finally starts to exist in Wriothesley’s body again and this time, he’s sure it’s there to stay. He’s not shivering, or chattering, or seizing in agony. He’s just slumped in a chair, by the fire, fighting the desire to pass out because once he starts thinking, things stop adding up.

The moment he has enough strength and coherent thought to turn to Professor Neuvillette, something warm and solid is pressed into his hands. He stares down at it for quite some time. White and smooth, the two pieces clink together when moved slightly. Something inside it spills over the edge and onto the blanket when his hands don’t keep it upright. Neuvillette dashes in just at the right moment to save it from toppling over completely.

It’s just hot water. Hot water in a teacup with a saucer.

“Drink,” Neuvillette requests.

Hot water is not something he enjoys now that he’s had access to tea – even the shit quality stuff. He does as he is told and shakily lifts the cup to his lips. Neuvillette steadies his hand, and he gulps down the entire scorching contents of the cup. It burns the back of his mouth as it goes down his throat like molten lava. Pain aside, it sure as shit makes sure his entire chest feels like it’ll never be cold again.

Neuvillette takes the cup and saucer from him and doesn’t return to his side. Wriothesley sleepily turns his head to find the Professor watching him from the other side of the room, where he’s leaning against his desk, veiled in shadow. Not even the flickering light of the fireplace can reach him.

“You’re not Professor Neuvillette,” Wriothesley croaks out, wishing it would sound accusatory, rather than like a realisation.

“I’m not?” Neuvillette echoes his question back, the barest hint of a haughty laugh buried within it.

“It’s not all that you are,” he clarifies tiredly, slumping back into the chair as his muscles give out beneath him.

“Very astute of you, cadet,” Andromalius’ voice swirls around in his head, although this time, as he speaks, there are elements of Neuvillette’s voice that permeate through every word. It was well disguised beforehand, but now, Wriothesley can’t help but feel a little stupid – maybe very stupid.

He’s got to be dreaming, and gods’ balls is he embarrassed by how blatantly he has been lusting after the Professor whilst he’s been in his head the entire fucking time.

“How the fuck are you a dragon and a human?” he asks inwardly. It requires much less effort than physically talking. He can see the way Neuvillette’s — Andromalius’ — figure bristles at his directness.

“If I knew the answer, I would only be a dragon,” the Sovereign’s voice shoots back in a firm but level growl. Evidently, a touchy subject given the wave of indignation Wriothesley feels coming his way.

“Do the other five have human forms?” He can't help but wonder. It may be easier to speak this way but it’s so much harder to filter through his swirling thoughts before they get to Neuvillette. He can see the lilac flicker of Neuvillette’s eyes, shining dangerously in the darkness.

“No.”

“You need to rest,” Neuvillette says aloud, jarring Wriothesley’s soupy mind to attention. “We’ll talk in the morning.” He gets up from where he’s sequestered himself in the shadows and crosses the room, swinging open a door that must lead to his bedroom.

“Wait,” Wriothesley reaches out with the last scrap of mental effort he has remaining. It stops the Professor right before he disappears from sight, though he does not look at Wriothesley. “Why?” There’s more to his question, but he can’t muster the energy to clarify.

“Why save you or why choose you as my bonded rider in the first place?” His tone is dry, irritated. Wriothesley can feel the hot whip of it prickling in his belly. “You may only pick one.”

“Latter.”

The Sovereign draws in a sharp breath that sets Wriothesley on edge.

“It was time. I had waited long enough,” he says before disappearing through the doorway. “And you were what I needed.”

The weight of Andromalius’ words sits heavily on his chest, grounding him in utter shock before his body finally gives out beneath him. His eyes slip closed and no matter how hard he fights to stay awake, he sinks beneath the surface, drowning in the unending stream of his thoughts.

🌊🐉🌊

He wakes in unfamiliar territory, neck stiff as a board. The barest hint of pale dawn light glows in the window opposite the hearth. The coals of it are nothing but ash now and he shivers, realising he’s almost completely naked beneath the blanket atop him. He brushes his hand against the skin of his neck, finding it raised with stiff, ugly lines of scar tissue. His abdomen is much the same.

Sigewinne healed him last night.

He’s not sure how, but she did. He’d be dead without her.

Mentally, he reaches out to thank her but finds himself grasping at thin air.

“She is resting,” Andromalius’ – Neuvillette’s – low, growling voice echoes in his head, clear as day. The closer he is, the more his voice rings clear as crystal. “Do not wake her.”

He draws away from her, from both of them, in the mental space that they share. Even without Sigewinne there, Andromalius makes him feel very small inside his own head.

“How did she do that last night?” he dives straight into the questions since he’s alone in the Professor’s office with nothing much to focus on but the contents of the room. There’s a long silence that follows his question, in which Wriothesley sweeps his gaze across the far wall. There’s a large shelf stuffed with books, tomes, missives, notebooks and various trinkets like dragon scales, crystals, bones, eggshells. The entirety of it has an evenly spread layer of dust across it. It’s likely these were the research materials of the former Dragons Studies professor and Neuvillette has had no need for them. Why should he when he already knows all there is to know about dragons?

