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2025-01-07
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2025-06-24
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5/?
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Joutava

Summary:

Joutava (Dispensable/Superfluous) | Genre ➼ Fourth Wing/Iron Flame Rider's Quadrant Romance/Tragedy. Pairing ➼ Violet Sorrengail / Xaden Riorson | Words ➼ ?.

Unwanted from birth, cast aside as a frail shadow of expectations—The Sorrengail's forsaken child. The son of the Great Betrayer, a rising force feared for his strength and ambition, a looming challenge to authority. Both outcasts in their own right—one burdened by a legacy of Navarrian blood, the other by a fallen Dukedom—they are thrust together in the brutal crucible of Basgiath’s merciless War College. As alliances fray and survival becomes a daily battle, they must rely on each other to endure. Can they defy the blood-soaked legacy of the Rider's Quadrant and endure where countless others have fallen, or will they be stripped of their niceties, consumed by its ruthless trials?

Warnings | Eventual injury (blood, gore and potential permanent injury) | Explicit Language | Angst | Action/Drama/Romance | Major Character Death | PTSD | Minor sexual content (this will change to explicit content in later chapters).

Chapter 1: Joutava

Notes:

'The devastating truth is that Violet has never mattered to her mother—not really. Her mother had chosen her country over her child long ago. And now, as Violet prepares to step into a world that will consume her, she realises, with crushing certainty, that she is truly, irreparably, alone, left with no other choice but to bear the consequences of her mother's neglect.'

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Violet stirs awake to the familiar chill of a scratchy bed, her fingers brushing against the coarse canvas cover that lay stretched over the down-filled mattress beneath her. It is a sensation she has grown accustomed to, a cold, unyielding presence that greets her most mornings in this secluded cliffside refuge she hesitantly calls home. The faint, silvery glow of dawn filters through the cracks in the stone walls, painting faint streaks of light across the room.

The room is small, its walls rough-hewn and unfinished, with little more than the bare necessities—just a few pieces of furniture, a plethora of books and tomes and the comforting presence of silence. Leaning on one elbow, Violet takes in her surroundings with slow, deliberate movements. Her hazel eyes, still heavy with the remnants of sleep, scan the quiet, shadowed corners of the room, as if seeking some reassurance in the stillness.

There is no one to greet her, no sounds of life to break the silence—just the muted promise of another day in this remote, solitary place she has come to accept as her own.

She is alone. She always has been.

This solitude is a pattern she has come to expect, a rhythm woven into the fabric of her life. The silence wraps around her like a second skin, a constant companion that neither comforts nor disturbs. It simply is, the way things are, something she has long since stopped questioning. In this solitude, she learns to exist without the need for others, to breathe through the quiet and find moments of peace within the isolation. It is a life she hasn’t chosen, but one she knows too well. As much as she has tried to escape it, to find connection, to seek solace in another’s presence, the truth remains unchanged: she is alone.

Her mother, Navarre’s most formidable General, the only remaining figure in Violet’s life who should be a guardian, a protector, and yet, could never be considered a companion, is as unwavering in her cold dismissal of her youngest daughter, as the turning of the seasons. A former rider, now relegated to the role of Legacy placeholder, she often disappears for weeks at a time on classified missions with Command, always prioritising the needs of the nation over the child who desperately longs for her attention, her affection, her approval. Violet often wakes to the oppressive silence, her mother’s absence a constant, hollow ache in her chest.

General Sorrengail spends most of her time vanishing into the untamed wilds beyond Navarre, chasing rogue Gryphon riots, hunting them down with ruthless precision, embodying the very brutality of the nation she serves. It is a purpose that consumes her, a cause that eclipses all else—even her own daughter. And as Violet stands in the echoing silence of their 'home', the weight of that neglect presses down on her, each day another reminder of how easily her mother chooses her duty over her own flesh and blood.

Violet has learned to prepare herself for the day ahead, to fill the emptiness with routine, as if that could somehow make her mother's blatant dismissal of her hurt less. But it never did. It never would. Their lives have fallen into a pattern as unyielding as the erosion of stone by water, each day bleeding into the next, each day marked by her mother’s absence and the unbearable truth that her country will always come before her child. Children. The pain of it, the sheer devastation of being so easily discarded, seeps into Violet's bones like an incurable ache.

But today isn’t just any day. Today is different. Today is Conscription day, the day that looms over Violet’s future like a dark cloud, casting its shadow over everything she’s known.

Today, she has only one choice, one path to follow, one direction her life can now take—the Rider’s Quadrant. It’s not a choice at all, really, but a sentence. A call to serve, to fight, to become something more than the daughter of a woman who has never truly seen her.

The weight of it settles heavily on Violet's shoulders as the reality of the day presses in. There is no room for hesitation, no room for rebellion. She is no longer a child in the quiet, empty house she has come to know so well; today, she must step into the world that demands everything from her. The Rider’s Quadrant, where warriors are forged, where lives are claimed, where survival is a brutal, unforgiving test. It is a fate Violet never wanted, but it is the one she has been handed. And as she stands on the precipice, staring into the abyss of what lies ahead, she knows that nothing will ever be the same.

Where Violet once imagined spending her days immersed in ink and parchment, honing her craft as a scribe and shaping a future where her intellect and words held power, she now finds herself standing at the edge of a life that isn’t hers. Everything she’s ever known, everything that has defined her, has been ripped away, leaving her hollow and aching. The disbelief is a sharp, unforgiving blade, cutting deeper with every moment she spends grappling with the cruel reality: her hopes, her dreams, the very essence of who she is, have been disregarded as if they were nothing.

She dreamed of something else, something better. A life of quiet purpose, of shaping the world with words, not war. But dreams are fragile things, and hers have been shattered, crushed beneath the weight of her mother’s relentless drive. Her mother has taken that from her—taken everything from her—just as she always has. Violet’s life, her choices, her very sense of self have never been her own, and the emptiness that remains is a wound that never stops bleeding.

The sheer indifference with which her life has been rewritten, ignites a seething, bitter fury inside her. It surges through her veins, hot and consuming, a fire born from years of being unseen, unheard, and unloved. This wasn’t just a decision made for her—it was a theft, a betrayal of everything she thought she could be. The raw, aching resentment festers, coiling tight in her chest like a spring wound beyond its limit, trembling on the edge of snapping. It’s a storm she can’t contain, and as it churns within her, it whispers a devastating truth she can no longer deny: to her mother, Violet’s dreams were never more than a fleeting inconvenience, easily discarded in favour of duty.

Her mother—the woman who has always placed her duty to Navarre above everything else, above her husband, her children—has never seen Violet for who she really is, never cared enough to see the child beneath the expectation's set before her. She has never once asked what Violet wants, never once considered her desires or her dreams. To her, Violet has always been just another pawn in the service of the nation, expendable, replaceable, nothing more than a tool to be used for the supposed greater good.

