Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Traitor.

The word reverberated through her skull, sharp and damning. It was all she could do not to let the world tilt out from under her.

Not that it hadn’t already—yesterday, when she’d been dragged from the theatre and marched back under guard, confined to her chambers like a prisoner.

It had been public. Purposeful. A message.

She was a traitor’s daughter.

Now, seated in the open hall, Leora is ripped from her thoughts by a low, guttural growl. A dragon’s growl.

Every nerve in her body sparks with terror, but she schools her expression.

Don’t look a dragon in the eye. That’s what her father had always told her.

But she doesn’t dare look away as a green dragon locks onto her, its gaze sweeping her from head to toe. She would not show fear today.

Only when the dragon huffs and turns away does she finally exhale, casting a glance toward her father.

He still can’t look at her. Shoulders hunched, eyes hollow. Guilty. Not of cowardice. But conviction. Whatever he did… he believed in it.

“Lieutenant Whitethorn, you are hereby found guilty of treason against the Continent. For conspiring with rebels against the citizens of Navarre.”

Leora’s stomach drops. Around her, the crowd murmurs. Some in disgust, others in agreement. A dragon screeches from above, as if echoing the sentence.

“And your daughter, Leora Whitethorn. She has—”

“She knows nothing!” her father yells. His voice cracks. The first words he’s spoken since they were thrown into the hall. “She’s innocent. She knew nothing of my actions.”

“How can we be certain?” General Sorrengail’s voice cuts like a blade. Her brown dragon looms behind her, neck extended, nostrils flaring near Leora’s face. Ready to strike if she so much as breathes wrong. Leora stills.

If I die today, so be it.

But another general speaks. The shorter, broader man flanked by the green dragon. “The Lieutenant is right. There’s no evidence tying the girl to his rebellion.”

Grumbles rise around the room, some protesting, others uncertain.

“But she’s a liability!” someone shouts from the crowd, and the room explodes into chaos.

“A dancer? A liability? I highly doubt it.”

Dancer. That’s what she was. That’s all she ever wanted to be. Ballet had been her world, her purpose, her only quadrant. While other children had to serve—riders, scribes, healers, infantry—she’d been allowed to remain apart. Privileged. Her father’s position near the crown had seen to that. She’d been gifted enough to justify it.

“She’ll receive the same offer as the Marked Ones,” the green dragon’s rider announces. “She may enter the Riders Quadrant. If she survives, she’s meant to be there. If not…” He shrugs. “The dragons will sort her out.”

Terror floods her veins. Her father meets her eyes for the first time in hours. He nods. Solemn, resigned. And then he looks away.

“I appreciate the mercy,” he says.

What? No! He was agreeing?

“Then so be it,” General Sorrengail declares. “Lieutenant Whitethorn—death by dragon fire. And his daughter, conscripted to Basgiath War College.”

“Wait—no!” Leora shouts. Two guards seize her arms and haul her backward. She thrashes against the cuffs, fighting to reach him.

“Father! Please!”

He turns just once. Eyes full of sorrow. A small smile. I’m sorry, he mouths. And then fire consumes him.

Her scream rips through the chamber as her knees buckle. Something. Someone, blocks her vision. The searing heat brushes her face. Flesh burns. The scent. Oh Malek. The scent.

“Leora! Leora!” The voice pierces the fog. It's familiar. Hands cup her face, grounding her. Blue eyes. Ryan.

“Leora, we need to go. Now.” He grabs her arm, pulling her upright. To her right, the guards who held her lurch back. But Ryan moves fast, cutting them down with a stare of a First Lieutenant. “I’ve got her,” he growls. “Move.”

----

Ryan slams the door shut behind them, bolting it twice before dragging her across the room. Her legs barely move under her. The scent of smoke clings to her skin, to her hair. She doesn’t speak. She can’t.

The world feels like it’s moving without her. Spinning out while she stands still.

Her chambers look the same. Soft and draped in gold, polished floors, the ballet shoes scattered everywhere. But they don’t belong to her anymore. Not after today.

There’s a satchel already half-packed on the edge of her mattress. Rations, a water canteen, a rolled uniform. One she has only caught glimpses of when she would tour with her father. Rider black.

Ryan is already moving, grabbing boots from the foot of her closet, a blade, a coat. His voice is low, urgent, but it barely registers past the echo in her skull.

The fire. The scream. His eyes. Her father. Gone.

"Leora," Ryan crouches in front of her, stuffing something else into the bag. She can’t tell what.

“You need to drink this.” He presses a flask into her hand. It sloshes. Her fingers don’t close around it.

He huffs out a breath, then gently pulls it back and sets it aside. “You don’t have time to shut down. I know you want to. Gods, I know. But if you don’t pull yourself together, they’re going to throw you off the parapet before you ever get the chance to fall.”

She blinks. The words hit something. Her voice cracks. “Tomorrow?”

He meets her eyes, jaw clenched. “You walk the parapet at dawn.”

Her breath catches.

“Unless you want to die before you even set foot inside the college,” he adds, quieter now. “You need to focus. Right now.”

She finally moves. Only a little, but enough to shake her head, her hands trembling. “I don’t know how to do this, Ryan. I was never meant to...”

“I know. But it doesn’t matter anymore. They made their choice.” He stands and grabs her shoulders, firm but not cruel. “Now you make yours.”

His voice sharpens. “Do you want to live?”

She doesn't reply.

“Because if you do, you’ve got until sunrise to start acting like it.”

Her throat works, but no sound comes out. Instead, she nods. Barely holding together the shattered pieces within her.

He lets her go, turning back to the satchel. “Then listen. Here’s what you need to know about the parapet. It is about six feet wide. Feels like two when you're on it. The wind’s brutal.” HIs voice clipped as he tugs the satchel shut and moves toward the wardrobe. Leora doesn’t respond. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, unmoving.

Ryan steps into her line of sight. “You have to keep your arms out for balance. Like in centre practice. Don’t look down. Ever.”

Her lips part. “The wind…’

“Will try to knock you off. Don’t let it.”

She blinks, barely breathing.

“You’re a ballerina, Leora. You know how to balance. Trust your body.”

Something in her chest clicks. She nods. Slowly. Mechanically. Her voice is hollow. “How do you know this?”

Ryan doesn’t look at her. He’s already pulling open drawers, rifling through her clothes. “I’ve been… I…” He swallows. “I’m in Infantry.”

“Ryan?” she asks, voice sharper than she meant.

He pauses and looks at her. “We don’t have time for that right now.”

“Then what are you looking for?” she asks as he flings aside a silk shawl.

“The corset. The one your father gave you last solstice.”

Leora frowns. “The... what? Why?”

He gestures at the closet. “Dragon-scale, Leora. That corset that was a gift. Your father knew what was coming, even if you didn’t.”

She rises, still stiff, and rummages toward the back of the closet. Her fingers close around stiff, dark leather. She pulls it out. Sleek, deceptively elegant. Laced with thin metal threading. She holds it up, confused. “What is this going to do?”

Ryan takes it from her and turns it over in his hands. “It’s protection. Dragon-scale will deflect a blade. Sometimes even stop lightning. It’ll keep you safe—when you’re sleeping, training, walking across a goddamned death bridge. I don’t care if it’s not comfortable. You wear it. Always.”

“Surely they don’t encourage cadets to kill each other in their sleep…”

“That doesn’t mean they won’t try,” he cuts in. “Especially you. A traitor’s daughter? You’ll be lucky if you make it to breakfast. And always have your daggers with you. Throw it like I taught you."

A loud bang rattles the door. Ryan’s head snaps toward it. “They’re calling me back.”

His eyes soften as they land on her again. “Be smart, Whit. Be strong. Don’t rise to anything. Don’t trust anyone. Not right away.”

Another pound at the door. Urgent.

He moves to it, hands on the latch, then turns back. “The Marked Ones… they might be your best chance at surviving this place. But they’ll be watching you too.”

She swallows. “And everyone else?”

“They’ll hate you.”

Then Ryan opens the door and is gone.

Chapter Text

Sleep eluded her. The sheets felt foreign. The air too still.

Leora turned from side to side, the corset that she now knew to be of dragon scale digging into her ribs with every shift. Ryan had insisted she wear it. Always. For protection, he’d said. But right now, it felt like both armour and prison.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father. Heard the roar. Felt the heat as his body was consumed in flame.

She sat up, exhaling sharply, and reached beneath the bed. Her fingers closed around one of her daggers.

She turned it in her hand, tested the balance. It was light, sharp and clean. She flicked it across the room. It sank into the armoire, straight into the centre of a painted flower.

As she had anticipated. Just as Ryan had taught her.

She remembered the sun that day. It had been too hot, the grass dry and scratchy beneath their backs.

He was leaving for the infantry in six months.

“Do you have to go?” she’d asked, rolling onto her side to look at him. As if memorising every line of his face would keep him here.

Ryan chuckled, turning to face her. “Not everyone gets to grow up to be a dancer.”

She swatted his arm. He caught her hand easily, teasing grin in place.

“We’ve still got time,” he said. “And after first year, I’ll be able to write.”

“One year’s still too long,” she muttered, ripping blades of grass from the earth. “What am I supposed to do while you're off playing soldier?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at her.

“You’ll find something,” he said eventually. “Isn’t your Ballet Mistress dead set on turning you into Navarre’s youngest soloist?”

Leora sighed and dropped onto her back. The sky was empty that day, not even a wisp of cloud. “Yes, and she’s a sadist. Constantly nitpicking every breath I take. Every angle of me down to my fingers. Her scrutiny is sharp as daggers. Honestly, some days actual daggers would be kinder than her corrections.”

Ryan let out a soft laugh. “A few bruises and you’re ready to declare war.”

“Can I at least pretend to throw one at her?” She rolled to her side again, watching him with a crooked smile. “Teach me how.”

“What, so you can commit a minor stabbing at the next rehearsal?”

“Exactly,” she said, balancing an imaginary dagger on her palm. “Or maybe so I don’t go crazy when you’re gone.”

He was quiet again. Then responds, “You should know how.”

Well, that surprised her.

He sat up, plucked a fallen twig from the grass, and held it out to her like a blade. His tone was still warm, still teasing. But underneath, she felt something shifted.

“Not just for your Ballet Mistress,” he said. “Life’s not all studios and centre stage, Leora. Not anymore. You should know how to hit something if you ever need to.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it won’t hurt to learn.”

He had shown her how to hold it. How to brace her wrist. How to throw without losing her balance.

And she remembered that most of all. Kept practising long after to the dismay of her Ballet Mistress. "Ladies do not wield daggers Miss Whitethorn."

But she remembered, not just the jokes, not the sun. But the way he looked at her when he said, “Just in case.”

She couldn’t shake away the feeling, no, the knowledge that her dad and Ryan knew that this was all coming. Kept her in the dark. Kept her dancing. On her toes.

The corset, the dagger, Ryan, just being there. It was all too convenient.

But it might just save her life.

Chapter Text

Outside, the weather was as bleak as she felt. Cold wind whipped through the courtyard. The sky hung heavy and iron grey, thick with unshed rain. Leora pulled the coat tighter around her, the one Ryan had packed. The boots too—worn, sturdy, laced to her calves. The corset beneath dug into her ribs but kept her middle warm. Even the arm straps that were custom-fit to house the two daggers he’d slipped in without a word.

How convenient.

It wasn’t just thoughtfulness. It was preparation. Calculated. Intentional.

How much had her father and Ryan talked? How long had they known?

The realisation hits like a blade between her ribs.

Ryan had known. Her father had known. And they’d left her dancing. Left her in the dark.

The heat surged in her chest, a mix of fury and betrayal. Then, just as quickly, the ache beneath it. A breath stealing wave of grief and confusion.

Maybe they were trying to protect her. Maybe they were trying to keep her innocent for as long as they could. Or maybe they didn’t think she could handle the truth.

She stumbled, knees nearly giving way as the weight of it all pressed down again. If she survived the next month, hell, even the next hour she would contemplate it all. Maybe thank them. Maybe.
But right now? Right now, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry, scream, or drive one of those damn daggers into the nearest tree.

The line toward the parapet was long, snaking through stone courtyards and iron gates. There were others, dozens of them. Nervous chatter rippling like a low hum.

Some of these people volunteered for this death sentence.

Why? Glory? Power? Madness?

The others bore marks on their backs, arms, wrist and necks. The Marked Ones. Rebels and sympathisers forced into conscription. Like her. But unlike her. None of them looked at her with kindness, so she kept her eyes forward.

The girl in front of her, Rhiannon, was fidgeting with her sleeves. Leora’s eyes dropped to her feet. Thin, worn shoes. Smooth soles. Practically polished. She was not going to get any purchase on the ground with those. She’d fall. Adding to the screams that have occasionally been carried away by the wind.

Leora stepped closer and whispered, “Swap a shoe with me.”

Rhiannon turned, startled. “What?”

“Your shoes.” Leora lifted her foot and nudged her own boot forward. “Mine have grip. Yours don’t.”

Rhiannon hesitated. “But we’re not the same size.”