“It’s a gift. The sort only feathertails possess,” Neuvillette says quietly. “They may share their gift with their bonded rider. Though, overuse of it can kill as easily as a crossbolt.” His tone turns dark at that, edged with warning. It’s not something he would usually share. His entire mental presence feels tightly coiled like a snake, ready to strike at any sign of threat or movement.

“Is that why feathertails aren’t usually willing to bond?” Wriothesley can’t blame them for it. Humans are more than willing to take all they can at the expense of another. He’s paid for others greed more times than he cares to count.

“They are forbidden to do so, for their safety.”

He’s quiet after that. They both are.

The rest of the room is neat, simple, much like the professor Wriothesley is more familiar with. The walls are bare, so is the floor with exception of the rug beneath his chair. The desk is scattered with papers and piles of books. The only object of interest there is a silver chalice, inlaid with four evenly spaced condessence crystals around its outer surface. A single locked cabinet sits to the side, behind the desk. The teacup and saucer Neuvillette made him drink from last night are sitting atop it.

“If it’s forbidden, then why’d—”

“You should rest a short while longer,” Neuvillette interrupts. “Then you must go to Formation. I will speak to Leadership and ensure the cadet that let the unbonded riders into your room is dealt with.” His voice drops to a low snarl. Even without seeing Neuvillette, Wriothesley knows his lips would be pulled back in a snarl as he speaks.

The last thing Wriothesley wants to do is get up, let alone go to morning Formation. He almost died last night and there’s not a single person in the quadrant who would have a single mote of sympathy for him. In here, he is safe. In here, he doesn’t have to face the fact that five unbonded cadets tried to kill him in his sleep, and a sixth fled.

“Do you know who it was?” he asks quietly, holding his breath.

“You saw who it was. You are unwilling to believe your own observations, which cannot hide from me,” Neuvillette warns. The warm flames of his threatening voice lick at Wriothesley’s insides.

Gods and all be damned. There is no escaping the wrath of a dragon.

“You killed the others,” Wriothesley finds himself stuttering, remembering the muffled sounds of their gasps as Neuvillette chose to silence them. “You didn’t have to.”

“They tried to kill you!” his voice is an earth-shattering roar that shakes Wriothesley to his core. “They almost succeeded had I not intervened.”

Wriothesley slams his palms against his ears reflexively, as if it can block out the deafening rattle. Neuvillette’s untamed rage simmers over his skin and he curls in on himself to avoid the heat of it. The edges of his mind feel like they’re cracking beneath the force of the emotions that flush through him. He knows they’re not his, but the force of it is enough for him to cry out in pain.

Then, suddenly, it all retreats, leaving him completely hollow, chest heaving. He can’t feel Neuvillette, even knowing he is close by does nothing to fill the void the dragon leaves when he shuts himself off from the bond. It’s nauseating, like half his organs are missing and he can feel the cavities of space in his torso.

He’s bent over in the chair; fist pressed against his chest as the ghost of pain flashes through his memory. It’s the same thing he felt days ago, just before he fucked things up with Neuvillette.

“I’m sorry,” a soft whisper comes from the doorway. “I didn’t mean…”

Wriothesley looks up to see a silvery head of hair peeking through the doorway it disappeared through last night. He’s met with glassy eyes, tainted with guilt and the Professor’s figure half hidden by the door.

“The fuck was that?” he asks breathlessly. It’s not the first time it’s happened. The memory of that moment when he spoke with Neuvillette, when the Professor laughed, and he was overcome with something that almost shattered through his skin. Something he passed off as only heartburn.

Whatever it is, it’s Neuvillette’s doing.

“My apologies. Sometimes my control… it slips.” He doesn’t move from the doorway, like he’s terrified if he gets too close to Wriothesley, he’ll burst into flame. His gaze is unceasing, watching the rise and fall of Wriothesley’s chest as he tries to settle his breathing. “Those unbonded cadets would have been executed in the morning in accordance with the Codex. Regardless of your human laws, justice is mine to wield, and I do not dole out punishment where it is not warranted.” His tone is flat, careful.

It makes Wriothesley’s stomach twist realising just what Neuvillette is capable of, how little remorse he has for his actions. What he did all those years ago and showed no remorse for was to help others when the system failed them. What Neuvillette has done, was only for him, a single human being with as much worth as a drop of water in a bucket. His mouth goes dry and the thousands of questions on his mind evaporate the way the rain on his hot skin last night did.

“You must tell no one of Sigewinne’s gift.” The order from Neuvillette comes as a sharp knock to his inner paralysis. He leaves his room, already fully dressed and not a hair out of place, walking with his hands clasped behind his back. “It is essential to ensure her safety.”

“I won’t. I’ve seen what a gift like that can do to a person,” he shakes his head, thinking of Baizhu and terribly he has aged himself by never knowing when to stop. “I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.”