And now, this is her reality: ripped from the life she has prepared for, forced into a future she has never asked for. The Rider’s Quadrant is a death sentence, a place where only the strongest survive, where the weak are crushed beneath the weight of the war machine. And Violet? Violet is just another casualty of a mother who had never once looked back, never once thought about what it would do to her daughter to watch her dreams die in the shadow of Navarre’s cruel ambitions.

The devastating truth is that Violet has never mattered to her mother—not really. Her mother had chosen her country over her child long ago. And now, as Violet prepares to step into a world that will consume her, she realises, with crushing certainty, that she is truly, irreparably, alone, left with no other choice but to bear the consequences of her mother's neglect.

Notes:

So I did a thing. I've been sitting on this for a while and am glad to finally be posting the first few chapters! This fic promises to be a pretty long slow burn type fic, as I focus on completing a number of other fics I have running at the moment, so this is not a story I plan to be fervently uploading new content for every week, but regardless, I hope readers like the world building and character development as much I like writing it!

Chapter 2: Helliget

Notes:

'Over time, she learned silence. Not out of choice, but survival. She buried her resentment so deep that it became a weight she carried in her chest, pressed tight against her ribs. She perfected the art of invisibility, presenting an indifferent mask to a world that had no space for her. Her studies became her refuge, her pen a shield. She kept her head down, offered polite nods to merchants who accepted her coin, and mastered the unspoken rules of a society that demanded conformity at the expense of individuality. To them, she is a quiet, diligent girl who neither sought attention nor defied expectations. The merchants see only what she allows them to see: a girl who asked for nothing and expected even less.'

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sighing heavily, Violet swings her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the icy, unyielding stone floor. The sudden chill forces a sharp hiss of breath from her lips, her body instinctively flinching from the bite of the cold. She doesn’t linger in the discomfort, though—she’s used to such a thing. Her hands, steady despite the turmoil roiling inside her, reach for her scuffed, well-worn leather boots. Sliding her feet into their snug embrace, she feels a fleeting sense of solace in their familiar fit. The leather, softened and shaped by years of wear, has become an unspoken companion, bearing the weight of countless steps across treacherous paths—a quiet testament to the solitary, relentless life she’s endured.

With a slow exhale, she rises to her feet. Her movements are fluid, efficient, as if they’ve been rehearsed a thousand times before. But beneath the practiced calm, there’s a tension coiled tight in her every motion, a strain that betrays the conflict she tries so hard to suppress. She brushes her long, unruly hair—an untamed blend of silver and sienna—over her shoulders, her fingers tangling briefly in the thick curls before letting them fall free. As the faint light filtering through the cracks in the stone walls catches the silvery strands, it seems to flicker, momentarily illuminating her in fragile beauty.

But the light, like so much in her life, feels fleeting—impossible to hold on to. It glimmers for an instant before it’s swallowed by the dimness, a cruel reflection of everything she’s about to leave behind. The conflict within her simmers quietly, unspoken yet palpable, like the storm clouds that always linger on the horizon but never seem to break.

Dressing comes next—a swift, mechanical process dictated by necessity, not vanity. The frigid air bites at her exposed skin, a sharp reminder that the Navarrian winter shows no mercy, not even to those who have long grown used to its cruelty. Violet pulls on her undergarments first, the fabric cold against her flesh, before layering on the thick, coarse robes she owns that offer at least a semblance of warmth. The texture is rough but familiar, a small, grounding comfort against the relentless chill that seeps into her bones and joints.

Her fingers move with practiced precision, fastening the garments as though the motions are second nature. They’re steady, despite the slight callouses that have formed over the last six months—marks left by countless hours spent wielding weapons she never wanted to touch, tools she never asked to master. Her pale skin, dusted with faint freckles that scatter like stars across her face, burns faintly from the cold, a flush creeping across her cheeks as the icy air takes its toll.

There’s no mirror here to catch her reflection, no time to care if she looks presentable. The robes, the chill, the solitude—these are constants in her life, as much a part of her now as the simmering ache in her chest. Even as her fingers finish their work, the weight of the morning presses heavily upon her, her thoughts racing ahead to what this day will demand of her.

As her hands work, her thoughts drift to the land she calls home—or, perhaps more truthfully, the land that merely endures her existence. Once, in the time of the First Six, this region had been a marvel of civilization, a sprawling landscape of gleaming cities and seamless roads that stretched far beyond the edges of the Continent. But centuries have since passed, and the remnants of that era are nothing more than ruins swallowed by time. Now, Navarre is a realm of jagged mountains and untamed wilderness, its vast expanse reclaimed by nature and dominated by magical beasts—the Dragons, most of all—who rule the skies and the earth with equal authority.

This is Navarre, a domain as unforgiving as the people who inhabit it. The Navarrians are fiercely isolationist, their conviction to shun the outside world as unyielding as the peaks that shield their lands. They pride themselves on their strength, their resilience, their ability to withstand anything the world—or the wilds—might throw at them.

But Violet? She isn’t truly one of them.

Not really.

To her, she isn’t Navarrian—or anything at all. From the moment of her birth, she has been cast aside, branded as weak, as different, for reasons no one ever deemed worth explaining. Her existence is an inconvenient truth in the eyes of her people, something better ignored or despised. Even as a child, she had tried—desperately—to bridge the chasm between herself and her peers. To belong. To be seen. But every effort ended in failure, their rejection as cutting as the sharpest blade. Their disdain wasn’t subtle; it was a force that tore through her, unrelenting and cruel, leaving her raw and broken in its wake.

More than once, she had fled their judgmental stares, her small frame trembling as tears blurred her vision. She would retreat into the wilds, stumbling over roots and rocks, seeking solace in the silence of the forests and the whisper of the wind. Out there, away from the suffocating scorn of her people, she could pretend, if only for a moment, that the world wasn’t so small and cruel. But even the wilds could not erase the truth: she had always been alone, an outsider in her own land, a stranger in her own skin.

Time, however, has hardened her, sculpting her soul the way relentless winds shape stone—unyielding, unbreakable on the outside. She no longer cries. Not outwardly, at least. But the pain of their rejection has never truly left her. It clings to her, a quiet, bitter ember buried deep within her chest, refusing to extinguish no matter how fiercely she wills it away. Every day, she is reminded of her place—of what they see her as: an abomination, a mistake. An unwanted presence in the only home she has ever known.

Finished dressing, Violet crosses the cramped room to the small, crude window carved into the cold stone wall. The rough edges of the opening frame her view of the mountains, their jagged peaks catching the light of the rising sun. She squints, her eyes narrowing against the glare as the first rays crest the distant horizon, illuminating the wilderness that stretches endlessly before her. Morning has fully arrived, and with it, the urgency of her plan gnaws at her resolve.