“I know,” Leora said. “They’ll be tight on you. But tight is better than dead.”

That silenced her and she looked down, then back up and nodded. “Alright.”

They crouched quickly and swapped without a word, ignoring the looks they got. Rhiannon kicked the toe of the boot to the ground as she stood, adjusting to the pinch.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Leora just gave a nod. Her own feet floated a little in the too-large shoes, but at least Rhiannon had a better chance now. And Leora had already accepted her odds were shit anyway.

When Rhiannon stepped up to the edge of the parapet and gave her name, the cadet recording entries didn’t even blink. Just scrawled it down and motioned her forward. She was just another name that no one cared about.

Leora stepped up next. The cadet looked up, only for a second. There was a moment of recognition as his brows flicked up just slightly. She swore the wind stilled around her and lightning rumbled in the sky. No one spoke. No one breathed.

“Name?” he asked, finally.

“Leora Whitethorn,” she said evenly.

“Traitor”, a voice rang out in the crowd. Murmurs sounded down the line of waiting people.

The word hit like a whip crack but she didn’t flinch. Her blood went cold.

A shape shoved through the line behind her. Loud, swaggering, armed with cruelty.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “So you’re the dancer.” His sneer stretched wide. “Can’t wait to get my hands around your pretty little neck, for what your father did.”

Leora turned her head. Slowly. She didn’t back away. Before she could answer, the bored cadet cut in, voice flat. “You can do that if she makes it past the parapet.”

His curled crueler. “Oh, she won’t. She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t trip on her dainty toes.”

Snickers followed him, low and mean. The cadet just scribbled something on the ledger and waved her forward. Leora stepped up to the edge. The stone was slick with frost. The drop was infinite.

The parapet stretched before her like a blade, narrowing, slick with ice, no railings, no mercy.

Wind howled across the drop below. Somewhere far, far down, waves crashed against stone. Leora didn’t look. Couldn’t. Every fibre of her being screamed at her for being mad enough to take a step.
She willed herself to step forward, boot meeting cold stone. The roar of the courtyard faded behind her, and the sky above loomed heavy, bruised grey and unforgiving.

One foot. Then the next.

You’re a dancer, she reminded herself. Balance is breath. Control is survival.

Her arms lifted to her sides, soft and strong, fingers relaxed, core braced tight. She imagined centre practice. Pirouette prep. Every muscle knew what to do. Even now. Especially now.

Her breath steamed in the air. She didn’t rush. Another step and wind surged, slamming into her from the left. Her right foot skidded. Her body wobbled.

A gasp caught in her throat. But she engaged. Locked her core, squared her hips, keeping her weight low Arms flexed slightly, adjusting mid-air. She steadied herself.

Control is survival. I am strong. I am capable.

The wind kept pushing. Screaming. Trying to throw her to her death. She kept moving.

Then it hit her. The scent of smoke. The sound of fire. Her father’s scream.

It tore through her like a spear.

No. No no no not now.

Her knees buckled. Her arms dropped. She teetered. One foot slipped.

A shout jolted her back.

“MOVE YOUR ASS!”

It was him.

She turned, heart hammering. Behind him, chaos bloomed. Another young man, too panicked to wait, tried to sprint across. But the one who sized her up grabbed him mid run and snapped his neck, letting the body fall off the parapet without hesitation.

“You’re in the damn way,” he sneered, stepping forward now, onto the parapet.

And he was fast. Shit.

Panic surged in her throat but she turned forward again.

MOVE.

She forced herself on. Arms lifted again. Ignoring the scream in her head. Ignoring the weight of death behind her.

Just walk.

Her feet found their rhythm. Hips moving with control, not fear. The wind pushed again, but this time she swayed with it, like a branch that wouldn’t break.

One step. Two. The edge was so close now.

She could see them. Cadets lined up along the far end of the parapet, watching. Some jeering. Some silent. All waiting to see if she would fall.

Leora took one step onto the narrow stone ledge. Then a tug on her coat.

She spun, fast. Unsheathing a dagger in a blur, pressing the tip against flesh. Right into the soft spot below someone’s ribs. Below his ribs.

The wind stilled.

“Well, well, well… aren’t you a quick little thing?”

Her eyes narrowed. “One more step and I’ll—”

“Gut me?” he drawled, smug. “I don’t think you’ve got the balls, little ballerina.”

A sharp, firm voice cuts in from beside the wall.

“She has you there,” another cadet said coolly. “And right now, she’s a cadet. You’re not. She finishes you here, and you’re just another name to scratch off the list.”

Leora didn’t move. Her dagger stayed pressed to his abdomen. One twitch and she could end him. But he was close. Too close. He could grab her, drag them both off the edge if he wanted. She saw it in his eyes. He would do it, even if it was the last thing he did before he died.

Her grip didn’t falter as she stepped back once, blade still pressed firm. Then again. Enough space between them now.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coldly. “You’re not worth the fall.”

He sneered, but stepped aside. Gave a mocking little bow before turning toward the cadet.

“Jack Barlowe,” he muttered. “Remember it.”

Leora did not relax as he walked away. Kept her eyes on him until he was gone. Only then did she move, allowing herself to relish the solid ground under her feet.

“You made it,” someone whispered beside her. Rhiannon. Colour returning to her tanned face. Shoulders tight.

Leora nodded once, chest heaving. “Barely.”

Chapter Text

Rhiannon crouched down, fingers already unlacing the boots.

Leora followed, her knees still weak but functioning. “Thank you,” Rhiannon murmured as they swapped back. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s okay,” Leora smiled, tugging at the laces. “Better squished toes than no toes.”

They both stood at the same time, and Leora took a step back, straight into something solid. Hard.

Rhiannon startled. “Wait—!”

Too late.

Leora’s back collided with something, or someone, unforgiving. She pivoted sharply, her braid whipping over her shoulder, and found herself face to chest with black leather and a silver insignia stitched into the collar.

She looked up.

Gods.

Onyx eyes, rimmed with gold flecks, bore down on her like a thunderstorm frozen in place. Cold, unreadable, ancient. Nothing kind lived in those eyes. Just night and fire and command.

Her heart slammed once. Then again.

He was tall. Broad. Cut from shadows and spite. The scar curling from the edge of his jaw made him even more striking, not less. Leora had danced for royalty. Had been flirted with by lords and serenaded by sons of nobles. But none of them made her lungs forget to breathe.

She opened her mouth. “I’m sor…”

“In your own time,” he cut in, tone like a blade. “Let’s hope your spatial awareness improves, or the dragons will make quick work of you. Assuming you even make it to flight training.”

Leora’s spine straightened.

Irritation cracked through her. “Apologies,” she said sweetly, “I’ll try not to walk into any other tall, unyielding walls of superiority.”

Rhiannon gasped softly. “Leora!.”

His eyes narrowed, but his mouth said nothing. Just a flick of his gaze, down and back up again. Measuring. Calculating.

Leora shifted her weight, painfully aware of the corset pressing into her ribs, of how small she seemed in comparison. How much she hated that he noticed.

“What were you doing?” he asked.

Rhiannon jumped in before Leora could respond. “I was giving her back her boot.”

His gaze dropped. Looking at Rhiannon’s feet then Leora’s.

“Right.” The word held enough meaning to fill a book.

Leora stared after him, jaw clenched. Punch him or kiss him? She couldn’t decide.

“Fourth Wing,” he added, turning away.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, bored. “You’re assigned to Fourth Wing, Cadet. Do I need to make myself clearer?”

Before Leora could launch the retort already forming on her tongue, Rhiannon grabbed her arm. “Yes! Got it. Thank you,” she said quickly, dragging Leora in the opposite direction.

“What stick has he shoved up his ass?” Leora muttered under her breath.

A voice chuckled beside her. “He’s always like that.”

She turned and found a young man falling into step beside them. Tall, sharp-boned, with tousled blond hair and easy blue eyes that reminded her of Ryan, but softer somehow. Gentler. Mischievous.

Gods, he was gorgeous.

His wrist caught her eye. The rebellion mark was branded deep and visible.

He extended a hand. “Liam Mairi.”

Leora hesitated only a second before clasping it. “Leora Whitethorn.”

Rhiannon introduced herself next.

“Don’t mind Xaden,” Liam said with a grin. “He grows on you.”

Leora raised a brow. “Like rot?”

Liam laughed. “Sometimes.”

Rhiannon shot her a look. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Leora just smiled. “I’m quick.”

And she felt a lightness within her for the first time since her father burned.
___

The barracks were nothing like the softness of home.

Cramped. Cold. Rows of iron bunks pressed tightly against stone walls. No curtains. No privacy. Just the sharp tang of sweat, fear, and fresh linen.

First-years were crammed together, split only by gender. No rooms. No doors. Just bodies stacked in metal frames and the quiet rustle of survival. Only riders had the privilege of separate dwellings. Rhiannon tapped the top bunk beside hers. “You can take this one.”

Leora gave a small nod and climbed up, the mattress firmer than it looked, the blanket scratchy against her fingers. She sat cross-legged, keeping her bag close, corset still hidden beneath her layers.
Rhiannon glanced up. Her voice dropped low. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

The words felt like a stone dropped in still water. Too sudden, too loud despite the whisper. She didn’t reply right away. Just met Rhiannon’s gaze, searching for anything false. She didn’t find it.

“Thanks,” she murmured. It was all she could manage.

“So… you dance?” Rhiannon asked, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Like, real dancing?”

“I do… well did,” Leora said, her voice distant.

Rhiannon perked up. “Well, that might actually work in your favour—balance, coordination. Ballet’s gotta help, right?”

Leora blinked at her. Slowly. Blankly.

Rhiannon winced. “It would! You’d be surprised how—okay. Yeah. That was overly optimistic. Shutting up now.”

Leora let the ghost of a smile tug at her lips.

Rhiannon grinned. “But seriously. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out together.”

Leora looked down at her hands, fingers still trembling faintly from the parapet. Together. It was a small word. But right now, it meant more than it should’ve.

Chapter Text

The next morning it was uniforms on, hair back, boots tights and more orders.

First class: Battle Brief and History.

Leora sat at the far left side of the tiered room, arms folded over her chest, still not sure whether to make herself invisible or unmissable. Rhiannon was to her right, flipping through her notes, and the lecture hall buzzed with low chatter and bootfalls on stone.

Then the air changed.

Her body reacted before her eyes could catch up. Shoulders stiffening, breath pausing.

Xaden Riorson had entered the room. The traitor’s son. The other half to her own cursed name.

He moved like he owned the place. Silent and slow, like a predator already sure of his kill. The patch on his shoulder marked him as a Wingleader as she had learnt. His scar, a warning. The entire room shifted, just slightly, as he passed through it. No one dared to block his path.

Leora didn’t realise she was holding her breath until she saw him glance up. Just once. Their eyes locked.

Something sharp passed between them.

“Hey,” a warm voice murmured, interrupting whatever the hell that was.

Liam had slid into the seat beside her, that easy grin already softening the knots in her stomach. His blue eyes sparkled, gentle and open.

“You doing okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “As okay as anyone after nearly falling to their death.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, body language relaxed but present. There was nothing forced about him. No judgment. No curiosity for the scandal hanging around her name. Only kindness.
It was the warmest thing she’d felt since the fire. And for a moment, it melted something inside her.

“I give it a week before he’s writing poetry,” Ridoc muttered from a few seats down, ruining the moment with practiced ease.

Sawyer snorted. “He already has a journal, don’t lie.”

“Maybe I’ll write about you, Ridoc,” Liam called back without looking, deadpan. “An ode to being tragically annoying.”

Rhiannon, sitting across from Leora, grinned. “That one might hit the Archives.”

Leora rolled her eyes, but she didn’t shift away from Liam. If anything, she couldn’t help but lean a fraction closer.
___

After the lecture, the five of them trailed out of the hall together, boots echoing against the worn stone of the corridor. The afternoon sun cut across the arches, painting gold lines along the floor as they stepped into the courtyard.

“Okay,” Rhiannon said, slinging her pack over a shoulder. “That wasn’t as bad as I expected. I understood like… sixty percent of it.”

Liam shot her a look. “Pretty sure that’s generous.”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “Let me have this.”

“Hey, I only understood thirty percent,” Ridoc chimed in cheerfully, “but I’ve got the confidence of a man who thinks he nailed the whole thing.”

“Delusion is a powerful tool,” Sawyer muttered, eyeing a first year with sandy brown hair who smirked as she passed.

“Thank you,” Ridoc said, entirely unbothered. “I choose to take that as encouragement.”

Leora stayed a step behind them, quiet but amused.

“You get it, Leora?” Liam asked over his shoulder.

“More than sixty percent,” she said dryly.

“Show off,” Rhiannon muttered, nudging her with a grin.

Ridoc groaned dramatically. “Great, so now I’m the dumbest and the most attractive. Must be exhausting being me.”

Sawyer snorted. “Exhausting for us, maybe.”

They laughed, voices carrying as they headed toward the mess hall. But Leora was lost in her mind. She could still feel Xaden’s stare at her in the corner of her vision during the class. The heat of it like a brand between her shoulder blades, even when he wasn’t looking.