Neuvillette only responds by side-eyeing him as he comes to a stop in front of the desk, where Wriothesley’s damp, blood-soaked clothes hang over the back of the chair in front of it. Seeing the mass of ruined fabric makes him feel a little self-conscious of his bare chest. Navia’s words ‘more scar than skin’ echo in his head, now truer than ever. Neuvillette can see almost all of him that there is to see: marred by scar tissue in every direction.

There must not be much of him to like, especially since the Professor ran for the hills after he’d saved him from falling. The memory of that day is still burned into the inside of his ribs, a library of defining moments, many of which have plagued him his entire life. Why run from him then choose him at Threshing?

He wants to ask, unable to stand not knowing what about him repulsed the Professor so thoroughly.

“That day,” he begins weakly. “Where I’m sure Professor Zhongli tripped you. You fell and I caught you.”

“What about it?” Neuvillette asks over his shoulder as if there is nothing that concerns him.

“You ran… Like I’d done something unforgiveable. But I don’t understand – I never understood.”

Neuvillette turns to him, gaze softening somewhat. “It is as I said last night: you were what I needed. I did not realise until that moment.” He looks downward as if recalling a fond memory, then his composure returns.

“Well… That clears that up.”

With far too much effort required, he pushes himself up and out of the chair, wobbling as his numb legs send him off balance. Everything aches, like he’s just put himself through a weeks’ worth of time at the sparring gym all at once. Each step forward, his stiff joints protest, then give way, eventually loosening enough to let him move like he’s maybe forty, instead of pushing fifty. Fuck, he hates his wretched body so much.

His clothes feel slightly damp, and smell of blood and mud – the exact smell of the camps at the frontlines – permeate through the air. The fabric reeks of it. If he eaten breakfast, he’d be throwing it up. Reluctantly, he throws on the tattered remnants of his shirt and his mostly intact sleeping pants. The feeling of them against his skin makes him shudder. Neuvillette had pointedly turned away as he dressed himself. No one wants to see that.

“I would offer you something else to wear,” Neuvillette says awkwardly distant, turning back to face him now. “But I don’t have anything that would fit you.”

As he pauses, Wriothesley gives him a wry smile, hoping he can cheer himself up.

“And I doubt the other cadets would take kindly to you wearing their Professor’s clothes… no matter the circumstance,” he adds. Despite the tightness of his lips, there’s the hint of amusement in Neuvillette’s voice.

Whatever questions he has for the Sovereign will go unanswered for the remainder of the day, with exception for the simple one at the forefront of his mind. “How should I address you?” he asks. “In here,” he points to his temple, “and here,” he gestures to the room.

For a moment, the Professor blinks rapidly and purses his lips. Wriothesley holds his breath awaiting his answer.

“Perhaps the way others refer to you, by last name only. I will rue the day one of my students calls me Marchosias.” He says his first name with such distaste; the word might as well be poison. “Andromalius is acceptable in here,” he touches his temple the exact way Wriothesley did. “But you must never speak my true name aloud.”

Jaw clenched; he nods.

“You have been one of my best, most passionate students.” There is an uneasiness to Neuvillette’s voice, and he looks to Wriothesley with a shadow eclipsed in his eyes. “These secrets are ours. Guard them as a dragon would.”

The weight on Wriothesley’s chest is unbearable as Neuvillette’s gaze doubles down on him. “Yes, sir.” It’s an automatic reply, one that slips out as his heart trembles.

The slight nod of Neuvillette’s head indicates dismissal, but he can’t find it in himself to move.

He assumes this is where they will part ways.

🌊🐉🌊

A brief visit to his room before morning Formation to find some new clothes that don’t reek of death is in vain. The door is wide open and there’s a slick puddle of bloody water across the floor and the hallway. A few first years who are awake early stare at him as he passes, using towels and blankets to mop up the overflow. The entire hallway reeks of blood and the faint odour of death.

Inside his room is a different story.

How he managed to survive the carnage is beyond him.

Not a single piece of furniture has survived. It’s a mass of splintered wood, all bloated and damp. His uniforms, mattress and blankets are soaked and torn. The window hangs open, swaying side to side in the morning breeze, shards of glass catching the glint of the sun.

Then, there are the bodies.

Five of them. Scattered around the edge of the room. Bloated, with coagulated blood leaking from them which slowly dissolves into the layer of water covering the floor. His stomach lurches with the memories that flash behind his eyes, which water with the effort of fighting the urge to vomit. The vision of Rin’s small, twisted body, blood clotted around his throat and mouth, is haunting.

Fuck.

He can’t be here.

Turning on the ball of his heel, he leaves, slamming the door behind him, uncaring of whether it’ll wake up the rest of the first years, and strides down the hall, desperate for fresh air.

“I apologise for the state I left your room in,” Andromalius’ voice whispers carefully.