She knows her mother’s routine as intimately as she knows her own. By now, General Sorrengail is likely making her way back from her patrol post along the border, her sharp presence returning just in time to oversee this year’s Conscription Day. The thought makes Violet’s stomach twist, but there’s no room for hesitation. If she’s to slip away unnoticed, she must act now—before her mother’s overbearing shadow suffocates her once more.

Her jaw tightens, her resolve hardening as she turns from the window. Conscription Day doesn’t wait. Not for anyone. Least of all for someone like her. A failure. The shame of Navarre. But as her steps carry her toward the door, there’s something else stirring beneath her bitterness—a spark of defiance. If the world has chosen to cast her aside, she will find her own way through it. One step at a time.

This morning, as Violet descends the mountain pass, her boots dislodging loose stones and scattering dirt in her wake, the eerie stillness of the villages below catches her attention. Normally, the winding paths and wooden walkways would be alive with Navarrians. Their voices—sharp with argument, rich with song, or humming with idle chatter—would echo across the cliffs, filling the air with the pulse of a people who thrived in their isolation. But today, silence hangs over the settlements like a shroud.

She frowns, her gaze sweeping over the quiet scene, the absence of life unsettling in a way she can’t quite place. Yet, she pushes the thought aside. It’s Conscription Day, after all. The most important day in the Navarrian calendar—a day that can empty even the most industrious corners of the province. The villagers have likely gathered near the Conscription Hall or at the training grounds, preparing for the spectacle and ceremony that will define the fates of their youth.

The crisp bite of the season’s first frost brushes against Violet’s face as she reaches a small outcropping of scraggly trees just beyond Basgiath's looming gates. She pulls her cloak tighter, the rough fabric doing little to shield her from the sharp chill. Her freckled cheeks, flushed crimson from the cold, sting faintly with the wind's bite. Beneath a hollow log at the tree line, she crouches to retrieve her hunting dagger from its well-hidden resting place.

The weapon is simple but hers. She had crafted it herself, its wooden hilt worn smooth from use, the blade once serrated now dulled by time and hard winters. Each nick and scratch in the metal tells a story, every one sharper than the blade’s fading edge.

She tucks the dagger into the folds of her cloak and rises, her breath misting in the icy air. The paths ahead, etched into the jagged mountains by generations of Navarrians, are well-worn underfoot but anything but safe. These trails twist through treacherous crags and plunge into shadowed groves, where danger is a constant presence. Beneath rocks, venomous snakes lie coiled in silence, and rabid beasts stalk the thicker stretches of forest. Even the Dragons—those immense, unearthly creatures whose very existence defies explanation—move freely here, their movements swift and indifferent, as if the mountains themselves bow to their will.

Violet knows these trails well, has walked them for as long as she can remember, but familiarity offers little comfort. The wilds are a realm that belong to no one. Each step she takes carries the weight of uncertainty, a reminder that survival here is earned, never guaranteed. The unyielding wilderness stretches around her, indifferent to her presence, a stark reflection of the life she has always known: unforgiving, isolating, and teeming with unseen threats.

Still, for all their dangers, the wilds hold their own kind of treasures—secrets that only the observant can uncover, secrets her father once taught her to seek. Beneath their unforgiving exterior, the forests and crags teem with life and sustenance for those who know where to look. They offer food, medicine, and, most importantly, survival. And Violet knows. Under her father’s patient yet unrelenting guidance, she has learned to read the wild like a map, each plant and animal a marker of opportunity or peril. She can distinguish between berries that nourish and those that kill. She navigates the treacherous terrain with ease, adapting to its harshness, thriving where others might falter.

Her father’s lessons have armed her with a resilience few Navarrian's possess. He believed in preparation above all else, and though his methods were exacting, they are effective. Even now, as she threads through the frost-kissed trees, her eyes flicker to familiar landmarks: a twisted oak whose roots coil like a serpent, a patch of moss glimmering faintly with dew, a cluster of white berries she avoids without a second thought. These details are etched into her memory, a parting gift from a man who had shaped her more than he probably realised.

Violet can’t help but wonder if her people truly understand what lies beyond their hallowed borders. To the Navarrian's, the wilderness is a sacred boundary, an extension of their isolationist creed. It is both shield and prison, separating them from a world they turned their backs on centuries ago. Beyond the continent lies an unthinkable unknown—a forbidden expanse where only the most desperate or defiant dare to tread.

To defect from Navarre is to commit the ultimate transgression, a crime punishable by public execution, the harshest judgment their society delivers. Few dare to break that law. Yet Violet suspects that many would risk it if they truly knew what waits out there—beyond the jagged peaks, the endless forests, and the constraints of a land that confines them.

She wonders, too. What exists beyond the veil of Navarre’s self-imposed exile? Is it a wasteland, as the elders claim, or something else entirely—a realm of possibilities her people refuse to acknowledge out of fear or stubborn pride? The thought tugs at her, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath her carefully composed exterior. But questioning such things aloud is a danger she can’t afford. Here, in the shadow of her people’s unyielding traditions, even curiosity is a form of defiance.

“Navarre,” Violet mutters under her breath, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “Where you can die in safety.”

Her voice, though soft, startles her. She glances over her shoulder, heart skipping as her eyes dart between the frost-kissed trees, half-expecting a figure to step out of the shadows and accuse her of blasphemy. Even here, even alone, she can’t fully shake the fear of being overheard. Talking to herself has become a habit born of necessity, a way to fill the silence that stretches endlessly in her solitude. With her father and brother dead and her sister deployed, her world has shrunk to little more than these quiet murmurs. But even this habit feels dangerous, a risk she cannot take too freely.

As a child, Violet had often given voice to her frustrations—about the betrayal of her own frail body, the suffocating rules of the Navarrian's, and the emptiness of their so-called safety. Her words, too sharp and too honest, had earned her more than a few stern reprimands. Her mother’s disapproval cut like a blade, her father’s rare but thunderous anger leaving scars that words could never heal. Each outburst had strained the already fragile bond between them, a bridge scorched by Violet’s defiance.

Over time, she learned silence. Not out of choice, but survival. She buried her resentment so deep that it became a weight she carried in her chest, pressed tight against her ribs. She perfected the art of invisibility, presenting an indifferent mask to a world that had no space for her. Her studies became her refuge, her pen a shield. She kept her head down, offered polite nods to merchants who accepted her coin, and mastered the unspoken rules of a society that demanded conformity at the expense of individuality.

To them, she is a quiet, diligent girl who neither sought attention nor defied expectations. The merchants see only what she allows them to see: a girl who asked for nothing and expected even less.

Yet for all her efforts to fade into obscurity, there is one person who refused to let her disappear. One person who sees her as she truly is—the Sorrengail's shame and all.

His name?

Dain.