Liam fell back from the group to her side. Gently bumping her with his arm. “You still with us?”

She blinked and looked up. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit here,” he teased. “Thinking too much gets you killed.”

“I’m starting to get that impression.”

They wandered across the training yard toward the mess hall, but no one was really hungry. Leora’s stomach felt like a twisted knot, and judging by how Rhiannon kept pulling at her sleeves, she wasn’t the only one.

They found a quiet patch of stone along the edge of the commons and sat, backs against the cool wall. Cadets moved around them in small clusters—loud, aggressive, wary. A few glanced at Leora's way, their whispers easy to read even without hearing the words. Traitor’s daughter.

Rhiannon scowled at one of them. “You’d think they’d get over it. It’s not like you set fire to anyone.”

“Not yet,” Leora said with more malice than she had intended.

Liam burst into laughter, the sound light and unexpected. “Okay, see, you are going to fit in here.”

Leora looked at him. “You think?”

He nodded. “You’ve already survived the parapet, stared down Xaden Riorson without flinching, and made me laugh before noon. You’re doing better than most.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “That’s a low bar.”

“Still,” Liam said, nudging her ankle with his boot, “you’re clearing it.”

Leora found herself relaxing, just a little. Rhiannon stretched beside her, arms over her head.

“So what’s next?” she asked.

“Combat drills,” Ridoc said. “But not until tomorrow. They seem to like to lull us into a false sense of security first.”

Rhiannon groaned. “Gods, I’m going to die.”

"Says the one who has actually trained in combat,' Leora says wryly.

Chapter Text

Combat training had been brutal. Comparable to ballet drills? Sure. But far less graceful and with a hell of a lot more bruising. That, she could handle.

What she couldn’t handle? Was getting handed her ass on the mats. Repeatedly. Even if it was Rhiannon, and even if she was holding back. Her arm. Her back. Her thigh. Rhiannon had dropped her on every single part of her body by the end of the session.

“Sorry,” Rhiannon said with a quick sweep of Leora’s ankles. She hit the ground with a solid thud, the breath leaving her lungs as she winced.

Leora glared up at her. “The first handful of times, I believed that ‘sorry,’ Rhiannon. But every time after that?”

Rhiannon grinned, stepping over and offering her a hand. “Yeah. I figured. But I’ll keep doing it until you stop leaving yourself open.”

She hauled Leora to her feet and gave her a firm clap on the back.

“Look on the bright side,” Ridoc called out. “You fall like a dancer. It’s almost artistic.”

“I hope you fall artistically off a cliff,” Leora muttered.

Sawyer watched them with a thoughtful look, arms crossed. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked Rhiannon.

“I’ve been training to be a rider for a while now. It’s good pay and I need it to help my family,’ Rhiannon said, still smiling.

“Good pay if you survive three years of volunteering for suicide,” Ridoc cut in with mock reverence, flopping onto the bench beside them. He looked at Leora. “Though judging by today, you might make history as the first rider to pirouette her way out of a death blow.”

Leora shot him a flat look. “Keep talking, Ridoc. I’ve got just enough strength left to kick you somewhere important.”

Ridoc reached out and tugged lightly on her braid. Her eyes narrowed. “You did not just…”

He laughed and bolted, already halfway down the path.

With a groan and a grin, Leora pushed herself to her feet and took off after him, using whatever strength she had left.

Rhiannon watched them go, shaking her head fondly. “Now that’s the rider spirit,” she said, slinging an arm over Sawyer’s shoulder. “Quick feet. Sharp words. She’s going to be just fine.”
___

She found a stretch of stone wall behind the training ring, away from the sounds of cadets grunting and the occasional thud of a body landing on the mat. The fading light painted the world in soft gold and cool shadow. She sank onto the ground with a quiet groan, pulling her knees up and resting her arms across them.

Everything hurt. Her ribs, her pride, her legs that hadn’t stopped trembling since sparring ended. But it was more than just her body that felt bruised. This place might be the death of her.

“Hey.”

She looked up, startled. But relaxed when she saw Liam.

He approached slowly, hands tucked in his pockets, hair tousled from the day, his undershirt slightly damp from sweat. There was a scrape along his cheekbone and blood at his knuckles, but his eyes were warm as ever.

“You alright?” he asked, crouching beside her.

Leora huffed a breath. “I think I landed on every part of my body today. Repeatedly.”

Liam smiled, soft and boyish. “You still managed to look better doing it than anyone else.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Flattery doesn’t make my ribs hurt less.”

He sat beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. “You were fast, though. Really fast. You are showing good instincts most people don’t.”

“They don’t matter when I can’t land a hit or read what my opponent will do next,” she murmured.

“You will.” He paused. “Combat’s just… choreography you haven’t learned yet.”

Leora blinked. She turned to look at him, really look at him and found no mockery in his face. Just quiet belief.

“You make it sound so simple.”

Liam chuckled. “It’s not. But you’ve already got something most don’t. You move. The rest can be taught.”

She didn’t reply right away. The wind rustled through the trees in the courtyard, cool against her sweat-damp skin.

“Thank you,” she said eventually, voice quieter than she intended.

“For what?”

“For this.” She gestured around vaguely. “For being… kind. I didn’t think there’d be much of that here.”

His smile dimmed a little, turned thoughtful. “There usually isn’t. But you looked like you needed it.”

Her chest twisted. Not in pain this time, but something gentler. Warmer.

She glanced at him, and the way he was watching her. It was steady and soft. It made her pulse stutter.

“I know you’ve lost a lot,” he said softly. “But I hope you know… you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Something about the way he said it, without pity, without expectation. It made her throat tighten.

She nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve even had time to feel much since arriving here.”

“You will,” he murmured.

The silence that settled between them was a quiet kind of comfort.

Then, gently, “Did you always dance?”

Leora gave a small smile. “I did. For as long as I can remember. I’ve spent most of my life in a studio. Practicing until my legs nearly gave out, preparing for some performance or another. Always moving. Always trying to be perfect.”

He turned his head to look at her, really look at her.

“What was that like?”

She exhaled slowly. “It was… all I knew. It was what I breathed every single day. I mean, I know I was lucky. I got to chase a dream most people don’t even get close to.” Her voice wavered slightly. “And I’m sure that’s part of the disdain around here. Once upon a time, I didn’t need to join. Not like some of you.”

She paused, suddenly aware of what she’d just said. Who she’d said it to. Her heart stumbled. “I’m sorry. That sounded… privileged. I didn’t mean...”

Liam didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just shook his head gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re allowed to have had a different life, Leora. That doesn’t make your pain any smaller or your place here any less earned.”

His words wrapped around her like a balm, soft and grounding. She looked at him, unsure how to respond to the kindness he offered. It made her heart flutter.

She shuffled on her feet and changed the topic. “Rhiannon offered to train with me.”

“She’s good,” Liam said. “Smart. Tough.”

“She is,” Leora agreed. “But… I’m still going to get flattened every time someone outweighs me by fifty kilos.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “You want help?”

She turned her face to his. “I thought that’s what this was.”

“This” he gestured between them “is you catching your breath. But I can help. If you want.”

Leora is caught off guard by the offer. “Why?”

Liam shrugged, but there was a spark of sincerity behind the casual gesture. “Because you’ve got potential. And because the more we train, the less likely I’ll have to watch you get your ribs caved in again.”

She snorted. “So it's self-preservation.”

“A little.” He grinned. “And maybe because I would like to see you prove everyone wrong.”

That silenced her for a moment. Her chest ached but not from bruises this time. It was the quiet warmth in his voice, the way he said it like a fact, not a favour.

Leora looked down at her hands, then back at him. “Alright. Deal.”

Liam leaned back on his palms, his smile easy. “Good. I’ve got mornings free before drills. We’ll start then.”

She raised a brow. “Is this before or after I cry into my pillow from sheer exhaustion?”

“During,” he said. “We multitask here.”

Leora laughed. Actually laughed and Liam smiled like that sound had made his entire day.

Chapter Text

She was dreaming of him again.

Not the version the world whispered about behind cupped hands. The traitor, the general gone rogue, the reason her name tasted like ash at Basgiath. No, in dreams, he was still just her father.

They sat at the kitchen table. The scent of old parchment and fresh bread lingered in the air, warmth clinging to the wooden floor beneath her bare feet. Outside, the day was dying in a hush of gold. Inside, he held a cup of tea and that familiar gleam in his eye. The one that meant she was about to be tested.

Again.

“I’m too old for these,” Leora muttered, slouched in her chair, her pointe-worn feet tucked under her.

He smiled. “Humour me.”

She sighed but nodded, arms crossed. “Alright. What is it this time? Another assassin in a library?”

“No,” he said, slow and thoughtful. “A baker.”

“A baker.”

He nodded. “A baker in a quiet village. Every morning, he wakes before dawn, kneads his dough, lights his ovens, and opens shop. No one questions him. He’s kind. Quiet. Has flour in his hair and calluses on his hands.”

“Okay…” She was already fidgeting, twisting a ring on her finger.

“But one day,” he continued, “the baker forgets to clean his countertop. And someone, a child, notices a notch in the wood. A thin groove that looks an awful lot like... the edge of a blade being sharpened.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So he’s not a baker.”

“Not just a baker,” he corrected. “The question is: who is he? And what does he want?”

Leora rolled her eyes. “Dad, this is ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

She pushed her chair back. “It’s a stupid riddle. He’s obviously hiding something. Just... tell the guards. Let them deal with it.”

He sipped his tea, watching her closely. “And what if the guards are the problem?”

She paused at that.

He leaned forward then, voice quiet but firm. “Sometimes the most dangerous man in the room is the one who doesn’t look like he belongs. And sometimes the one who looks harmless… isn’t.”

Leora frowned. “So I’m supposed to be suspicious of everyone?”

“No,” he said, voice gentling. “But I want you to see past what people want you to believe. Even me.”

She studied him for a long moment, discomfort crawling across her skin. Something in his tone was heavier than usual. Like this wasn't just a game.

Like it had never been.

“Why do you always do this?” she asked quietly. “These riddles. These stories.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then set his tea down.

“Because one day, you’ll be standing in a room where no one is on your side. And when that happens, I need you to remember that the girl who can spot the blade in the bakery… walks out alive.”

___

The war room felt heavy with silence, like every breath carried the dust of old battles. Professor Markham stood at the front of the class, sleeves rolled and jaw tight, as he scrawled sharp lines across the large map pinned to the wall.

“A standard infantry unit,” he began, tapping the chalk at a point near a narrow river.

“Outnumbered two to one. Your commanding officer is dead. Supplies low. Reinforcements are three days out. The only exit—a narrow bridge—might already be taken. First Years, what do you do?”

Murmurs stirred. Someone in the back, too confident for their own good, offered lazily, “We fly out. That’s what dragons are for.”

Markham didn’t even look up. “No dragons. Standard infantry unit. Whilst those of you who bond will have them as your biggest strength. It should not be the only thing you rely on. Again. What do you do?”

The silence that followed stretched thinner than the morale in the scenario.

Leora studied the map, her fingertips curled around her pen. The terrain was jagged. Their line was stretched thin. No clear escape, no clear opening. The obvious moves all felt... too neat.
The baker wasn’t dangerous until you saw the groove on the countertop.

Don’t assume harmless. Don’t assume obvious.

Look for what doesn’t make sense.

Her father’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Gods. Was this why he had shared these stories and riddles with her? Disguised survival tactics as bedtime stories.

Leora tucked the thought away. Another question to ask Ryan whenever they saw each other next. If she survived First Year long enough.

She raised her hand. “When were the scouts last seen?”

Markham looked up. “Last night. Five clicks east. No word since.”

She nodded. “Do we have confirmed visuals on the enemy’s position? Or are we assuming they’ve taken the bridge because we’ve lost contact?”

Markham’s expression shifted, just slightly. “Assumption, at this stage.”

“Then maybe that’s what they want,” Leora said. “They know we’ll retreat eventually. And right now, we’re more dangerous uncornered than we would be once funneled into the ravine. If they had the bridge, they’d push. Instead, they’re waiting.”

Several cadets turned to look at her now, attention sharpening.

She gestured lightly to the map. “I’d fake preparation toward the eastern ridge. Controlled movement. Make it look like we’re planning a push. If they react, we gather intel. Where they are, how fast they respond. If they don’t, we’ve learned something else: they’re holding for a reason. Either they’re weaker than we think, or there’s a trap elsewhere.”

A silence followed.

Then, from across the room—calm, clipped, pointed—

“That’s a big risk,” Xaden said. “If they don’t respond at all, we’ve wasted time and exposed movement. You’re betting lives on uncertainty.”

Leora slowly turned to face him. “It’s not about certainty. It’s about narrowing the unknowns. Every silence says something, if you know how to listen.”

Xaden didn’t blink. “And if it’s not silence? If it’s misdirection?”

“Then we respond accordingly,” she said. “But I’d rather move with incomplete information than sit waiting for a clean answer that’ll never come.”