It does nothing but make his hackles raise. Mentally, he tries to shove Neuvillette out of his head. The last thing he wants is the dragon to see him weak like this, primes time for rifling through his memories. If Neuvillette won’t tell him anything, he’s sure as shit not entitled to have a field day in his fucked up little noggin.

He’s tired, hungry, barely clothed. Everything he hates being. And it makes him jumpy, reactive, downright unpleasant to be around. White knuckled, he makes his way to central command to request a new uniform in his size and a new pair of sleeping clothes. The administrator quirks an eyebrow at him, and his only response is to aggressively gesture at the state of himself.

His stomach is still churning from the detour to his room, making breakfast a complete miss. Instead, he spends the remainder of his time trying to find a way to cover the horrific scars that now run down his neck. Buttoning his new shirt up hides most of it, but there are still ugly, puckered lines peeking above the collar. He only has to hide them long enough to pass them off as healed, not wanting to draw attention to Sigewinne’s gift.

It’s cold outside, with frost beginning to form a glimmering layer across the stone courtyard. Steamy breaths rise and curl up into the air above the cadets already assembled for Formation.

Tense is not an adequate word to describe the atmosphere in the courtyard this morning. Everyone knows something happened last night. The harsh whispers of gossip flitter through the rows of cadets, mostly in First Wing. There are a few red rimmed eyes that Wriothesley avoids. Friends of those who will be on the death roll Headmaster Furina will read out in a moment.

Most of his squad don’t look at him, with exception of Aether, who looks caught between horror and apology, and Xiao Alatus, who cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. It’s the most attention the third year has ever paid him ever. He’s not sure how to feel about that.

Leadership are stood on the podium at the front: Headmaster Furina stepping up to the podium, Neuvillette absent. She clears her throat the exact same way she does every other morning and runs her hands along the parchment on the dais in front of her.

“Good morning, cadets. In this morning’s death roll, we commemorate the following fallen cadets. Dunya Kashif, Enjou Katou, Gai Ikuhara, Jiwani Sadek and Toshiko Fujiwara,” Headmaster Furina recites in a clear voice. “May their—”

She’s interrupted when one of the courtyard doors behind her squeal open and Professor Neuvillette strides out, expression hard and fixed. He walks straight to Furina, paying no one else any mind and only stops when he’s barely a hair’s breadth from her. She steps back from the podium and looks to him with concern, and he cranes his head down to whisper to her. As Neuvillette speaks, too quietly for anyone – the remainder of Leadership included – to hear, Headmaster Furina’s brow puckers with concern. When Neuvillette pulls away, she nods, jaw clenched.

Wriothesley’s stomach swoops to the ground as Neuvillette eyes him across the crowd for a single moment before he pulls away, turning back to join the remainder of Leadership.

“It appears this morning I must also address a violation of the Codex,” Furina states with a heaviness to her tone that was not there when she was reading out the death roll. “Last night, a group of six cadets broke into another cadet’s room with the aim of killing their victim whilst they slept.”

A few heads turn Wriothesley’s way. He pays them no heed, eyes focusing straight ahead of him, jaw clenched tight as he loathes what is about to happen.

“From the death roll, I am sure you can surmise that five of the six cadets have already been dealt with,” Furina continues. “Killing a cadet in their sleep is an offense punishable by death, as stated per the Codex. The sixth cadet must come forward to receive punishment for their actions.”

Formation is dead silent. If it weren’t for the curling steam wafting above everyone’s heads, Wriothesley would be sure time has stopped entirely.

“Executive officer to First Wingleader, Kunikuzushi Sano,” Headmaster Furina breaks the silence, handing out the death sentence with a wavering voice. “Please step forward.”

“No.” He can hear Aether whisper beneath his breath. “No, what the fuck?” he says again louder, voice cracking with disbelief.

Gasps ripple through formation and heads turn toward where he can see Clorinde standing at the front of First Wing’s formation. Wriothesley rises to his tip toes to see who everyone is looking at and his stomach drops when he sees a short man with dark violet hair walk to the centre and stop right in front of Furina. He raises his arms outward as if to challenge her authority.

“And what evidence is there of my involvement?” he says in a low, hissing growl.

Kunikuzushi Sano is Scar’s full name.

The memory of his shadow veiled face, just before he turned to run, briefly flashes before Wriothesley’s eyes. His mouth goes dry, and he feels sick. He did not want to admit to himself that his own squad mate would help a bunch of unbonded cadets kill him in his sleep.

He’s not even safe from his own squadmates…

They’re going to kill Scar. One of the best fighters in Meropide. Even if he is a complete bastard that deserves to be punished for what he’s done, they need his skills at the frontlines more than anything.

“You are one of four people who has access to the room assignments for First Wing, Claw Section,” Furina states simply, looking down at Scar with pity. “I have serious doubts either of the Travelis twins or Wingleader Magloire would break the Codex, whilst you have the penchant for such.” Her voice pitches higher at the end as she accuses him.