Notes:

*Please note, we will be switching from present to past tense scenarios. Dain and Violet, much like the canon world, are friends, with inferred deeper feelings between them, but are NOT endgame. (I'm too much of a Xaden stan for that to be a thing). Also please excuse any typos or discrepancies, I'm deep in pet parenthood at the moment and good lord whilst puppies are cute, they're exhausting. Sleep? Wha's that?

Chapter 3: Risus

Notes:

'For a fleeting moment, Violet allows herself to simply be—no longer burdened by the past, no longer haunted by the things she cannot change. She focuses on Dain, on the calm that has settled between them, and for once, she chooses to let the world outside fade away.'

Chapter Text

Violet’s boots thud against the uneven ground in a hurried rhythm, each strike echoing faintly in the stillness of the early morning. She weaves her way down the rugged mountain path, her steps deliberate yet swift. There’s a fluidity to her movements—a balance of urgency and the innate caution instilled by years of navigating these treacherous trails.

The air shifts as she descends, the sharp, resinous scent of pine gradually giving way to the open, crisp tang of the valley below. The path twists sharply, forcing her to pivot, her hand brushing against the rough, icy surface of the rock wall for balance. Then it straightens, only to rise once more, leading upward into the hills with a challenging incline.

She ascends with some difficulty, her body not accustomed to the strain, her muscles moving painfully within the confines of her body. Her breath comes out ragged, lungs heaving from the climb. The destination looms close now: the rock ledge hidden deep in the hillside, their sanctuary.

The final stretch is shrouded in wild thickets of berry bushes, an almost imperceptible veil that guards the space from wandering eyes. Violet ducks and pushes through the dense, clawing branches, ignoring the faint tug of thorns at her cloak. As she emerges, the sunlight bursts through the cover, spilling into the secluded clearing and painting it in warm, golden hues.

The ledge stretches before her, untouched and silent save for the rustle of the bushes and the whisper of the wind. A sense of calm washes over her—a rare reprieve from the relentless chaos of her world. Here, surrounded by nature's quiet embrace, she feels, if only for a fleeting moment, like herself again.

As she pushes through the canopy of overhanging vines, there he is—Dain—standing like a constant in the vastness of the valley, his presence unwavering against the sprawling backdrop of mountains and sky.

A smile tugs at the corners of Violet’s lips before she can suppress it, a rare and fragile thing that feels almost foreign on her face. She’s always been reserved with her emotions, her smiles often fleeting, hidden beneath the weight of her status as unwanted. But here, in this quiet space, with Dain, she allows herself a moment of release, however small. He notices, of course. He always does. He once teased her, laughing that unless she was poring over books or scrabbling up trees, he’d never seen her smile.

"Hey, Pilot," Dain calls out, his voice light, easy, and warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.

Violet’s smile morphs into a wry smirk, her eyes rolling as she mutters beneath her breath, “Still can’t get my name right.” It’s a nickname that’s stuck since their first meeting, when she’d whispered her name so quietly he’d misheard it. She hadn’t bothered to correct him then, and now, it’s a lost cause. He’s stubborn, and she’s grown... fond of it, though she’d never admit that aloud.

“Don’t act like you mind,” Dain grins, taking a casual step toward her. He’s always been like that—easy to talk to, never expecting more than what she’s willing to give. She’s never felt the need to hide behind walls when she’s with him.

“Maybe I don’t,” she replies, her voice carrying just a hint of affection beneath the dry sarcasm. She doesn’t offer more, but in the way her gaze softens, it’s clear that, here, in this place, with him, she is more herself than anywhere else.

At that, Dain steps forward with a grin, holding up a loaf of mountain trail bread, its dense shape impaled on the end of his dagger in a comically absurd display. The sight is so unexpected that Violet can’t help but laugh, the sound rich and genuine, catching her off guard as it escapes her lips. It’s the kind of laugh she hasn’t heard from herself in a long time, and for a moment, it surprises her, echoing in the still air around them.

The bread he’s brought is a rare sight in these wilds—something you might only find in the cook stalls of the larger settlements. It’s the kind of bread that’s hearty and substantial, packed with grains, dense in texture, and with a flavour so complex that it stands in stark contrast to the bland, dry loaves Violet has grown used to baking herself. The kind of bread that makes you appreciate each bite because it’s not something you encounter every day. She takes a few steps toward him, her curiosity piqued. With a practiced movement, she lifts the loaf from the tip of his dagger, her fingers grazing its still-warm surface, the heat a gentle reminder of its recent baking. A small piece of bread clings to the edge of the blade, and with a quick flick of her finger, she pulls it free, popping it into her mouth.

The flavour is immediate—rich, nutty, and satisfying in a way that feels indulgent. It’s a taste so different from the simple meals she’s used to, one that lingers in her mouth and makes her savour each chew. There’s something almost luxurious about it, a rare treat she’s not accustomed to. The sensation of biting into something so rich and comforting is almost overwhelming, and she can’t help but let out a quiet sigh of pleasure. Bread like this, in these wild mountains, feels like a special occasion—an extravagance, like a fleeting moment of indulgence that one must savour to its fullest.

“Still warm,” Violet murmurs, a note of genuine appreciation in her voice as she holds up the loaf between them. Her hazel eyes meet Dain’s, a fleeting softness in her gaze as she watches him. “What did it cost you?” she asks, her tone curious, though there’s a hint of playful scepticism in her voice.

Dain shrugs nonchalantly, though his expression betrays a spark of pride.

“Less than usual,” he admits, his eyes lighting up with something akin to triumph. “I think the old man at the stall was in a good mood. He even wished me luck before I left.”

Violet can’t help but snort softly at that, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Well, it seems like everyone’s feeling sentimental today, no?” she says with a smile, though there’s a wry edge to her words.

She reaches into her pouch then, the movement fluid and effortless, and pulls out a pair of duck eggs. The smooth shells glint faintly in the sunlight, catching the light just so, their pale hue a contrast against the deeper greens and browns of the landscape around them. She holds them out toward him with a small, quiet pride.

“Managed to prep these before leaving this morning,” she says, her voice a little softer now, the warmth of the moment settling between them as she offers him the eggs in exchange.

Dain’s face brightens the moment his eyes fall on the duck eggs, a grin spreading across his features like a child who’s just been handed the best treat imaginable.

“Now, isn’t that just the sweetest thing?” he says, his voice dripping with exaggerated reverence as he looks upward, as though offering a silent prayer to some higher power. “Thank you, Vi. We’ll feast like the Great Betrayer himself today.” His words take on a sudden, theatrical flair, and he straightens his back dramatically, adopting a stiff, exaggerated accent, much like Colonel Pancheck—the pompous figure who arrives annually to announce the names of those selected for the Rider’s Quadrant.