There was a pause. A quiet crackle of tension between them.

Rhiannon leaned over to Sawyer, whispering, “Do we always get fireworks with battle briefs?”
Sawyer smirked. “No. But I’m enjoying the show.”

Professor Markham finally spoke. “That’s the point of this exercise. You’re not here to find perfect solutions. You’re here to ask the right questions.”

He looked at Leora, more measured now. “Well done, cadet.”

She didn’t smile. But she held Xaden’s gaze a moment longer before turning back to the map, her father’s words settling like gravity in her bones.

Sometimes, strategy isn’t about outmatching your opponent.

It’s about making sure you’re not the only one being watched.

Liam nudged her elbow and whispers, “Damn, ballet girl.”

She smiled and nudged him back, “I’ve been paying attention.”

___

The other cadets filtered out of the war room in pairs and murmured clumps, still tossing around fragments of the exercise like dice.

Leora gathered her notes slowly, not in a rush to rejoin the noise outside. Her pulse had mostly settled, but the taste of that exchange still clung to the back of her throat. Sharp, like metal.

“Cadet Whitethorn.”

Professor Markham was still at the front, brushing chalk from his palms, but his gaze was now fully on her. Not unkind. Not warm either. Just measured.

She straightened. “Professor?”

He gestured slightly with a tilt of his chin, motioning for her to step forward. She did.

“That line of thinking, what you said about silence being information.” He nodded once, slowly.

“Not many cadets ask that kind of question.”

Leora hesitated. “I was taught to look at what isn’t obvious.”

“By whom?” he asked, voice casual. But the air shifted. Just slightly.

She met his eyes. “My father.”

Markham’s expression didn’t change, but the silence between them held weight.

“I knew him,” he said, finally. “Briefly. Before things changed.”

Leora didn’t flinch, though her throat tightened.

“He was sharp,” Markham continued, his voice even. “Uncomfortable to be around. Always asking the question under the question. I imagine your childhood was… interesting.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

He watched her for another beat, then glanced back at the map.

“You’re not him,” he said. “But don’t think for a moment people won’t try to make you answer for his legacy.”

“I know.”

“I hope so,” he said. “Because strategy like yours? If it comes from the right place, it could win battles. But if it comes from the wrong one…” He let the thought dangle.

A warning dressed as praise.

Leora nodded once. “Understood, Professor.”

Markham finally offered something close to a smile. “Next time, don’t wait to speak. You saw it first. Trust that.”

She left the room with her pulse quieter and her steps firmer.

___

The door to the war room clicked shut behind her, cool air brushing her face as she stepped out into the late-afternoon light. Voices drifted just ahead, low and clipped. Barely restrained.

Across the stone courtyard, Liam and Xaden stood a few paces apart, tension rippling between them. Xaden’s arms were crossed, his jaw tight. Liam’s expression was harder than she was used to seeing. Controlled, but protective.

Xaden glanced up first.

The second his eyes landed on her, his body tensed. He looked away too quickly, exhaling through his nose. Then Liam turned.

His face softened the moment he saw her, and he gave her one of those easy, reliable smiles. The kind that had started to feel like a hand reaching out in the dark.

“Hey,” he starts, tone suddenly casual. “That was sharp in there. You’ve got half the squad talking about you.”

She snorted lightly. “Please, they were talking about me the second they heard my name.”

“I’m just saying. It was impressive what you did there,” he said, falling into step beside her as she passed the two of them.

She glanced over her shoulder once, but Xaden was already turning away, silent, disappearing into the far hall.

“What was that?” she asked Liam quietly, nodding in the direction Xaden had gone.

Liam shrugged, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Just Xaden being Xaden.”

She arched a brow. “So… growly and mysterious?”

“I was gonna go with grating, but sure, let’s romanticise it.”

That pulled a breath of laughter from her, “I would never romanticise Xaden."

Liam bumped her shoulder lightly. “What did Markham want?”

Her smile faded slightly. “To tell me I ask dangerous questions.”

His eyes narrowed a touch, but he didn’t press. “Well. You’ve got good instincts. Doesn’t matter where they come from.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just walked beside him, grateful for the quiet between their footsteps.

And somewhere behind her, she could still feel the weight of Xaden’s stare—even if he hadn’t held it for long.

---

It was late when Leora found herself sitting with Liam near the edge of the courtyard, their backs against the cold stone wall, knees drawn up. The stars were just beginning to bloom across the sky, and the din of the other cadets had faded into the background hum of Basgiath at night.

She was tired. Bone-deep. But Liam made the weight easier to carry.

He tossed a small stone between his hands, not looking at her when he spoke. “You were really composed today. With Markham. That kind of thinking doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

She shrugged, leaning her head back against the wall. “My dad used to ask weird questions. He had this way of making everything a puzzle.”

“Even war?” Liam asked, still casual.

“Especially war,” she said, a little more quietly. “He used to say that battles weren’t won with blades, but with what people didn’t see coming.”

Liam nodded slowly, letting a beat pass. “Sounds like he was smart.”

Leora didn’t respond immediately. Her jaw tightened slightly.

“Sorry,” Liam said quickly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

She glanced over at him. “You didn’t. It’s just… people don’t usually talk about him like that. Not anymore.”

Another silence stretched, and Liam let it.

Then, lightly, like he was just making conversation, he asked, “Did he ever talk about why things… happened the way they did? The rebellion?”

Leora tensed—barely. But Liam noticed.

She didn’t pull away, though. Just answered with a quiet steadiness. “Not really. I was young. He told stories, taught lessons, but never explained what he was part of. Not fully.”

“Did you ask?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

Liam nodded like he understood—and maybe he did. But his eyes flicked away for a moment.
“I think he wanted me to survive more than he wanted me to understand,” Leora said after a while, voice softer. “And that’s probably why I’m still alive.”

Liam’s voice was quieter this time. “You ever wish you knew more?”

She turned to look at him, searching his face.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “It would've made his death easier. The college easier.”

Her fist curled tight at her side. “Some days, I hate him for it. For leaving me with all these blanks.”

She exhaled, her voice faltering. “But then I remember him being burned to ash. And I think… how can I hate him? He was my dad. He was all I had. It was just us after Mum died and I just…” She trailed off, swallowing hard. “I just wish I understood why.”

Liam held her gaze. Guilt flickered across his face—real, quiet, human. But underneath it, something else stirred. A choice. One he didn’t want to make yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That people say shit about him. For what it’s worth… I think he did the best he could. And he clearly raised someone incredible.”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “You just like that I scare Markham.”

“Maybe a little,” he said, grinning.

They sat there a little longer, the kind of silence that felt like safety.

But even as she rested her head against the stone wall again, and even as their fingers brushed briefly between them—

Liam’s thoughts wouldn’t still.

Because Xaden would want to know what she’d said.

And Liam... wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him.

Chapter Text

Liam nudged her elbow and whispered, “Damn, ballet girl.”

She smirked, nudging him back. “I’ve been paying attention.”

He had to admit, he was impressed. The way Leora had held her ground against Xaden… most wouldn’t have dared. There was always something about her, something quiet and sharp that made him look twice. It wasn’t just because she was the daughter of Lieutenant General Whitethorn. That wasn’t what drew him in.

It was the way she saw things. The way she had adapted when everyone else was waiting for her to crumble. The way the stares and whispers didn’t bother her.

Most dismissed her. The ballerina, the daughter of a disgraced Lieutenant General, but Liam had never bought into that. And now, after that briefing, he knew he’d been right to trust his gut.
His gaze drifted to Xaden, catching the subtle tension in his jaw as he stared Leora down. Anyone else might have missed it, but Liam had known Xaden too long. That wasn’t just frustration.

Xaden’s eyes shifted to him, tilting his head slightly. It was a silent summons. Later.

—-

Xaden waited for him across the courtyard, half-shrouded in the shade of the corridor’s archway. To anyone else, he looked at ease. Hands loose, stance casual. But Liam didn’t miss it. The coiled tension in his shoulders, the tick of his jaw.

“What are you doing?” Xaden asked, low.

“What you told me to,” Liam replied, arms crossed.

“It doesn’t look like that. You’re getting too close.”

“Too close?” Liam echoed, brow lifting. “How exactly do you expect me to figure her out without getting close? For gods’ sake, she just lost her father.”

“We’ve all lost someone,” Xaden said, voice clipped. “And we carried on.”

“Yeah, but we had time. Time to process. Time to prepare for all of this.” Liam’s voice dropped as a group of cadets passed. “Leora got pulled into this overnight. You can’t expect her to just…adjust. Not like this.”

Xaden didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed.

“What she did in that class,” Xaden started, “that’s not something someone new just stumbles into.”

“Or maybe she’s more than you’re giving her credit for.”

“I am giving her credit. You’re the one acting like she isn’t a liability.” Xaden’s eyes flicked past him. Liam didn’t need to turn to know who was there.

“You need to back off,” Liam said, grounding out each word. “I don’t know why she’s getting under your skin so much, but whatever it is. Deal with it.”

He turned and started walking back toward Leora.

—

Xaden stayed where he was, watching the two of them. The way she looked up at Liam. The way she smiled at him.

Liam had always had that effect on people. Made them feel seen, grounded. It used to be something Xaden respected.

But now, watching them, it twisted at something sharp in his chest. Something he couldn’t name.

And he hated that.

Chapter Text

It was one of those rare weekends where no one was yelling at them about drills, formations, or dragons.

The five of them lazed beneath the broad canopy of a tree, the shade offering a sliver of peace from the relentless Basgiath routine. Ridoc and Sawyer were deep in one of their usual arguments. Something about who would win in a race, though it had already spiraled into wild exaggerations and unnecessary hypotheticals.

“Gods,” Rhiannon cut in, exasperated. “You two are worse than my sister and I arguing when we were kids.”

She pointed at Ridoc without lifting her head. “Sawyer would definitely beat you. You’d be too busy showboating and end up tripping over your own ego.”

That earned a chuckle from Leora, who didn’t even try to hide it.

Ridoc shot her a glare. “I could easily beat you, Leora.”

She lifted her eyebrows, the barest smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh?”

Liam leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at the sky. “I wouldn’t underestimate her. She’s short, but she’s got killer reaction time. Probably explosive off the line.”

Sawyer sat up and dusted his hands. “Alright then. Let’s settle this.”

He stood and motioned with his foot. “We start here, and race to… that tree, twenty metres out.”

Rhiannon sat up straighter. “I’m counting you lot in.”

Leora groaned, already getting to her feet. “We’re actually doing this?”

But she was brushing the dirt off her legs.

Ridoc grinned. “What? Scared to lose, little dancer?”

Liam snorted. “Oof. You’re going to regret that.”

They lined up at the mark, boots pressed to the grass. Leora bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders out. She chanced a glance at Liam.
He winked. She smirked back.

Rhiannon lifted a hand. “Alright. In three… two… one!”

Sawyer ducked low and swept his leg across Ridoc’s path.

“What the …!” Ridoc stumbled, yelling something about sabotage.

But Leora was already gone. She shot forward like a spark. Light on her feet, legs pumping. She could feel the grass under her soles, the wind on her cheeks, the rhythm of her breathing locked in.
Behind her, Rhiannon was cackling.

“Go, Leora! Kick his ass!”

She didn’t need the encouragement. But she could feel Liam gaining. His footfalls matched hers in stride, and the finish tree was rapidly closing in.

Then she felt it, two strong arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground mid-run.

A shriek burst from her throat, laughter trailing behind it.

“Liam!”

“Gotcha,” he grinned, breath warm against her ear.

He spun her once, her legs kicking out as her laughter only grew louder.

But then the ground tilted. Fast.

She felt his grip tighten, one arm locking around her waist, the other bracing across her ribcage as they tumbled. He twisted with the fall, turning his body first, taking the full impact on his side and rolling instinctively, keeping her off the ground. She landed, sprawled awkwardly across him, her hands braced on his chest, her breath caught somewhere between shock and hilarity.

“Liam!” she gasped, pushing herself upright as his hold loosened. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he groaned, blinking up at the sky and rubbing the back of his head. “Are you?’

“I’m not the one who fell like a sack of potatoes,” she said, running her fingers through his hair to check for a bruise.

His eyes locked on hers. They had been close before when he had trained her. But this, was different. The warmth of him underneath her, the firm grip of his hand still at her waist. Her breath hitched.

His thumb shifted, the smallest movement, but it sent heat spiraling straight to her core.

She stilled.

He did too.

It was intimate. Unexpected. And very much not what she thought a sprint across the grass was going to lead to.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said quietly.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She looked away fast, swatting at his arm. “You’re definitely concussed.”

He laughed, hand dropping from her waist to defend against the half-hearted attack. The sound rumbled from his chest as he sat up, smile lopsided.

From behind them, Sawyer came sprinting past, arms in the air like a champion. “Victory!”

“You cheated!” Ridoc’s voice bellowed from farther off.

Leora rolled her eyes and stood, brushing grass from her clothes. She held out a hand.

Liam looked up at her for a beat longer than necessary, then took it.