“I suggest you back up your character assassination of me with real evidence, Headmaster,” Scar warns icily. “I don’t take kindly to assumption and heresay.”

“Would an eyewitness account suffice, Executive Officer Sano?” Professor Neuvillette interjects, stepping forward.

“Stop,” Wriothesley warns him. Even from this far away he can see the Professor bristle at his sudden interjection.

“I may not live by your Codex,” Neuvillette retorts in a biting growl. “But I must seek punishment where injustice has befallen a rider.”

Scar huffs with bitter amusement. “Eyewitness? Be my guest.”

“Cadet Wriothesley, step forward,” Headmaster Furina orders.

No. This is getting out of hand. Five have already died for what was done to him. Neuvillette made sure of that.

He doesn’t move a muscle, not even when everyone around him turns to stare at him. His lungs tremble and he does not dare to lift his gaze from the ground in front of him.

“Him?” Scar questions incredulously. “That cadet has had it out for me since day one.” He’s such an excellent liar. “It’s my word against his! He’s framing me because he can’t get rid of me. We’re squadmates and he knows he’d never be able to beat me in a fight.” Lies. All of them, spat like toxic bile.

“That’s enough,” Wriothesley finds himself saying, loud and clear over the top of everyone. His fists are clenched tightly by his side.

Fuck. He shouldn’t have spoken.

“I saw you run, Scar, after you opened the door for them.”

Everyone is silent and Neuvillette watches him eagerly.

“What you did was cowardly. If you’re too good to kill me in my sleep, why don’t we settle this with a fight when I’m awake,” he grits out. If he can fight Scar as punishment in lieu of his execution, Teyvat will be better off with him on the frontlines next year. Maybe his squadmates will hate him slightly less than they already do.

Neuvillette’s lips twitch with displeasure as he and Wriothesley lock eyes. Furina, on the other hand, looks intrigued.

“Well, Cadet Sano,” Furina begins, clasping her hands in front of her. “It looks like you have may have been given a choice.”

“I want a fair fight. No signets. No one dies. We fight till the other yields and that’s it,” Wriothesley adds to his offer, stepping forward to face Scar.

Scar looks insulted. “I’d choose teaching this old cunt a lesson any day over execution. Shall we start now?”

“Professor Mavuika, are these acceptable terms for a trial to prove innocence by duel? It is the way of the court in Fontaine, after all.” Headmaster Furina turns to the combat professor, who tiredly gives her a nod. “Very well. This will be settled in three days’ time.”

Wriothesley can hear the sharp, frustrated inhale Navia lets out near him, likely reliving the day her father, Callas, opted to duel for his innocence instead of facing trial. He really should have thought about this further. Balancing the needs of the Union and the sensitivities of particular relationships feels ridiculous when considering the scale of things. Navia doesn’t even like him anymore, why should he care?

“Nothing further. Dismissed.” Furina closes morning formation, and the cadets uneasily disperse.

He can still feel Neuvillette’s eyes on him and can’t tell whether he is disappointed or agitated with his interference. Surely dragons who value justice don’t see it in such black and white terms.

“Why would you pick a fight you know you cannot win when justice can so effectively be served?” Neuvillette’s voice jars him out of his brooding state.

“Because sometimes instead of punishment, opportunity provides the pathway to redemption,” he bites back. If he had been given the opportunity to avoid punishment during his own trial all those years ago, he cannot imagine how different his life would have been.

As his squadmates walk away, they eye him warily, now unsure of what to make of him. It’s almost funny.

Wriothesley doesn’t even know what to make of himself now.

🌊🐉🌊

The next two days, he spends wandering aimlessly throughout Meropide. Untethered.

His room is a lost cause. He spends much of the first day collecting the shattered bones of his furniture and taking them to the temple to feed Niennë’s flame. Instead of trying to refurnish, he opts to find an empty, unassigned room to move the remainder of his belongings into. It’s a short, sad list consisting of his flight leathers, a summer uniform, his array of weapons and his travel pack.

He doesn’t tell anyone which room he’s moved to. Better keep them guessing to avoid a repeat of last night. Not that he has friends to tell anyway.

The second day, he attends most of his classes, but much of his time is spent dissociated and thinking about his upcoming fight with Scar. Flight lessons are their own particular brand of torture. Even hours before the class starts, Wriothesley develops a cold sweat and feels hot waves of panic wash over him. Being up in the air, almost paralysed with fear is a different story all together. Freminet, even at a distance, also seems to be suffering from a similar kind of affliction.

He hasn’t spoken to anyone in his squad. The lack of socialisation is starting to drive him mad. So, here he is, walking through the forest below Meropide after curfew. Walking at night means he focuses more on where he’s going rather than getting lost in his thoughts. Andromalius has been stubbornly quiet, probably still inwardly screaming over his rider’s stupidity. Sigewinne woke earlier today and was chatty until she eventually fell straight back to sleep. Whatever she’d done, really took it out of her and he feels awful for it.