“I almost forgot! Rise up to the call!” Dain announces with mock grandeur, suddenly plucking a handful of ripe blue-berries from the nearby bushes with a flourish. He tosses one high into the air, his eyes glinting mischievously as he aims it toward Violet.

Without missing a beat, Violet opens her mouth, catching the berry effortlessly. The delicate skin bursts against her teeth, flooding her senses with a sharp, tangy sweetness that lingers, momentarily taking her by surprise. She swallows, savouring the flavour, then looks up at him, a playful smirk curling her lips.

“The Gods willing, may you return home!” she says, mimicking Colonel Pancheck’s over-the-top ceremonial flair, her voice a perfect parody of his pompous tone.

The humour is like a salve, a vital relief from the silent heaviness that clings to both of them, threatening to drown their every thought. In this space, with the weight of their burdens constantly pressing down, laughter becomes an essential lifeline. If they didn’t find a way to joke, Violet knows the fear would inevitably seep in, wrapping itself around their hearts and squeezing until they could no longer breathe.

And then there’s the absurdity of the noble accent, so far removed from the reality of their lives. Its exaggerated intonations and stiff, formal cadence make everything—especially their darkest customs—seem ridiculous in the light of day. The shift in Dain’s voice, so overtly theatrical, pulls them both away from the grim truths they try to bury deep. It makes it easier to breathe, to forget—if only for a moment—that the world they live in isn’t just harsh, but unforgiving. That the life they’ve built on these shared moments of levity might shatter at any time.

Dain pulls a small, weathered wooden knife from his pouch and begins slicing the bread with deliberate precision. His movements are smooth, almost meditative, as he carves through the dense loaf. Violet watches him quietly, her gaze drawn to the fluidity of his actions. For a moment, she loses herself in the rhythm of the motion, her thoughts drifting like leaves on the wind.

She can’t help but study him, as she often does in these stolen moments of peace. His appearance is so different from hers, and yet, there’s something about it that feels familiar. His hair is close-cropped and light brown, the curls a soft tumble that contrasts with the sharp lines of his jaw. His skin, a deep tan from the sun, holds a warmth that seems to seep into the air around him. His face, with its quiet strength, is framed by eyes that carry the colour of weathered leather—steady, solid, and resolute.

Violet’s own appearance stands in stark contrast. Her hair, wild and unruly, tumbles around her face in a riot of curls that catch the light like starlight caught in a net. Her skin, pale as untouched snow, feels delicate, fragile almost, beneath the weight of the world she carries. And then there are her eyes—sharp, piercing blue and gilded gold, like the gleam of the sun on water—always moving, always alert, never still for too long.

Despite these differences, however, there’s an unspoken harmony between them. Where she is driven, her edges always sharp, always striving for something more, Dain is the grounding force, steady in his calm, his strength a quiet force that balances her own restlessness. In this strange world, where everything feels out of place and uncertain, there’s something comforting in their bond.

In the rare moments when the world quiets, when the weight of their separate lives fades away, Violet often allows herself to entertain the thought that, perhaps, in another life, in another time, they might have been family. 

Violet’s mind drifts back to a story Dain once shared, one that lingers in her thoughts like a half-remembered dream. It’s a tale of their parents, long before the weight of time and loss had carved their lives into something unrecognisable. Back then, before Violet’s father’s untimely death, he and Dain’s mother had been close—more than acquaintances, even. They had worked together, studied side by side, in a modest potion shop tucked away in one of the smaller settlements. The shop catered mostly to the merchant class but saw the occasional wandering traveller who needed a remedy or a salve.

Her father, before the chains of his duty as a Scribe, had trained as a healer. He would venture into the wilds to gather medicinal herbs, foraging for plants that could save lives. And it was to Dain’s mother that he would bring those herbs, to help her brew the potions and remedies that were known to work wonders—remedies that had saved countless lives, far more than anyone could count. It was a small, unassuming life they had, but to Violet, it feels distant, like the echo of a life that was never fully her own.

The thought stirs something dark and bitter inside her. Dain’s mother must know things about her father, things that Violet never had the chance to learn. She must have seen him as something other than the distant, often reserved man who had raised her. Her father had cared for her, yes, but in a way that always felt obligatory, never out of the warmth of love. Love, Violet thinks, is something her father never quite understood. He had been there, dutiful and steadfast, but something inside him had always remained closed off.

The resentment bubbles up, but Violet forces herself to push it away. She knows, deep down, that her father was beloved by many, not just her. He had his own history, his own relationships, and for all his faults, he had done his best for her. Still, forgiveness is a heavy burden, one she has never been able to carry, no matter how hard she tries.

She turns her gaze back to Dain, who has just finished slicing the bread. He looks up at her, a quiet understanding in his eyes. She lets out a small sigh, the weight of her thoughts slipping away, for now. There’s no room for the past in this moment, no space for the bitterness that lingers in her heart. For now, all that matters is the here and now—the brief respite they have before the world calls them back, demanding their attention, their duty.

For a fleeting moment, Violet allows herself to simply be—no longer burdened by the past, no longer haunted by the things she cannot change. She focuses on Dain, on the calm that has settled between them, and for once, she chooses to let the world outside fade away.

Chapter 4: Fatis

Notes:

'It had taken months of watching him, observing how he interacted with others, how he never seemed to judge her, how he stuck around even when she made it clear she wanted to be left alone. Slowly, against her own will, she began to lower her guard, allowing herself to believe—just a little—that maybe, just maybe, not every Navarrian hated her for things beyond her control, for things that still didn’t make sense.'

Chapter Text

Dain’s hands move with practiced care, each motion deliberate as he spreads a layer of smooth goat cheese across the hearty slices of Mountain bread. He places a single, vibrant winterberry leaf atop each piece with the precision of an artisan perfecting a piece of fine art. His attention to detail contrasts with the ruggedness of their surroundings, and Violet, crouched a short distance away, watches him for a moment before returning to her task.

She reaches for the plump berries nestled along the thorny bushes that hug the rocky slope. The bushes are thick with fruit, their sharp branches a reminder of how the land protects its bounty. They’ve chosen their spot wisely—a secluded nook hidden among the jagged mountain cliffs. Here, they are shielded from the world, the wilderness itself serving as a veil that keeps them unseen, while the view from this vantage point offers an uninterrupted sweep of the winter valley below.

The quiet scene around them carries a deceptive tranquillity. The valley, despite the chill of the season, hums with life. Men and women move through the frozen landscape, gathering the last of the edible greens, their hands quick and sure despite the bitter wind. Others dig stubborn roots from the frost-bitten earth, their movements steady, undeterred by the cold that bites at their skin. Fisherfolk stand along the edge of frozen rivers, their nets cast out in the hopes of catching the darting fish that still brave the icy depths beneath the thin veil of snow and ice.