Her fingers wrapped around his, strong and steady, as she pulled him to his feet.

They fell into step as they walked back toward the others, the sound of bickering and victory shouts already filling the field again.

She swore Liam was walking closer to her than before. His arm just barely brushing hers when their strides aligned. Her heart thundered with every step, too loud in her ears for a simple walk.
And then her hand twitched. A pull to reach for his.

But she straightened her shoulders. Focused on Ridoc yelling about injustice and Sawyer making some dramatic bow like they were in the middle of a royal court.

But it didn’t stop the thundering in her chest.

She couldn’t help herself—she turned to look at him.

And he was already looking at her, that same crooked smile playing on his lips—the one that made her heart stutter all over again.

“What?” she asked, trying to deflect the twist in her chest she refused to name.

He just shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping. “Nothing,” he said, throwing an arm casually over her shoulder.

She looked away, biting down the smile threatening to break through and did not pull away from his touch.

Chapter Text

Combat pairings were posted at dawn. Most cadets didn’t bother trying to guess, they just waited and hoped that Malek was feeling generous. Leora didn’t hope though. She started tracking the pairings for the third and second years who were weeks into challenges.

It had started as a distraction. A way to quiet the storm in her head. She noticed the pattern of the rotation: weight class, combat rank, cadence of repeat pairings, instructors’ preferences. She started marking it down in her notes, tucked between flight theory and strategy drills.

She flipped the corner of her notebook open as she sat on the edge of her bunk, eyes scanning the neat grid she’d drawn. Cierra Trantor. Her name landed on Leora’s next line with a strange sort of inevitability.

“Tough luck,” came Liam’s voice from across the dorm, stretching as he laced up his boots. “You’ve got that I know something none of you do look again.”

Leora didn’t glance up. “I’m paired with Cierra tomorrow.”

Rhiannon turns to face her. “How do you know? They don’t post until morning.”

Leora finally looked up, shrugging. “They’re rotating by combat tier and baseline body weight. No repeats yet. Cierra hasn’t fought anyone in my weight class this cycle. I’m next in the line.”

Sawyer stared. “You’re serious.”

Ridoc threw a pillow at her. “You tracked that?”

“I noticed a pattern,” she said simply.

“Well, I noticed you’re fighting the girl that made three cadets tap out in under a minute during practise,” Ridoc muttered. “Want to notice a way out of that?”

“I’ll be fine,” Leora said, sliding her notebook shut. Rhiannon looked at her with uncertainty and she patted her on the arm. “I’ll be fine.”

Rhiannon gave her a faint smile. But Leora knew Cierra was going to be tough. She was a second-generation rider. Raised on the sparring mat. Rumored to have cracked her brother’s jaw in training just to see if she could.
Cierra wasn’t just skilled. She was brutal. Fast. Prepared. Born for this.

And Leora? She’d grown up under stage lights. Learned to balance on toes, not blades. But her hand didn’t shake as she traced the line of her name. But Leora wasn’t here to win. It was survival for her. At whatever cost.

____

The sky was dark, stars barely peeking through the clouds as Leora crouched along the stone edge of the barracks courtyard, hood drawn low. Cadets were supposed to be in bed by now and most definitely not scaling trees outside the training fields. But rules weren’t meant for surviving. And survival didn’t wait for daylight.

She moved like shadow, quiet and nimble as she ducked beneath the outer gate and darted across the open grass. The tree she needed loomed just beyond the wall, gnarled and old, its limbs stretched high above the parapet ledge. Ryan had pointed it out once when they were children, back when he still thought he could protect her forever. Back then they thought it would be funny to lace the footman’s favourite treats with berries that they knew would make him sick. In hindsight, cruel. But for tomorrow? It was necessary.

Her fingers gripped the bark, and she climbed like she had as a child. Fluid, sure-footed, agile. Near the top, her eyes locked on the dark purple berries—clustered along a high branch. Just what she needed.

She pulled a small pouch from her satchel and picked carefully. Just enough. Mixed into Cierra’s breakfast, this would disorient her for an hour. Maybe two. Nothing dangerous. Nothing traceable. But it would be enough to level the field.

Liam was right. Combat was choreography she hadn’t learned yet, but she was learning fast. And if Zihnal, the god of luck was not blessing her, then she’d have to make her own fortune.

She was about to descend when a sharp rustle broke the stillness.

Leora froze, flattening herself against the branch, careful not to shift the leaves. Shadows moved below her. Figures gathering in a loose circle, half-covered by the tree’s shade.

Of all the gods' damned places they needed to meet, it was here? Near her. She swore that Zihnal was laughing at her for forsaking him.

Her brows knit and she realises it’s cadets. Marked Ones. And definitely more than three.

That alone was enough to get them punished. But no one seemed concerned. Not that the rule ever made sense to Leora. All rebellions started with a small seed of hope.

The cadets were calm, purposeful. And at the centre, unmistakable, stood Xaden. His black uniform caught the moonlight like armor.

Next to him stood someone who looked like him. Not quite the same. Lighter eyes, broader shoulders. The resemblance was too close to miss. A blood relation?

They were talking to a group of First-Years.

“I know you’re struggling,” Xaden said, his voice low but clear in the still air. “So who needs help? Be honest.”

A pause. Then one of the cadets raised a hand. “Combat. I— I just can’t keep up.”

Before anyone else could speak, Liam stepped forward from the edge of the group. His voice carried, warm and steady. “I can help with that.”

Leora’s lips tugged before she could stop herself. Of course you can, she thought. The smile was brief, but real.

Another cadet shook their head. “What’s the point? We’re just bodies to be broken. No one cares if we die.”

The energy shifted. Xaden stepped forward, gaze hard, expression carved from stone.

“I can’t help you,” he said flatly, “if you’ve already decided to give up. If you want to die, there’s the parapet. No one will stop you.”

Silence. It wasn’t exactly a hopeful speech.

“But if you want to live. Even if it’s just one more day. You fight for it. I’ll help you. We will. But I won’t waste time on anyone who won’t try.”

He looked around the group, sharp eyes meeting each face like a challenge. “I can’t save everyone. But I can give you a better chance.”

The group nodded. The quiet unity between them was almost jarring. Not a rebellion. But… support. More than Leora had seen anywhere else. More than the non-Marked cadets gave each other, let alone outsiders like her.

Eventually, the group dispersed, fading back into the shadows in twos and threes. Leora waited, crouched against the branch, counting the seconds until the last footstep faded. Then she began to climb down, slow and careful.

She was almost at the bottom when a voice—low, rough, and smooth as dark velvet—cut through the silence.

“Whitethorn.”

Her heart stopped. She froze mid-step, fingers gripping bark.

Fuck.

She looked down and there he was.

Xaden stood at the base of a tree, arms folded, golden flecked eyes gleaming like a predator who’d been waiting for her to move.

She dropped the last few feet from the tree, landing light as air, but Xaden didn’t move. His gaze pinned her in place. Burning. Unreadable.

“You always climb trees after curfew?” he asked, voice like silk dragged across steel.

Leora straightened slowly, heart thudding. “I like the view.”

He stepped closer, deliberate, slow, a predator already knowing the outcome.

Her breath caught. And her body moved.

In a single motion, she flicked the dagger from the arm strap and pressed it flat against his chest before he could get closer.

But he didn’t flinch. Shadows slid across the ground like smoke, tendrils of darkness wrapping gently around her wrist.

Shit.

They twisted, not painfully, but firm. Turning her arm and disarming her, the knife plucked mid air as it dropped from her hand.

His hand stayed at her wrist and suddenly she was aware of the single point of contact.

“You’re quick,” he said, low and thoughtful. “And full of surprises.”

Leora scowled. “You have a gods damn shadow signet. Not exactly fair.”

His shadow lifted the blade and he caught it without effort. Turning it in his hand, testing the weight like it belongs to him. Then he looked back at her.

“Neither is war.”

She goes to snatch it out of his hand but he’s too quick. His grip never releasing her wrist.

‘Ah ah,’ he says, eyes cleaning.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. He shifted her wrist, turning it palm-up, and gently draws back her sleeve to reveal the leather strop on her forearm. With care, he slide the dagger back into its sheath.

Xaden stepped back and gestured toward a tree a few paces away. “Let’s see if you can hit something other than my ego. Aim for the knot in the center.”

Leora stared at him. “Are you serious?”

He gave a small shrug. “We don’t have all night, Cadet.”

The way he said it. Cadet. It sent something sharp through her.

Fine.

She turned, shifted her wrist to release the dagger and threw. It sliced through the air with a clean whistle and embedded itself in the knot of the tree with a solid thunk.

Dead on. Just like Ryan taught her.

Xaden’s gaze flicked to the target. He said nothing. But his jaw ticked. Then, without looking at her: “Next time Jack opens his mouth, maybe throw a few his way. Might knock the smug out of him.”

Leora raised a brow. “Are you offering suggestions now?”

A pause.

“Depends, of course, on whether you plan to tell anyone what you saw.”

She studied him. Really studied him. The line of his jaw, the slope of his cheek. The unreadable stillness in his face.
She still couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss him or punch him. Maybe both.

“No,” she said quietly. “Everyone is just trying to survive here. Any help is better than nothing.”

He looked at her then. Something unreadable behind those gold-flecked eyes. Sharp and assessing. Like he hadn’t expected that answer. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. But he said nothing and turned back toward the shadows.

“You’d better get back,” he said over his shoulder. “Before your Wingleader finds out you’re missing.”

Leora rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, “What a gods damn pain.”

But he paused. Briefly. Like he’d heard her.

Then he was gone.

And all that remained was the hum beneath her skin and the satisfying weight of her knife she returned back in her sleeve.

Chapter Text

The air in the training ring was thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the sharp bark of instructors calling names.

Leora stood at the edge of the mats, shoulders loose, spine straight, trying not to let her racing heart show on her face.

Across from her, Cierra wiped sweat from her brow for the third time. Her eyes were already unfocused, the corners of her mouth twitching with subtle strain. Her breathing was uneven.
The berries worked.

Leora didn’t smile. But gods, the flicker of satisfaction coiled deep in her gut like victory.

Cierra had always devoured that flaky, sugar-dusted pastry after morning drills. It had been comically easy to slip in the crushed berries. A sweet smile at the cadet on breakfast duty and she was able to lace several pieces that only Cierra ate. Just enough to disorient. Nothing lethal. Nothing permanent. Just a crack in the armor.

“Whitethorn and Trantor,” the instructor called. “To the mat.”

They stepped forward. Cierra was slower than usual. Sluggish, blinking too hard.

Leora moved first, not wasting time. Ciera reacts, but not quick enough and she dodged her lazy jab, spun under her guard, and swept her leg. Cierra stumbled, but didn’t fall. Her arm swung wide, but Leora ducked again, body fluid and instinctual.

Liam’s voice rang out from the side. “You’ve got her!”

Rhiannon’s cheer followed: “Dance her into the ground!”

Cierra’s balance was off just enough for Leora to land a clean elbow to her ribs. Another spin, a feint, then a swift knee to the thigh. When Cierra lunged forward, Leora pivoted, caught her momentum, and threw her.

The mat slammed beneath them both. But Leora was on top. She pinned Cierra’s shoulder, locked her elbow, and drove her knee into the girl’s side.

“Yield,” Leora hissed.

Cierra fought, panting, eyes wild and blurry.

“Yield.”

Cierra tapped once, furious. Leora rolled off, breath ragged, heart thudding in her throat.

She didn’t care that her shoulder ached or her ribs throbbed. She’d survive.

Rhiannon grabbed her in a tight hug, bouncing in place. “That was amazing! You floored her!”

Liam reached for her hand and squeezed. “Told you. Choreography.”

Her lips parted in surprise. His smile was so warm, so proud, it melted the ache from her bones.

But the cheers were short-lived. A sharp whistle cut through the yard. “Free for all!” the instructor shouted. “Any challenges, now’s the time!”

The energy shifted instantly. Cadets spread out like wolves looking for prey. Old grudges. Rank tests. Pure aggression.

Leora was about to retreat to the edge when a voice rang out.

“Whitethorn!”

She turned and there stood a Second-Year. Blond braid. Broad shoulders. Smirk like a blade. “A little dancer wants to play war,” the girl said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Rhiannon hissed, “That’s Misa. Don’t—”

“She can’t kill me. Technically,” Leora said calmly. “Just hurt me.”

Misa raised an eyebrow. “Accept or not, Cadet?”

Leora nodded. “Accepted.”

They met in the centre. And gods, Misa didn’t hold back.

From the first move, she hit like she was trying to shatter bone. Her fists cracked through the air. Leora dodged left, ducked low, countered with a kick. But it barely made Misa stumble.

She grinned. “Cute.”

Then came the real blows. A knee to Leora’s stomach. The dragon scale took most of the burnt, but it did not stop it hurting like hell. An elbow to her shoulder. Every dodge was tighter. Every second stretched thin.

She was quick. She was clever. But Misa was relentless. Leora tried to spin away but Misa caught her wrist, yanked her down, and slammed her into the mat.