He still hasn’t even shaved since Threshing… It just adds to the grossness he hasn’t been able to wash off for far too long.

It’s freezing beneath the cover of the trees. The ground is damp and whatever breeze rustles through the valley is ice cold with the promise of winter. Despite the horror of the frontlines, the weather and quiet provides comforting familiarity. At least there’s no one out here that’ll kill him.

He hopes.

He’s wondered around aimlessly for long enough that his knees have started to stiffen in the cold weather, making walking no longer as pleasant as it was. As much as he would love to push on and walk all night long, he turns back toward Meropide.

Owls hoot quietly as they watch for possums to hunt. The occasional rustle of vegetation sounds out as animals bolt away from him as he walks by. It’s peaceful, the way the world is meant to be, absent of the ringing of steel, twanging of bowstrings and the cries of humans fighting one another.

Then he hears voices.

Stopping dead in his tracks, he shucks back his hood to listen more carefully. The rush of cold air against his scalp and ears is unpleasant and biting.

There are not just one or two voices, but at least three or four different people speaking far to the northwest of him. With a heavy sigh, he creeps forward to sate the curiosity welling up inside of him. He’s not a gossip, but he’d give anything to be at an advantage over someone for once.

Having big boots makes it no easy feat to sneak silently toward the voices, so progress is frustratingly slow. In the dim moonlight that barely breaks through the canopy, he can see a dark mass ahead of him and the voices become clearer. He ducks behind the trunk of a nearby tree and listens in.

“Alright, is there anyone else who can take Freminet for sparring practise?” a steady, dispassionate voice asks. “And no, Lyney and Lynette, for the last time, you need to keep your distance. They’ve been watching you three more closely than anyone else.”

Wriothesley doesn’t know who is speaking, not recognising the voice, but he does recognise the impatient huff that Lyney De Hearth lets out.

“I can,” someone sighs reluctantly. “Not that I’ll be very useful.”

“Thank you. Horrer, did you still need help with your history assignment?” the first voice asks. It becomes obvious that this young man is the leader of whatever cloaked mass has gathered in the woods tonight.

“Yeah,” a gruff voice, likely Horrer, replies.

“I’ll help, as long as you help with a set of daggers, Horrer,” a familiar voice offers. It takes Wriothesley a second to realise it’s Xilonen Baraka from his squad.

A sinking feeling envelops his stomach the moment he starts to get an inkling of what’s going on. He screws his eyes shut and breathes in deeply before peeking out from behind the tree he’s hiding behind. It takes him a moment to locate the mass of black cloaked figures in the darkness, but he can see the paler contrast of skin lit by the moon. Each bare face or arm bears a dark set of relic marks. At the centre of their attention stands a cadet, third year maybe, with dark hair and a bandana.

Shit.

He ducks back behind the tree before anyone can see him.

They’re all Marked Ones. Both De Hearth and Natlanese Marked Ones. All in a very illegal gathering, which could have every single one of them facing capital punishment. The mere idea of such a mass execution makes Wriothesley shudder.

“I don’t know if I can take it anymore,” a small voice says. “I—I don’t know if I can take another year of this. If I don’t get chosen next year, I’ll keep having to repeat until I die…”

It’s something Wriothesley has never considered. The Marked Ones don’t have the choice to give up on the Rider’s Quadrant if they’re not chosen at Threshing. They have to repeat the year until they are chosen or… die. The cruelty of the situation: it’s hard to swallow.

“Is something the matter?” Andromalius conveniently asks after being silent almost all day. Wriothesley’s hackles raise with irritation.

“No,” he growls back.

“Shouldn’t you report such a crime?” There is challenge in the dragon’s voice. “More than three Marked Ones gathered, not a single unmarked body in sight.”

Wriothesley knows better than to rise to the bait. “I see a study group. No one here is in need of capital punishment.”

“As I thought.”

He’s surprised Andromalius agrees with him after their bitter disagreement over the six that tried to kill him. The decree regarding the Marked Ones must be a particularly human law that the Sovereign does not care for.

“I have something else in mind for them,” Wriothesley shoots back darkly.

If he lives through his fight with Scar tomorrow, he might have just solved his next biggest problem.

He waits until the group disbands and walks back to the doorway in the cliff beneath the college before he gets up from where he’s been sitting. His ass is unbearably cold and wet and his knees protest as he hauls himself to his feet.

The walk back to Meropide is eerily quiet, and though he knows there’s no one around, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not alone.

Chapter Text

The fight is scheduled after classes finish for the day, giving Wriothesley time to do what must be done before he faces his potential demise. It’s not a fight to the death, but he’s sure as shit not going to trust Scar to know when to stop. If he’s anything like Tachelli, there’s little chance he’ll make it out alive if he doesn’t yield early enough.

It starts with looking for the person who started the shitstorm he’s been drowning in for the past month or so. He needs the promise that things will be set right. Knowing there’s a possibility that he’ll die being hated by the people who were supposed to be like a family to him, makes his skin crawl.