Above, the sky stretches wide and clear, a perfect expanse of blue broken only by the occasional wisps of pale cloud drifting lazily across the horizon. A brisk, crisp breeze rolls down from the higher peaks, carrying with it the faint, woodsy scent of snow that lingers on the distant mountaintops, a reminder that winter’s grip is only beginning to tighten. In this quiet moment, with the rugged beauty of the valley stretching out before them, everything feels still, as if the world itself has paused for a breath.

For Violet, the moment seems almost too perfect, as if it’s been plucked from the fabric of a dream. She and Dain sit side by side, their legs crossed comfortably on the cool stone beneath them, surrounded by the rugged beauty of the mountains. The meal between them is simple, yet each bite is a treasure. The goat cheese, soft and creamy, melts into the dense, warm slices of Mountain bread, its tangy richness balancing perfectly with the sweetness of the berries that burst with each bite. For a brief moment, Violet allows herself to sink into the tranquillity of the scene, the quiet rhythm of their meal an anchor in the middle of a world that demands so much more from them.

'If only', she thinks wistfully, her eyes drifting over the snow-dusted landscape stretching out before them.

She allows herself to imagine, just for a heartbeat, a life without the constant tug of duty and expectation. A life where she and Dain could simply exist in these mountains, wandering freely from one hidden nook to the next, hunting together, gathering the fruits of the land, and sharing meals by a crackling fire beneath the open sky. In this brief, beautiful illusion, the world outside seems far away, and the only thing that matters is this moment, this peaceful, unburdened space between them.

But that peace, as fleeting as it is, is quickly overshadowed by the weight of reality. Violet’s gaze shifts, eyes scanning the endless stretch of wilderness that surrounds them, but the brief reprieve is over. She knows the clock is ticking. By two o'clock, they will have to leave this quiet refuge and make their way to the Conscription Hall. They’ll stand amidst a crowd of hopefuls and their families, their futures hanging in the balance. The names of the candidates for the Rider’s Quadrant will be announced, and Violet knows that it's her name that will be called. The thought makes her stomach tighten. Of the hundreds of children, she's been chosen to face the brutality of Basgiath’s trials, to be thrust into the blood-drenched chaos of the Rider’s Quadrant where survival is a fleeting thing, and death is a near certainty. The warmth of the meal, the beauty of the moment, feels suddenly distant.

“We could leave, you know,” Dain says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the moment. It’s quiet, almost tentative, as though the idea slips out before he can fully grasp it.

Violet turns to him, her brow furrowing. “Leave? What are you talking about? Leave Navarre? Where would we even go?”

“Into the wilderness,” Dain replies, his voice gaining strength as he continues. “You and I. We could make it. Hunt, fish, live off the land. No Conscription Day, no Navarrian laws. Just us, out there in the wild.”

Violet stares at him, her mind grappling with the weight of his words. For a moment, she’s suspended between disbelief and the strange allure of what he’s proposing. The idea is absurd, reckless, even dangerous, and yet—there’s a part of her that longs to entertain it, to allow herself to imagine the possibility of such freedom.

“But we can’t,” she finally says, shaking her head as if to dismiss the very notion. “We’d never make it out alive.”

Dain’s expression softens, a brief flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before he lets out a low, resigned sigh.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know. But sometimes, I wonder what it would be like... to just disappear. To have a life that’s ours, free of all this. I guess we’re just not meant for it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and bittersweet. Violet remains silent, her heart a mix of longing and reality. For a moment, the fantasy feels tangible, but the harsh truths of their world quickly push it aside.

Violet looks away, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The truth weighs heavy on her chest: no one really relies on her. Her mother might as well be a ghost, existing in a world where Violet doesn’t even exist. Mira, her sister, is hardly ever in contact, her military duties keeping her away more and more each week.

But Dain? He’s different.

Dain’s burden is different. He’s the son of General Sorrengail's most trusted advisor, Colonel Aetos. The expectations of the Navarrian elite are vast, heavy—great things are demanded of him. His absence would create a ripple, a void that Navarre cannot afford. If Dain were to vanish, it would leave a hole too wide for anyone to fill. Navarre couldn’t afford to lose him.

“If we left... do you think they’d even miss us?” Violet asks, her voice barely a whisper. It’s more a thought aloud than a question meant for him. “Or would we just... disappear, like the others?”

Dain’s silence answers her better than any words could. It stretches out between them, thick with unspoken truths neither one of them wants to face. Violet can almost see the faces of the people they’d leave behind—the faces that would search for them, long after they were gone. Colonel Aetos, stoic and unyielding, would hunt for his son until his last breath. The thought stirs something inside her, something she can’t quite name.

She forces the feeling down, pushing the thoughts aside.

“I never want children,” she says abruptly, the words spilling out before she can second-guess herself.

“I do,” Dain replies, catching her off guard.

“Of course, you do,” she snaps, irritation flaring. “You’re Navarrian. It’s practically in your blood to want children, to carry on the legacy of our ‘great nation’.”

“Is that really such a bad thing?” Dain fires back, his voice sharp with a challenge. "You speak as though you're not Navarrian yourself, but the same blood that runs through my veins, runs through yours, Vi."

Violet rolls her eyes, pulling her knees up to her chest, her chin resting on them as she stares blankly ahead. The conversation feels all wrong—disjointed and out of place, like words tumbling from a story she never wanted to write.  Why Dain is suddenly pushing these ideas—about leaving, about children, about a future that feels so far out of reach—she doesn’t understand. The weight of their lives presses against her chest, and she longs for something simpler, something that feels more real than these distant fantasies.

Still, her thoughts drift, pulling her back to the day they first met. She had been five then—thin, awkward, and full of defiance, as if every inch of her body carried the weight of a world that had never quite accepted her. The mountains that loomed around them seemed a fitting backdrop for her own hardened heart, and she had carried that chip on her shoulder as if it were her armour. Dain, on the other hand, was already a year her senior, and even as a child, he carried with him a quiet confidence that seemed to shine through in everything he did. He was sure of himself in a way Violet could never understand, and at first, his ease with the world had irritated her, only deepening the distance she kept between them.

It had taken months of watching him, observing how he interacted with others, how he never seemed to judge her, how he stuck around even when she made it clear she wanted to be left alone. Slowly, against her own will, she began to lower her guard, allowing herself to believe—just a little—that maybe, just maybe, not every Navarrian hated her for things beyond her control, for things that still didn’t make sense.

Dain had been relentless in his patience, never pushing too hard, but always there. His quiet persistence slowly wore down her walls, and in time, he became the closest thing she had to a friend. He was a rarity in her life—someone who didn't look at her with suspicion or disdain, someone who simply accepted her for who she was.

But that was all it had ever been. Friendship. Nothing more. Surely.

She tries to shake the thoughts away, but they linger, unwanted.