Pain exploded through her ribs. Then Misa twisted her arm behind her back and pulled.

Leora gasped, a strangled sound. Every muscle screamed. Her shoulder burned. Her tendons stretched past what they could take.

“Yield,” Misa growled.

Leora’s jaw clenched. Thinking through any way out. But it was impossible. Every thought honed in on the pain. She was about to say it. Just one word.

Crack. The sound was loud enough to silence the entire ring and her scream followed a second later.

Someone was already moving.

“Leora!” Liam cried out. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking as he touched her shoulder.

“Hey—hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay? Just breathe.”

Her vision blurred. Somewhere behind him, Xaden’s voice barked something at the professor. Something sharp and low. But he didn’t approach.

Liam helped brace her arm, cradling it gently. “Don’t move. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Tears leaked down her cheeks from the sheer, unbearable pain.

Rhiannon knelt on the other side, eyes wide and furious. “She’s going to be in so much trouble for that.”

But Leora wasn’t listening. Her forehead pressed to Liam’s shoulder, his steady hand holding hers like an anchor.

And through it all, her eyes drifted just past Liam’s arm.

Xaden stood at the edge of the ring, locked in tense conversation with the professor and Misa.

—

The infirmary was dim and still, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the low hum of mage lights. A healing salve cooled the fire raging through Leora’s shoulder, but it barely touched the ache in her bones.

Her arm was splinted and wrapped from elbow to wrist, pinned across her chest. The mender had murmured something about partial dislocation, tendon strain, possible hairline fracture. But Leora barely heard any of it. The pain had settled into a dull, deep throb. Manageable now. But her pride stung the most.

Liam sat beside her cot, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t know what else to do with them. He hadn’t left her side.

She blinked against the haze of the tincture that still left a burn in her throat. “You should go. It’s late.”

“Not tired,” he said softly. “You?”

Leora gave a dry laugh. “Just emotionally concussed.”

That got a smile out of him. But his eyes didn’t leave her.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly.

“It scared me, too.”

He ran a hand through his hair, still tousled from the fight. “You didn’t have to accept that challenge.”

“I did,” she said, looking down at her good arm. Fingers rubbing the scratchy linen. “If I didn’t… it would have sent a damning message across the quadrant without her ever needing to land a blow.”
Liam frowned. “She nearly broke you.”

“Correction. She broke my arm.” Leora shifted slowly, pain radiating down her side. “I’ll heal.”

He exhaled, leaning back in the chair. “You’ve got more grit than half this quadrant combined. Maybe more than the whole damn college.”

She looked at him. Taking in his gorgeous face. The worry carved deep in his brow. The quiet fire behind his eyes. The steady presence she hadn’t realised she was starting to rely on.

“Why do you care so much?” she asked softly.

His mouth opened, then closed. A pause.

Then, “Because I see you. Even if no one else does.”

That silence between them thickened, heavy with meaning. Leora’s chest tightened. Not with fear this time, but something warmer. Something dangerous.

She looked down at her lap, then back at him. “I’m not used to that.”

Liam reached out gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Get used to it.”

She didn’t look away as he shifted beside her on the bed, cupping her cheek with one hand and leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

She stayed still, a quiet sigh escaping her lips as his thumb brushed slowly across her cheek. It traced the curve down to her chin, and—ever so gently—he tilted it upward until she was looking at him.

Those blue eyes. Deep like the ocean. She could get lost in them for days. And right now, they held nothing but tenderness. Tenderness for her.

Their breath mingled—close, so close. She hadn’t even realized how near he’d drawn until his lips hovered over hers, brushing lightly. Hesitating. Like this moment was teetering on the edge of something fragile and full of what ifs.

She felt the spark of it race across her skin. She wanted more. She wanted him.

So she kissed him—softly, without doubt. And it was enough. He kissed her back, just as gently, but she could feel the need thrumming beneath his careful touch. One hand cradled the back of her neck, the other still warm against her cheek.

With her good hand, she reached up to touch his face, fingers curling slightly against his jaw. She arched her back for a better angle—and that was enough to send a bolt of pain down her injured arm.

She gasped, pulling back with a wince.

“Gods, Leora, I’m so sorry,” Liam said quickly, eyes wide, dropping to her arm.

“No, no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “It was me. Just got a little too eager. Moved too fast.”

He paused, eyes flickering to her lips before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I was… also a bit eager,” he admitted.

She gave him a look, —half amused, half exasperated—and leaned back against the pillows with a groan. “You’d think near-death experiences would teach us patience.”

Liam laughed quietly, settling beside her again, propping himself up on one elbow. “Patience is overrated.”

“Oh, is that the official rider stance?”

“Only the best ones,” he said, smirking. “Also the ones who are terrible at waiting.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted. “That explains so much.”

He grinned wider, and without thinking, reached out again—this time to gently take her hand, the uninjured one, lacing his fingers through hers.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow and steady. “We can go slow,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t have to rush anything with me.”

Leora turned her head to look at him, heart tugging in her chest—not the painful kind, not the overwhelming kind. Just… warm.

“I know,” she said. “But for the record?”

“Yeah?”

“I still really want to kiss you.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Noted. And… same.”

She gave his hand a small squeeze. “Maybe just not with spine-arching flair next time.”

“I was impressed, honestly,” he teased. “Truly bold. Very committed.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, grinning now.

But she didn’t let go of his hand and neither did he.

Chapter Text

The barracks were quiet that night. Most cadets were too exhausted to speak, let alone stir. Snoring echoed from a few corners, but the three of them—Leora, Rhiannon, and Liam—sat huddled in a whispered conversation, a single low mage light flowed nearby.

Liam had managed to convince the Mender to tend to Leora and the dull ache of her arm subsided everyday. She was finally able to cradle lukewarm tea in both her hands without a throb. Rhiannon had passed it to her without asking, and now sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed, chin resting on her palm.

Liam was sprawled on the floor beneath them, back against the bedpost, one knee drawn up. He looked more relaxed than usual—but his eyes kept flicking to Leora’s splint every few minutes like he still hadn’t forgiven himself for not getting there sooner.

“I miss quiet,” Rhiannon murmured, breaking the silence. “Not this kind of quiet. I mean real quiet—like back home. No shouting, no instructors, no knives flying at your face.”

“Where’s home?” Leora asked.

“Village outside Laern,” Rhiannon said. “Tiny place. Mostly farmers. My sister’s still there. She’s pregnant, actually.” She smiled, soft and wistful. “First one in our family.”

Liam lifted his head slightly. “Boy or girl?”

“Too early to tell, but she’s hoping for a girl. Says she wants someone to boss around who’s not her husband.”

Leora chuckled faintly. “She sounds terrifying.”

“She is. I miss her like hell.” Rhiannon looked over. “What about you?”

Leora hesitated. “What about me?”

“Your family?”

The question hung in the air a little too long. The warmth from the tea didn’t quite reach her fingers.

“I…” she began, then paused. “It was just my father and me for most of my life. My mother died when I was young.”

Rhiannon's expression softened. Liam didn’t speak.

Leora stared into her cup. “He was a good man. Everyone knew him as a soldier, but to me… he was just Dad. He made the best soup when I was sick. Let me climb all over the furniture when I was little because he said ballerinas should know how to fall.”

Her throat tightened.

“I knew him. I did. I mean I think… I thought I did…” she swallowed, forcing herself to say it, “I didn’t know what he was doing. I had no idea he was involved in anything. Not with the rebellion.”

Neither of them said anything. Rhiannon looked down at her hands.

Leora went on, voice low. “Even now, I still don’t know why he did it. Why he gave up everything. Why he—” her voice caught, “—left me.”

Liam shifted from the floor and reached up, resting a hand gently on her knee. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

After a long pause, Leora asked quietly, “What about you?”

Liam let out a slow breath. “I was fostered after well… you guys already know. I lived with Duke Lindell who had also taken Xaden in.” He smirked faintly. “We weren’t exactly instant friends.”

Rhiannon raised an eyebrow. “What changed?”

“He caught a noble kid picking on me and broke his nose. Never said a word about it after. Just shoved half his dinner at me the next night and told me to eat faster.”

Leora blinked, surprised. “That actually tracks.”

Liam laughed under his breath. “He’s complicated. But he means well. Even if he’d rather set himself on fire than admit it.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while after that, the kind that only came when things had been shared that couldn’t be unsaid.

Eventually, Rhiannon yawned and sank back into her pillow. “Alright, enough feelings. We’ve got combat drills tomorrow and I’d like to not sob through them.”

“Sweet dreams,” Liam said with a mock salute, then gently took Leora’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Only if I dream about not dying,” she replied, grinning at him.

He chuckled and turned to go, the mage lights flickering on and off as he passed.

Leora watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

“He’s smitten with you,” Rhiannon said, voice light but knowing.

Leora curled her knees up to her chest, tucking her chin down in a poor attempt to hide the smile that was spreading across her face.

“And you are smitten with him,” Rhiannon added, nudging Leora with her foot.

Leora chanced a glance over, lips already betraying her with a tug of a smile. “Well, what’s not to like? Blonde hair, blue eyes…”

“I always pegged you for the dark and broody type,” Rhiannon teased.

“Oh please,” Leora said with a quiet laugh, “Xaden is not my type. Not when Liam’s got those eyes you can just melt into.”

Rhiannon choked on a laugh. “I didn’t even say anything about Xaden.”

Leora blinked, caught. “I—well—you were implying it.”

“Mmm,” Rhiannon hummed, grinning. “You sure sound like someone who’s definitely not thinking about our tall, broody Wing Leader.”

Leora huffed and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Rhiannon said, still amused. “He is hot… the smoldering-in-a-dark-corner kind of way.”

Leora groaned into the pillow.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s happy,” Rhiannon said, her voice softening as sleep began to take hold. “We need that in here.”

She yawned and flopped back. “Now scoot to your bed, lover girl. We’ve got drills at dawn.”

Chapter Text

Leora was back on the mat. Not that she had a choice. Her arm no longer throbbed and she had learned her lesson with Misa. Her strikes landing with weight instead of grace.

Liam grinned at her as they circled each other, sweat gleaming at his temple. “You sure you’re cleared for this?”

Leora smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

She lunged, feinted left, then spun and planted her elbow into his side. Solid contact.

Liam let out a sharp breath and stepped back, laughing under his breath. “Okay. That’s going to bruise.”

“Underestimating me Mairi?” she taunts.

“Never,” he said, smile lingering. “I just didn’t think you’d hit me that hard.”

She was still catching her breath when a shadow fell across them.

“Your stance is too open,” Xaden said. He stood with arms crossed, watching them with that ever-neutral expression that made her want to punch him.

What a mood killer.

“Maybe,” Liam said easily. “But she’s getting better.”

“Better isn’t good enough.” His golden flecked eyes shifted to her. “You’re hesitating between movements.”

Leora bristled. “I’m not hesitating, I’m adjusting.”

“Same thing. Just slower.”

She clenched her jaw. He wasn't wrong and that irritated her.

“Show me the disarm drill Mairi taught you.”

Leora glanced at Liam, who gave her a small nod. She reset her stance. Xaden stepped forward onto the mat.
She moved. Fast. Dagger up, pivoting to sweep his feet— He anticipated.

Before she could blink, he caught her wrist, twisted, stepped inside her guard, and drove her down. The mat slammed into her back. Hard.

He hovered over her, one knee between her legs, pinning her arm. His face was close. Too close. Breath brushing her cheek.

Frustration radiated off her. But beneath it. She couldn’t mark the heat that was building.

“That’s what you need to hone,” he said, voice like flint. “Because fumbling your way through drills will get you killed.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Then he was gone. Pushing off and walking away like nothing had happened.

Liam crouched beside her, brows raised. “You alright?”

“My ass isn’t,’ she muttered.

He chuckled, helped her up. “He means well. Even if he teaches like a sledgehammer.”

She rolled her shoulder. “Tell that to my spine.”

Liam’s smile turned sly. “Come with me.”

Taking her hand he led her to a storage alcove tucked behind the training ring. From a satchel tucked behind a bench, he pulled out a small cloth bundle. Opening it revealed a set of ten daggers. Sleek, polished, balanced perfectly. Shorter hilts and with lighter handles than the one given to her by Ryan or that she had won during combat.

“These are yours,” pushing the bundle towards her with a shy smile.

“Liam, these are—gods, they’re beautiful.” She takes one from the bundle. It was so dark it seemed to swallow the light. There were markings up and down the hilt, some familiar as the ones she has seen along around the College. Others foreign. Each dagger with a different marking.

“They’re better suited to you. You’re fast, and now that you are comfortable with moving close to your opponent, these won’t weigh you down.”

She ran her fingers along the hilt of one, testing the grip. It fit her hand like it was made for her.

“Do you like them?” Liam asked, his voice quieter now, more hesitant.