Looking for Lynette De Hearth should have been easy. He expects her to be glued to her twin brother’s side, but realises, that the De Hearth twins are more like the Travelis twins than he anticipated. Lyney is everywhere all the time, and Lynette is unhelpfully absent, slinking through shadows, slipping through gaps unnoticed. It takes skipping two of his classes to locate Lynette, and missing lunch to finally intercept her.

Wriothesley gets himself to strike, innocuously walking down a mostly empty hallway with Lynette behind him. She’s humming beneath her breath and moves with feline agility despite her casual gait. He keeps walking and dampens the sound of his footsteps. Turning the corner, he presses up against the wall, hoping his task might be as simple as immobilising her for a little chat.

The second he sees movement past the corner, his hands spring out, grabbing her bicep and swinging her in an arc toward him. Her back thumps against the wall just in time to offset the thrust of the dagger she sends toward Wriothesley’s abdomen. She grits her teeth as he knocks the dagger from her hand and pins both her wrists to the wall. The dagger clatters to the floor and he keeps a respectable amount of distance between their bodies, not trusting that one dagger will be the end of her arsenal of tricks. She could easily knee him in the groin at this distance, but thankfully, she doesn’t.

“The fuck do you want, murderer?” she hisses, struggling against his grip in vain. “You’re not supposed to be attacking your squadmates.”

He doesn’t want to be doing this, but what choice does he have if no one in his squad will speak to him unless he pours his soul out in front of them.

“I think Scar has shown that doesn’t matter anymore.” Teeth gritted; he shakes his head with exasperation. “I need a favour.”

Lynette recoils. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking for a favour.”

“I think I am. Unless you want me telling Headmaster Furina about your little study group with the Marked Ones,” he says quietly enough that no one further down the halls can hear them.

“Iron One,” Sigewinne whines, disappointed.

Lynette’s eyes widen in horror. “You saw—”

“It’s not what you think,” he hushes Sigewinne. “I did. So, unless you’re keen on another mass execution, I’d listen very carefully if I were you,” Wriothesley warns.

Lynette kicks a leg out and deep bruising pain flares up in Wriothesley’s shin, but his grip doesn’t falter. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he’s got no hope of getting through this if he doesn’t settle her. He kicks her right back in the shin, which will hurt a lot more than when she kicked him. This whole thing makes him feel sick. To her credit, she doesn’t cry out, only clenching her jaw in displeasure.

“I know you chose to cherry pick the facts of my past to turn the squad against me,” he seethes. “So tonight, you’re going to tell them you chose not to tell them why I had to kill my foster parents, and apologise for lying. They’ll listen to you. And if they try to dig for more information, tell them you don’t know anything more.”

“As if I’m going to do that,” she grumbles.

“Make it right, or you, your brothers and all your marked friends will face capital punishment.”

She stills.

“It’s all I’m asking,” he says, a little softer.

“You truly are a manipulative bastard,” she grits out in defeat.

“I feel honoured to be recognised by someone of your expertise,” he retorts with a sweet smile. He pushes back and puts a good amount of distance between them, kicking the dagger that’s been lying uselessly on the floor further in his own direction. He swipes it and tosses it up, admiring the gleam of the blade and the good balance of it.

“I should kill you.”

“And end up like Scar should have?”

Her jaw clenches as she fights back the impulse to hurtle some venomous response his way. She thinks better of it and turns up her nose at him.

“I think I’ll keep this.” He tucks the dagger into one of the empty sheaths at his lower back. He’s pushing his luck. Lynette could count this as stealing. Surely, under the circumstances, she can’t be picky. “I’ll return it to you tomorrow morning if you make good on this. You have my word.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who’s just threatened a mass execution,” Lynette bites back, pushing off the wall and smoothing down her uniform, like being near him has dirtied the fabric.

“Just fix it,” he huffs and stalks away, the heavy feeling of guilt weighing down his steps and nausea plaguing his stomach for hours to come. Lynette walks off in the opposite direction with a noise of disgust.

“And to think you considered me ruthless,” Neuvillette’s sudden, teasing voice envelops his senses, startling him. He shakes his head, like it’ll rid him of the dragon.

“Shut up.”

🌊🐉🌊

Air whooshes past his nose as he jerks back in time to avoid a kick to the face. The second kick whips around, much closer this time, smashing against his forearm as he blocks it. The high pitched woosh of a blade comes after it and he has to lean back far to avoid the claw of steel that would have sliced open his chest.

He’s losing ground and fast. It’s like the crowd of cadets around him are closing in and he’s losing space too.

The jab of a dagger toward his abdomen forces his attention back to where it should be, and he manages to deflect it with his right, poising to strike with his left and – shit, Scar counters him. His heartbeat hammers in his ears and the screech of steel against steel rings out and he misses an opportunity to grapple.

If he can get a hold of Scar, the fight’s over.

He’s fought him twice now. He knows his patterns.