“We should head back,” Violet says, her voice sharp and purposeful, her gaze shifting toward the path that will lead them home. “My mother will notice my absence if I’m not careful.”

Dain gives a single nod, his face betraying no emotion. His eyes remain fixed ahead, the weight of the day pressing down on him too.

“Let’s fish at the lake before we go,” he suggests, his voice steady but with a hint of quiet resolve. “Set up the nets, gather what we can from the woods. We’ll have enough for tonight.”

Tonight.

The word lingers, a heavy thing between them. The promise and the dread of it.

Tonight, the names would be called, and the lives of their families would be irrevocably altered. For some, it would be a night of celebration, a relief to keep their sons and daughters home. For others, it would be a quiet mourning, the kind that stays hidden behind closed doors and well-meaning distractions.

By the time they reach the market in Basgiath's main village, their packs are brimming with the day’s bounty—fish, roots, berries, and more, each item a small testament to their quiet work. Violet lingers at the edge of the bustling square, her attention drifting as Dain takes over the trading. His hands move with practiced ease, exchanging fish for bread and salt, bean-stems for parchment, each transaction conducted with a calm efficiency that belies the tension she feels thick in the air.

She watches, half in admiration, half in distance, as he bargains without hesitation, always fair, always polite. He’s good at this, at making things happen without making waves, and it’s a skill that feels almost foreign to her.

When their dealings are done, they head toward the southern most gate leading into Basgiath, the weight of what looms ahead settling like a stone in Violet’s stomach. She glances at Dain, catching the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders slump slightly, as if he’s already carrying a burden too heavy to bear. He doesn’t speak, but she feels it—the quiet gravity of the moment.

“See you at the Conscription Hall,” Violet murmurs, unsure of what else to say. The words feel inadequate, meaningless in the face of what they both know is coming.

Dain attempts a smile, but it’s hollow, a quick flash of something that vanishes too fast to hold onto.

“Wear your Sunday best,” he replies, his voice flat, as though it’s a ritual they both know by heart.

And just like that, they part ways, each of them heading toward their own separate path, toward a future that remains uncertain, carrying with them the silent weight of all that’s unsaid.

Chapter 5: Vastustus

Notes:

'This is the price of resistance.'

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Silently, people from every corner of Navarre begin to trickle into Basgiath, making their way toward the officials overseeing the grim spectacle of Conscription Day.

One by one, each eligible candidate reports to the registration tables, their presence noted, their names recorded. It’s a cold, methodical process—an exercise in control—allowing the powers that be to take stock of the people within their reach. Violet can’t help but think of it as a cattle auction, where the humans who stand before the officials are little more than numbers, commodities to be counted and catalogued. The analogy gnaws at her, making her stomach twist with a deep, primal revulsion.

As the day stretches on, the candidates—those between the ages of twenty and twenty-three—are herded into segregated lines. The boys are directed to one side, the girls to the other. Violet feels the division in her bones, as if the very air around her vibrates with the cruelty of the separation. It is as though the officials can’t bear for men and women to mingle, as though the mere presence of one another would soil the purity of the process. She watches as the older candidates are ushered to the front, their positions commanding respect, while the younger ones, like herself, are pushed to the back of the line, their fate not yet determined. It’s a cruel sort of hierarchy, and Violet can’t shake the feeling that she’s nothing more than a pawn in a game she never agreed to play.

She stands there, toward the rear, her eyes scanning the sea of faces ahead of her, knowing that each one will eventually face the same grim fate—pulled into the fold, forced to serve a system that cares nothing for the lives it tears apart, be their fate a Rider or otherwise.

For a fleeting moment, she wonders what it would feel like to disappear into the crowd, to slip away unnoticed, to avoid the inevitability of the day. But there’s no escaping this. Not now.

Around the gathering, families form tight circles, each clasping hands with a desperate urgency that betrays their fear. Their unity is a fragile thing, clinging to the last vestiges of security they have left as they await the unknown. But among them, there are others—people who have no one to lose or perhaps have grown so numb to the horrors of this day that they move through the crowd with a cold detachment. There then exist individuals, often the wealthy or the powerful, slipping through the masses with unsettling ease, their eyes scanning the candidates with calculating interest. They trade whispers, exchanging cruel bets about who is most likely to be taken, judging each person’s worth by their age, their status, and whether or not their departure will be marked by tears. They speak with a chilling disregard, wagering on the fates of lives as though they were nothing more than pieces on a board, to be moved and discarded without a second thought.

Most of the crowd avoids these opportunists, particularly the Nobles, whose hearts are as cold as the coin weighing down their pockets. But there are those who walk the fine line, recognising the value in what these figures could offer—information. They know that, in this world, it’s not a matter of if you break the law, but when. Violet herself is no stranger to bending the rules, sneaking away from her responsibilities and defying the expectations placed upon her. She knows the consequences are real and could be swift if anyone cared enough to take notice. Yet, for now, the name Sorrengail still carries weight, even though it no longer holds the power it once did. It’s a name that still grants her certain protections, a shield against the worst of the dangers lurking in the shadows. But Violet understands the truth: the name alone won’t save her forever. It’s a fading light, and even the Sorrengail legacy can be forgotten, its protection slipping through her fingers like sand.

The crowd presses in, expanding like a living thing, its collective breath growing heavier with each passing moment. The air feels thick, oppressive, as though the very space around Violet is shrinking. Basgiath, with all its size and stature, can scarcely contain the swelling mass of people gathered here today. Even as the vast settlement stretches far and wide, it proves inadequate to hold the influx of this year’s candidates, leaving those who arrive late no choice but to spill beyond the city’s borders. They are ushered to the edges, where the guards stand sentinel, their sole duty to transmit any developments from within, offering updates on the grim proceedings as the candidates await their fate.

Violet stands among a group of twenty-year-olds, the tension in the air palpable, the weight of uncertainty heavy on every shoulder. Her gaze drifts over the sea of faces, and for a brief moment, she locks eyes with a girl she recognises. The girl is Dain’s cousin, a fleeting acknowledgment exchanged in the form of a single nod before Violet quickly averts her gaze, the familiarity too fleeting to hold her attention for long. She turns her focus back to the makeshift dais, her eyes tracing the arrangement of chairs set up for the Navarrian Command.

Each chair seems to loom larger the longer she stares at them. Her palms grow clammy, the sweat pooling beneath her fingertips as her hands tremble ever so slightly. Violet does her best to ignore it, pushing her unease aside, but it clings to her like a second skin. She forces her eyes forward, struggling to keep her mind from racing, to block out the relentless countdown to what is about to come.

Two of the three chairs are occupied. Colonel Aetos and Melgren sit with quiet authority, the weight of their presence filling the air, their expressions unreadable as they wait. A third chair is filled by Varrish, his grin as infuriatingly smug as ever, his attire a blood-red reminder of his ever-looming influence. The sight of him, perched like some malevolent bird of prey, sends a cold shiver down her spine.