Instead of answering, she stepped closer, tugging lightly on his shirt to bring him down to her. Her lips found his in a kiss that said everything she couldn’t. Liam froze for just a second, surprised—but then melted into it, his free hand settling at her waist. The hunger between them bloomed fast, and his mouth parted as his tongue traced the edge of her bottom lip. She sighed into him, the sound caught between a breath and a groan as her lips opened for more, deepening the kiss.

When she finally pulled away, her voice was breathless.

“Why?” she asked softly. “Why would you do this?”

Liam rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Wasn’t my idea.”

Her brow rose. “Whose, then?”

But before he could answer, his name was called from across the yard.

He cursed under his breath. “I’ll tell you later.”

He pressed the parcel into her hands a placed a gently kiss on her forehead. Then he jogged off, leaving her alone with the daggers still gleaming in the fading light—and far more questions than answers.

—

The new daggers sang in her hands.

Leora spun one in her grip, then reversed it smoothly in her palm. The lighter weight made it easier to move—easier to control. Her slashes were sharper. Her strikes faster. These weren’t bulky training blades; they were precision-made, the perfect extension of her body.

She moved through the form Liam had shown her: slash, spin, parry, disarm. Her breath synced with the motion, feet sliding lightly across the stone in practiced rhythm.

It felt good. Empowering. This—this—was what control felt like.

She flipped one blade in the air, caught it cleanly, and shifted to a low stance just as another cadet passed by, gawking.

Leora didn’t even spare him a glance. But out of the corner of her eye, she caught the unmistakable silhouette—tall, arms crossed, gaze like molten gold beneath a furrowed brow.

Xaden.

Of course.

He was standing near the edge of the training yard, talking to another Wingleader, but his eyes—his eyes were on her. Tracking her movement. Her footwork. Her grip. Like he was waiting for her to make a mistake.
Leora’s stomach did that annoying thing it did whenever he stared at her too long. That tight flutter just below her ribs. It was infuriating. Gods, she wanted to punch him.

He was intense. Constant. Unreadable. And it unsettled her how often she found herself trying to figure out what he was thinking.

She drove a dagger into the practice post in front of her with a satisfying thud. The blade sank clean.

Behind her, Xaden barked a sharp order. “Cadet Vellis! If your blade slips from your hand one more time, I swear I will nail it to your palm.”

Leora was startled out of her thoughts.

When she looked back he wasn’t watching her anymore. But he had been.

She pulled the dagger free, heart still pounding—not from exertion. And despite herself, a thought slid uninvited into her mind: What the hell is he trying to figure out about me?

Chapter Text

They called it a Night of Reprieve.

A rare, sanctioned pause from the brutality of Basgiath—no training, no sparring, and, most importantly, no killing allowed. For a few short hours, the cadets were encouraged to gather in the commons, drink (within reason), and socialise without the ever-present threat of being gutted in a hallway.

Mage lights cast a gentle glow over the space. Music filtered in from somewhere—a lilting, off-tempo melody played on a worn fiddle by a too-eager First-Year. Tables were pulled together, seating was scarce, and drinks flowed with cautious enthusiasm.

Leora lingered near the edge of the room, wearing the least-wrinkled shirt she owned and trying not to fidget. Across the room, Rhiannon was locked in an animated debate with Ridoc and Sawyer about which Wing Leader could most likely bench-press the iron balls of the gauntlet. Liam, as always, hovered somewhere between her and Leora, catching her gaze now and then with that quiet, knowing smile.

She didn’t expect to feel so relaxed. Or maybe not relaxed exactly. More like... steady.

Until Jack Barlowe sauntered up.

“Didn’t think traitors got to attend social hours,” he drawled, drink sloshing slightly in his hand as he leaned in far too close.

Leora didn’t move. “Didn’t think cowards picked fights when they knew they couldn’t win.”

Jack’s smirk sharpened. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m not here to fight. I just want to talk.”

“Your version of talking is just yelling at yourself with an audience.”

His jaw twitched. “You think surviving this long makes you special? You’re still just a dancer who got lucky.”

Before she could respond, a voice slid in like steel between them.

“She didn’t get lucky,” Liam said, stepping up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. “She earned it. Every bruise. Every win.”

Jack scoffed. “Of course you’d defend her. You’ve been following her around like a lost puppy since day one.”

Liam just smiled, easy and calm. “And yet I’m the one who keeps walking away with all my teeth.”

That got a few chuckles from nearby cadets. Jack’s smirk faltered.

“Back off, Jack,” Liam said, voice quieter now. No theatrics. Just warning.

Jack muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the bar, where someone was already shaking their head at him.

Leora exhaled. “Thanks.”

Liam tilted his head toward her. “I’ve got a personal policy. I don’t let assholes ruin nice nights.”

She smiled, a little softer now. “You think this is a nice night?”

“Compared to a broken rib and shadow drills at dawn? Absolutely.”

Leora’s gaze lingered on him. There was something about the way linked his fingers between hers. Not possessive, just solid. Like he would always be there without question.

“I needed this,” she admitted, squeezing his hand.

“Me too,” he said, squeezing her hand back.

They stood in silence for a moment, the warmth of the room wrapping around them. Then Liam leaned in just slightly, voice low and teasing, “So... are you going to ask me to dance, or do I need to start twirling on my own and embarrassing us both?”

Leora startled into a laugh. “You want to dance? You are great on the mat, but you have no grace about you”

He grinned. “I’m willing to learn.”

She bumped him with her shoulder. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As they stepped onto the floor—awkward, unpolished, and undeniably close—Leora caught movement in the far corner of the room.

Xaden stood there, speaking with another Wing Leader, but his gaze had definitely been on her. On them.

And for the briefest moment, she swore his jaw tightened before he looked away.

—

The music wasn’t fast, but it swelled with rhythm—old, familiar, imperfect.

Liam’s hand was warm in hers, the other hovering at her waist as they moved in awkward, lopsided circles.

“You know,” Leora murmured, biting back a grin, “you have no natural rhythm.”

Liam laughed. “Yeah, I’m noticing that. I was hoping standing near you would somehow transfer some of your talent by proximity.”

“That’s not how it works,” she said, stepping lightly around him.

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure you just made me turn without realizing it.”

“You tripped over your own boot, Liam.”

“Semantics," he shrugged with a cheeky grin.

Leora’s laughter slipped out before she could stop it. Gods, it felt good—easy.

“Okay,” she said, eyes bright. “Let me show you something simple.”

“Oh boy,’ he replied nervously.

“It’s not that bad,” she promised. “I’m going to do a basic pirouette, and all you have to do is catch me. Just… hold your ground and support my waist. That’s it.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “I feel like I’m about to become a cautionary tale.”

She didn’t wait for him to chicken out. Leora took a step back, spun cleanly—light, effortless—and turned right into his space.

Liam caught her, but—

“Oh—shit—” His footing slid and for a moment, it was all arms and half-panicked fumbling. Her palm pressed against his chest. His hands found her waist—barely. The world tilted—and then they were upright.

Barely. Breathing hard. Laughing.

Leora was pressed against him, her hands still braced against his chest. Their faces inches apart. His laugh quieted as her smile softened. Their breath mingled in the space between them, hearts still racing, adrenaline thick in the air.

Liam swallowed. His hand still lingered at her waist, fingers curling slightly as though memorising the shape of her.

Leora’s voice was a whisper. “That was... terrible.”

“Completely,” he agreed.

Neither moved. Her gaze flicked to his lips, then back up. His eyes searched hers like he wanted to say something—but wasn’t sure if he should.

“I—” he began.

But just then, the music shifted, and someone bumped into them from the side, laughing and spinning in a wide arc. The spell broke.

Leora stepped back, cheeks flushed, unsure if it was from the almost-fall or something far more dangerous.

Liam cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “So… next dance or drink refill?”

She smiled, a little shy now. “Let’s do both.”

—

The night wore on, but the tension between them didn’t fade—it deepened.

After another drink and too many touches, Liam leaned in close, his voice brushing warm and low against Leora’s ear.

“Come on,” he murmured, eyes bright with something playful—and hungry. “Before someone else decides to critique our dancing.”

Leora smirked, warmth curling beneath her skin. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

They slipped through the crowd, unnoticed or ignored. It didn’t matter either way. The corridor outside the commons was still, torchlight flickering against the stone. Liam led her down a narrow hallway and out a side door into the cool night air.

Wind kissed her skin, and above them, stars shimmered—silver and distant.

He stopped beneath a low archway draped in ivy. The music behind them faded to a soft murmur, like the world had shrunk to just this moment. Leora turned to face him, heart pounding. Liam stepped in close.

He didn’t speak—just watched her, eyes searching, careful. Her breath caught.

And then—he kissed her.

It was slow. Certain. A kiss that didn’t ask, but offered—warmth and safety and the quiet promise of I see you.

Leora leaned into it, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt, lips parting beneath his. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing softly over her cheek with a tenderness that made her knees weak.

Gods, he tasted like apple and smoke and something solid. Something safe.

The kisses moved lower—to her jaw, her neck. Hungrier now. Intentional. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, and memorising every sound she made.

A gasp slipped free as his nails scraped lightly along her back. Every nerve in her body lit like flame.

Then his tongue flicked over the place that made her whimper, and her head fell back, exposing more.

“Liam…” she breathed.

He groaned at the sound of it, his hand anchoring her waist, drawing her tight against him. Her body burned.

He kissed her again—deep, slow, maddening. And then, without warning, he gripped her thighs and lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped around him, his hardness pressing right where she ached for him.

Her fingers ran through his hair, tugging ever just so. Asking. No begging for more. Liam growled in response. Nipping at her bottom lip. She parted her lips in response and his tongue found hers. IT felt like only seconds before he pulled away just so.

“Gods…” Liam panted, “I wish we had our own rooms.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Leora gasped. “I need you now.”

But Liam slowed. His kisses softened against her skin, still warm but less frantic.

“As much as I want you right now,” he said, voice low and aching, “I’m not risking someone walking in—or fumbling around in some field.”

He slowly lowered her back to her feet.

“Why?” she whispered, filled with need.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Because I want to hear you say my name—loud. Unrestrained.” His voice dropped even lower. “I want you shaking. I want you begging me not to stop.”

A full-body shiver ran through her. She bit her bottom lip as he gently nipped at her earlobe. Heat still roared beneath her skin, but now it simmered. Throbbed with anticipation. With promise.

“So,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, her smile wicked, “when exactly are you proposing... to make me beg?”

Liam’s gaze darkened instantly, feral and hungry. “After Threshing,” he said without hesitation. “Once you're a rider. When everyone's too busy scrambling for their own rooms to notice I’ve already claimed mine.”

She raised a brow, pressing a hand to his chest—solid and hot beneath her palm. “If I make it through Threshing,” she said, her voice softer now. Her fingers curled slightly, grounding herself in the thunder of his heartbeat. It matched her own—fast and unrelenting.

He took her hand, turned it gently, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “When you make it,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re very confident about that,” she said as he tugged her away from the ivy-covered wall, his arm slipping easily around her waist, pulling her close as they reentered the edges of the crowd.

Liam leaned in, lips brushing her ear, his voice low and electric. 

“I don’t waste this kind of want on uncertain things, Leora.”

A slow smile pulled at her lips as she wrapped an arm around him. They started walking back, warmth buzzing quietly between them—until something flickered at the edge of her vision. A shadow.

She turned to look—but it was gone. Vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“You okay?” Liam asked, eyes tracking the direction she had glanced.

She hesitated, focusing for a moment, sure she hadn’t imagined it. But there was nothing there.

“I’m fine,” she said, turning back to him with a soft smile. “Just… thought I saw something.”

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp, the sun still low and casting long shadows across the training yard. Cadets lined up for drills, yawning, stretching, already muttering complaints under their breath. Leora rolled out her shoulders, the new daggers Liam had given her strapped neatly to her thighs. She felt good. Stronger. Focused. Until she saw him.

Xaden stood off to the side, arms crossed, black uniform immaculate, golden eyes scanning the lines of cadets with razor precision.

He didn’t so much as glance at her. But she felt it. The shift in the air, the weight of something tighter in the way he held himself.

“Split into pairs,” one of the Wingleaders barked. “We’re running strike-counter-footwork drills. Wing Leaders and Seconds, circulate.”

Leora paired with Liam as usual. The routine was familiar now—attack, evade, counter, repeat.

But she couldn’t help glancing toward the edge of the yard. Xaden was working with Garrick and Bodhi. Or more accurately—drilling them into the ground.

“Again,” he barked. “You dropped your guard for half a second, Garrick. If you do that in the field, you’re dead.”

“It was barely—”

“Again.” He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His words were clipped, sharp as daggers. And the tension in his shoulders didn’t fade, even when Bodhi landed a clean counterstrike.

“Too slow,” Xaden muttered. “Again.”

Leora narrowed her eyes. He was always tough. But this? This was different.

Beside her, Liam noticed. “Something crawled into his shadow and died.”

Leora smirked. “You think it’s the full moon?”

Liam shrugged. “He gets like this sometimes. Cold. Locked up.”

She glanced at Xaden again. He still hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But when he circled the yard, checking stances, footwork, blade angles—he hovered for just a second longer behind her. She could feel it. That weight of scrutiny. And something else. Something quieter.