“Not going to watch?” he asks Neuvillette, knocking Scar backward by driving his shoulder forward as he blocks, putting his entire bodyweight behind it. The Professor is stubbornly absent, despite Headmaster Furina and Professors Mavuika, Venti and Xianyun being in attendance.

“I care not for your foolish human desire to prove yourself when justice could have been served so easily,” Neuvillette retorts dispassionately. Scar is quick to get back on his feet, furious that he can be knocked around so easily.

“I think fighting me again is punishment enough when he’s failed to kill me.”

Neuvillette only huffs back and disappears from his head entirely. The absence of him is almost more distracting than his presence, and Wriothesley pays for it when Scar’s fist cracks against his cheek. The tip of his dagger streaks a white-hot line of pain across his stomach. There’s no time to even check how deep it’s gone. He parries, gauntlet clanging against blades and thudding against flesh.

Scar cries out through gritted teeth, the sound barely there, but Wriothesley knows he’s hit where it hurts.

“Fucking asshole,” Scar hisses, wiping blood from his lip. “Wasting my time.” He darts forward, striking low, right where he knows Wriothesley’s knees are weak. It’s a pattern that’s repeated itself many times now.

Pain pulses through the joints as Scar knocks them, then skitters a blade across Wriothesley’s thigh. The fabric of his pants tears open and faint dots of blood bloom in the blade’s wake.

“Should have killed me the first time,” Wriothesley grunts, delivering a debilitating blow to Scar’s ribs that knocks him off balance once more. One of his daggers falls to the mat. The opening is brief, and his hands shoot out to wrap around Scar’s wrists, pulling until the little shit’s got his wrist painfully locked behind his back, shoulder on the verge of dislocation.

He should have seen it coming. His vision flashes white as Scar flings his head back, smashing his skull against Wriothesley’s chin. Blood fills his mouth as his teeth snap shut over the end of his tongue. He stumbles back, just barely missing Scar’s strike.

No one is cheering despite the thrumming energy of the crowd. Everyone stands with bated breath as the two duke it out, neither being well liked by the quadrant.

A single breath of air lasts between them for what feels like several moments drawn out, viscous as honey. Scar is bruised, sweat slicked skin making the small cuts on his face run red. Wriothesley looks like he’s lost a fight with a letter opener.

He spits out a glob of spit that’s mostly blood and hopes his tongue is still in one piece.

In a wave of shared madness, they both cry out as they charge at one another in a surge of desperation. They tangle in a mess of limbs, bruising and bashing. Everything aches as the adrenaline of the fight starts to wear off and the reality of pain and terror sinks in.

The swirling frustration in Scar’s eyes ignites into something dark and deadly. The air around them starts to cool as it moves unnaturally through the courtyard, sweeping up dead leaves in twirling movements.

“Scar,” Aether warns from across the mat – the first person to utter a word since Mavuika called the beginning of the fight. “Don’t.”

The breeze dies quickly, but the tension within them and in the air around them is suffocatingly tight.

Scar was going to use his signet. He must be getting desperate.

The thought spurs on a rush of courage in Wriothesley’s belly, igniting his resolve. He throws himself back into the fight, knowing he might just stand a chance of winning, even if he didn’t need to in the first place.

Crack. It all falls apart. Scar latches onto his arm after a recklessly thrown punch and slams his palm into the joint of Wriothesley’s elbow. He cries out as the unfamiliar wave of pain rips through his arm. It’s smart move; he can handle all kinds of pain but dislocate his joints in such a savage manner… he’s on the floor.

It’s all it takes for him to lose his grip on the fight. He misses the counter strike and ends up only scraping his fist against the side of Scar’s head. A knife to the abdomen comes too quickly for him to stop it entirely. The blade breaks skin, burying the tip a few centimetres deep before the strength of his block really kicks in.

“It’s over, old man,” Scar hums with a satisfied smirk.

Wriothesley’s lips twitch with the hint of a sneer and he throws one last backhand at Scar’s face with his fucked-up arm. The motion of it is agonising, but his strike hits true. Blood pours from Scar’s nose in a thick stream moments before the volley of hits rain down on him.

At least this time Wriothesley’s still got his wits about him.

“Alright!” He shouts out as Scar messing with his dislocated elbow nearly brings him to his knees. He has to tap out before he’s on the floor, begging for the fight to stop. There’s so much blood in his mouth that it dribbles down his lips as he speaks. “I yield!”

For a moment, he’s not sure Scar has heard him, copping a kick to the abdomen, right where he’s been stabbed. He gasps, blood and saliva flying from his mouth as he clutches the irritated wound, knees beginning to buckle beneath him.

It all stops suddenly and Wriothesley is left there kneeling on the mat, repenting for his sins. He spits again and wipes his nose against his left forearm – the intact one, of course. His skin and the dark wraps around his arms come back smeared with crimson.

“Our debt is settled,” Wriothesley says as calmly as he can manage and gets to his feet. “You’re welcome for saving your life,” he huffs quietly. Scar owes him for this.