‘How fitting,’ Violet thinks bitterly. ‘Blood and power, always so entwined.’

Murmurs ripple through the Command, low and uneasy, as their eyes flick toward the conspicuously empty chair meant for General Sorrengail. Even the typically unshakable Varrish shifts in his seat, his smug expression faltering for a fraction of a second. The question lingers between them, unspoken but heavy—where is she?

Then, just as the tension threatens to mount further, movement stirs at the edge of the platform. A figure ascends the dais with practiced ease, her presence commanding silence even before she speaks. General Lilith Sorrengail—Basgiath’s most formidable force—cuts through the gathering with the cold, sharp precision of a blade. Draped in her signature black uniform, her silver-streaked hair pulled tightly back, she wastes no time in addressing the masses.

She launches into the opening address with the same severity as years past, her voice measured, impassive, polished by decades of war and duty. She recounts the ancient, brutal conflict that birthed their nation—the war for land, for resources, for survival in a world teetering on the edge of ruin. She speaks of the Battle of the First Six, where the original Navarrian's rose from the ashes of cataclysm—firestorms, floods, collapsing coastlines—to carve out a kingdom amidst the chaos.

Her words are a sharpened narrative, glorifying conquest and resilience. She reminds them of the rebellion that followed—the so-called uprising of the Tyrrish—relegated by history and Navarrian propaganda to a footnote of foolish defiance. Lilith speaks of its swift, merciless quashing, a “necessary purge” to preserve order, as she frames it. She never uses the word genocide—though those descended from the Tyrrish bloodlines might whisper it behind closed doors—but everyone present knows what she means.

The Tyrrish Rebellion, she claims, served as a dire warning: that the cost of disobedience is annihilation, that sovereignty belongs to the strong, and that the Navarrian military remains the dominant power across the continent. It’s a message delivered like scripture—polished and proud, but laced with threat. For many in the crowd, her speech is more than a history lesson. It is a declaration: dissent will not be tolerated. And for those of Navarrian blood, it is a reminder of their so-called birthright—one forged in conquest and perpetuated by fear.

Though many are blind to it—or perhaps wilfully so—Violet sees through the veneer. She always has. Beneath the pomp and pageantry of Conscription Day, beneath the carefully orchestrated speeches and the hollow praises of service and honour, she reads the truth hidden between the lines. She always has. Her mind, trained by years of quiet observation and the endless turning of pages in ancient tomes, is sharper than most give her credit for. Where others see tradition, she sees a cage. Where others feel pride, she tastes bitterness.

Conscription Day, she knows, is nothing more than a masquerade—a cleverly veiled performance used by Command to tighten its grip on the continent. The Riders Quadrant, Basgiath, the so-called glory of it all... it’s a farce. A punishment. A blood-tax levied in the aftermath of rebellion and defiance.

Each year, every province outside of Navarre is forced to offer up a number of their own—equal numbers boy and girl—plucked from among their youth like lambs to the slaughter. It’s framed as a calling, a duty, a great honour. But Violet sees it for what it is: retribution. A means of control. A message etched into bone and blood.

This is the price of resistance.

The rebellion may be long extinguished, its flames doused beneath Navarrian boots, but its consequences linger like ash in the lungs. Whether a province once raised arms against Navarre or merely hesitated in joining the crusade against Tyrrendor, the result is the same: subjugation. And what better way to flaunt that subjugation than to force them to send their children to fight, to bleed, to die?

Those chosen—or foolish enough to volunteer—are matched in pairs, boy and girl, drawn from separate provinces. Together, they are cast into an open-air battlefield, usually the sprawling flight fields of Navarre, where they must face monsters, both human and otherwise. There is no aid, no mercy. They fight until only one pair remains.

The surviving pair is granted a life of privilege, a gilded cage of wealth and ease. Their home province is showered in gifts—primarily food, the one currency that holds sway in the lean months. But the cost is grotesque. For every victorious pair, there are dozens of corpses. Dozens of families left with nothing but memories and the knowledge that their child died for a senseless cause.

And for those families, there is no feast. No honour. Only silence.

The truth is stark. This isn’t about survival. It’s about humiliation. Domination. Navarre does not simply punish the rebellious—they display them, broken and dying, as proof of their supremacy.

'Look how we strip your youth from your arms, send them to die for our amusement—and know this: you are powerless to stop us,' the display says. 'Raise a hand in protest, and we will crush you. Speak a word of defiance, and we will burn your province to ash. We are the architects of your silence, and every drop of your children’s blood is a reminder that you belong to us.'

Violet knows this. She knows it too well. And as she stands among the crowd, watching the ceremony unfold like a gruesome dance, she wonders just how many others pretend not to see the truth she cannot unsee.

General Sorrengail concludes her speech with the finality of a gavel strike, her voice ringing out across the assembly as she turns from the podium and gestures toward the seated officials behind her.

“General Aetos,” she calls, her tone as composed as ever, “if you would.”

All eyes shift as General Aetos rises, the crisp lines of his uniform immaculately pressed, though no amount of polish can mask the flicker of discomfort in his expression. He moves with practiced poise to the front of the dais, but Violet, ever observant, notes the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands momentarily clench at his sides before he lifts them in greeting.

His voice booms over the hushed crowd, delivering the same rehearsed benediction that has opened every calling for the last two decades.

“The Gods willing,” he calls, his voice faltering just slightly before he regains control, “may you return home!”

A ripple passes through the gathered mass of families, officials, and candidates—a collective breath caught in thousands of throats.

Violet scans the crowd instinctively, and her gaze snags on Dain. Even from this distance, she can see the tension in his shoulders, the forced steadiness in his stance. He meets her eyes for a heartbeat, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades. His smile—small, crooked, and bitter—lifts one corner of his mouth, and Violet feels the ache of it deep in her chest. There’s irony in that look, a shared understanding of the cruelty of this ritual. Then something shifts in his face, something tightens, and he looks away.

She knows what he’s thinking. It’s the same thought gnawing at her bones—What if it’s him? What if it’s me?

She wants to reassure him. 'It can’t be. There are thousands of us here. Thousands of names in that draw'. But the words stay trapped in her throat.

Then Aetos speaks again, and the moment shatters.

“Our first candidate has been chosen.”

His hand reaches slowly into the pocket of his coat, fingers retrieving a single slip of parchment. The crowd leans forward as one, anticipation mounting like a storm. The stillness is deafening.

He unfolds the paper with care, the rustle of it impossibly loud. A heartbeat. Two. Then—

“Violet Sorrengail!”

The name slices through the air like a blade, cutting clean and precise.

And just like that, the world stops turning.

Notes:

Hi. Hello. I have no idea what I'm doing. Please enjoy! 😃