Then he moved on, correcting another cadet with a sharp nudge to their knee.

Leora exhaled slowly. She didn’t understand the shift. But she felt it like a stone dropped in a still pond—rippling under her skin.

And from across the yard, Garrick muttered under his breath as he picked himself off the ground again. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

Bodhi just shook his head. “Something he won’t talk about.”

Chapter Text

The Gauntlet was not made for people like her.

That much became clear on her third attempt to scale the chimney wall and her second fall that left her flat on her back, staring up at the sun-scorched sky with breathless rage tightening her lungs.

Rhiannon made it. Barely. Liam did better—his footwork was steady, his long limbs perfect for the ramp and the stretch between holds. And Sawyer? He practically skipped, hopped and danced across with his eyes closed.

But Leora? She was too short. Too light. Too damn close every single time.

“Again,” the Professor barked, clipboard in hand. “You don’t clear it, your team’s penalised during final runs.”

Leora’s jaw clenched. Her muscles ached. Scrapes lined her palms. Her boots were caked in dust and her hair stuck to the back of her neck with sweat.

But she got up. Again.

The chimney. She pressed her back to the wall, feet braced against the other. Pushed upward.

Too wide.

Her legs strained. Her arms shook. She tried to reach the next hold—missed—and slipped. Again.

She caught herself halfway down with a yelp of pain, jarring her shoulder against the stone. She climbed down slowly, burning with humiliation.

“You okay?” Rhiannon asked softly when she approached.

Leora didn’t answer. She just nodded. Once.

Then came the ramp. The others waited at the top—Liam, Rhiannon, even Garrick. All watching.

Leora backed up. Breathed.

Don’t let ego push you too fast.

She ran hard. Reaching the ramp, boots pounding, drove up the incline, and leapt—hands reaching for the top ledge. Her fingers slipped and she fell. The impact jarred her teeth.

The Professor’s voice echoed again. “Try again.”

Leora stood. Her legs trembled. Her lungs burned. But she didn’t stop.

She tried again. Failed again.

This time, she didn't land as clean. Her shin cracked against the stone edge and she hissed, biting back the sting.

Liam started to move, but she waved him off. She wasn’t done. She tried a third time.

Missed. Again.

She laid on her back, staring at the sky.

What if this is it? What if no matter how hard you try, you just can’t beat it?

The failure wasn’t just physical. It was visceral. Because this wasn’t a personal loss. If she failed here, she brought her entire team down with her. No dragons. No presentation. Just another month spent praying to survive.

The professor moved on to the next cadet.

Leora sat up in the dirt, arms on her knees, sweat dripping from her jaw.

—

The sun had finally dipped, leaving the sky streaked in purples and ash-blues, but Leora still hadn’t moved far from the Gauntlet.

Her legs ached. Her palms were raw. Her pride had taken a beating that still made her chest tighten every time she blinked.

She sat on a worn stone bench near the edge of the training yard, legs curled up, elbows braced on her knees. Her hair had come loose from its braid hours ago—long, black, and tangled from sweat and grit. She hadn’t had the heart to cut it since arriving. Something about it still felt like hers.

A shadow approached. She didn’t have to look to know it was Liam.

“You know,” he said, dropping beside her, “you’re the only person I’ve ever seen try that ramp four times in one session.”

“Don’t sound so impressed,” she muttered. “I still ate shit every time.”

Liam smiled softly. “Yeah, but you made spectacular attempts.”

She gave a tired huff of a laugh, head dropping to rest on her folded arms.

He reached out, slow and gentle, and ran a hand through her tangled hair, brushing it back from her face.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel better.”

His fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed, light and soothing.

“You’re allowed to fail,” he said quietly. “Even gods damned perfect dancers.”

“I’m not perfect,” turning her head away from him to look back the Gauntlet.

“You’re not allowed to say that right now,” he said, voice mock-scolding. “That’s my job. I get to say you’re still terrifyingly impressive and stubborn as hell. You get to sulk for five more minutes before I drag you to dinner.”

She smiled—barely—but it stayed.

Then a voice cut across the yard, sharp as flint. “Whitethorn.”

She looked up. Xaden stood several metres away, barking orders at a cluster of Second-Years—until he turned just enough to level a look directly at her.

“You didn’t get up the Gauntlet.”

Leora blinked. “Thanks for the update. That was just as helpful as the Professor telling me I didn’t make it. I lived through the experience. No need for the recount.”

His mouth twitched. Just barely. But the glint in his eye was hard to read—cool, cutting, and lingering just a second too long before he turned back to the cadets he was drilling into the ground.

Liam chuckled beside her. “He really doesn’t know how to talk to people.”

“No,” she said, watching Xaden’s retreating form. “But he sure knows how to bother them.”

Liam laughed again, easy and warm, and pulled her close by the arm. “Come on. If you don’t eat, you’ll pass out trying the Gauntlet tomorrow.”

"Maybe that is the secret." But she didn’t protest as he hoisted her up.

Punch him. She definitely wanted to punch Xaden in his stupid sculpted face.

Chapter Text

It was dead silent, save for the wind whispering across the stone. Most cadets were in their bunks, aching and dreaming of anything but the Gauntlet.

But Leora sat cross-legged in the dirt, sweat-dried clothes still clinging to her skin, her gaze fixed on the vertical ramp that had rejected her again and again.

She didn’t move. Just watched it like she could will it to make sense. If she stared long enough, maybe she’d see the secret no one else had to think about because they were tall enough to reach the godsdamn edge.

A sudden gust of wind shifted the air.

Then—shadows.

A heavy thump of boots on gravel behind her.

She turned.

Xaden.

He had descended from Sgaeyl with feline grace - late, quiet, not protocol. His black riding gear on, wind-tousled hair ruffled, brow furrowed like he hadn’t expected anyone to see him return.

“You’re back late,” she states blandly.

He arched a brow, slowing his steps as he approached. “I wasn’t aware I report to you now.”

Leora scoffed. It was no mistaking it, she wanted to punch him.

“I was making conversation.”

“You want small talk?” he drawled. “Pick someone who doesn’t fly at night for a reason.”

She looked back at the Gauntlet. “What is the reason?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he followed her gaze—and, to her surprise, sat down beside her. Not close. But not far enough for it to mean nothing. No. She was overthinking it.

She glanced at him just for a second.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” she said quietly. “The Gauntlet.”

“You're trying to solve it like it's a puzzle,” returning her bland tone from earlier.

“It is a puzzle.”

He didn’t disagree. Just stared at it, arms resting loosely over his knees.

“You’re fast,” he said at last. “Precise. But the ramp doesn’t care. You’re too light, and your legs don’t give you enough upward momentum.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. “I love being told my genetics are the problem.”

“There is a way,” he added, voice calm, clinical. “You need more speed and lift before you hit the incline. Use the wall beside it. Hit it at the right angle, push off it and the ground at the same time—it’ll give you enough to reach the edge.”

She blinked. “Wall run?”

“Controlled chaos,” he said. “You’ll either catch it, or break your ankle trying.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort you,” again in that bland tone.

“Obviously,” she replied sarcastically.

A gust of wind swept through the yard, and her long ebony hair blew across her face, catching in the breeze.

Xaden looked at her then. With a voice low and sharp as a blade, said, “You need to cut your hair.”

Leora turned to him, appalled. “Seriously?”

“It’s a liability.” Again. No feeling behind it at all.

“It’s mine,’ she bit out.

“It’s a handhold waiting to get you dragged down.”

She groaned, running a hand across her face through her hair. “Can’t I have one nice thing? Do you ever say anything that isn’t condescending or soul-crushing?”

He was quiet. Long enough that she glanced at him again. And when he spoke, his voice was lower. Not softer—but heavier.

“I say what keeps people alive.”

Something in her chest tightened. She believed him. Believed that on the night out at the forest with the group of Marked cadets, that he was trying. In his own way.

They sat there, two shadows under moonlight. One quiet in failure, the other in command. But for a moment, they shared the same stillness.

—

The next night Leora was half-asleep when a tug of shadow lifted her blanket.

Sharp. Purposeful.

She groaned, rolled over, cracked one eye open—and saw Rhiannon still dead asleep, her soft snores the only sound in the room.

Then she turned over. Xaden stood in the corner. It took everything in her not to scream.

Sitting up straight she shot him a filthy look.

Dressed in black, expression unreadable, he said only, “Get dressed.”

“Excuse me?” she scoffed, furrowing her brow.

“You have sixty seconds.” Then he turned and walked out without waiting for a reply.

“Godsdamned Wing Leader,” Leora grumbled as she threw on her training clothes, boots, and jacket. “Arrogant, cryptic, power-tripping piece of—”

She jogged after him, catching up in the corridor as the wind pulled at her sleeves.

“Where are we going?” she hissed.

He didn’t answer until they slipped past the main gates, moonlight silvering the training yard. Ahead, the Gauntlet loomed.

“Braid your hair,” he said.

She scowled. “Seriously?”

“You’ll thank me when you don’t get scalped.”

“Gods,” she muttered, yanking her hair into a rough braid and tying it with the leather cord she always kept in her pocket.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked dryly.

“If I wanted you dead, Cadet,” Xaden said without missing a beat, “you’d already be ash.”

That shut her up.

They stopped at the base of the ramp. The cursed obstacle. It glistened under the moonlight like it knew she’d failed here before.

“You’re going to run it,” he said simply.

“Now? At night?” she blinked. “You serious?”

“Real fights don’t wait for daylight.”

She exhaled, shaking out her limbs.

“Wall,” he barked. “Two steps up the left side. Push off. Launch straight. Don’t angle wide—you’ll lose momentum.”

Leora nodded, heart pounding.

“And don’t hesitate.”

“Got it, Wing Leader,” she bit out.

He didn’t flinch. Just stepped back, arms crossed.

She ran. Boots slammed against stone. She angled left, pushed off the wall, reached—and missed. Hit hard. Rolled. Dirt in her mouth.

“Again,” he snapped.

She got up. Ran again. Fell again.

“Your timing is off. You’re flinching in the air.”

“I know!” she shouted, voice cracking with frustration.

Her breath came hard and fast, fists clenched. Every nerve in her screamed to stop.

But then Xaden spoke—lower this time. Not soft, but not sharp either.

“Then stop.”

She stilled.

“Stop hesitating,” he said. “You don’t need to jump like them. You need to jump like you. Light. Quick. Precise. You’ve already got what you need. Trust it.”

Her jaw clenched. She stepped back. Took in a big inhale.

You’ve already got what you need. Those words ringing in her ear. She was trying to twist, jump, turn as she had seen everyone before her. But they weren’t built like her. She could do this. In her own way.

She ran again. Hard. Fast. Focused.

Two steps. Left wall. Push. Air tore past her ears.

She reached. Caught the ledge. Fingers locked.

With a cry, she hauled herself over the top.

She lay flat for a moment, breathless, staring at the stars. Still not believing what she had done.

Getting onto her feet she couldn’t help it. She whooped. Loud and wild and triumphant.

“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes. YES. YES—”

She spun into a full pirouette, laughter spilling from her. Her braid whipping with her.

Then she froze. Xaden was watching her. Those gold-flecked eyes, still and silent.

She cleared her throat, straightened her jacket, smoothed her braid.

Totally cool. Totally not exploding inside.

Jogging back down, her chest rose and fell with every breath, but the smile refused to leave her face. She stopped beside him, eyes bright, skin flushed. Without thinking, she reached out and touched his elbow—light, brief.

“Thank you,” she said, quiet and sincere.

He looked at her hand. Then at her. “Don’t thank me yet,” he replied. “Do it again. So I know it wasn’t a fluke.”

Her arm dropped like a dead weight. She turned, muttering every curse she could think of under her breath.

“I heard that,” Xaden called after her.

“You were meant to,” she shot back. Though as she turned away from him she could not help the smile that crept to her lips.

Chapter Text

The yard buzzed with tension. Cadets shifted from foot to foot, some psyching themselves up, others vomiting nerves into the bushes. Instructors lined the base of the obstacle course, clipboards ready, stone-faced.

The dragons would be watching. Not literally, not yet—but their Riders were. And they were always looking for the ones who rose.

Leora stood in line, jaw tight, braid heavy down her back, knuckles cracking one by one as she stretched her fingers. Her palms were dry this time. Her breath steady.

She’d run this course a dozen times now. She was ready.

"Whitethorn," the Professor called.

She stepped forward. The Gauntlet rose before her. Taunting. Familiar.

Then she ran. Swung across the suspended beams like a dancer leaping from platform to platform. Vaulted through the rotating columns with a clean roll. Slid through the tunnel. Climbed the rope wall.

She reached the chimney—and climbed it in two minutes flat. Still hard. Still tight in the chest. But she made it.

Then came the ramp. The one that had beaten her, bruised her, nearly broken her.

She backed up. Ignored the crowd. Ignored the voice in her head asking what if.

She ran. Two light steps up the wall.

A push. A leap.

Hands caught the ledge—solid. She swung up in one fluid motion.

No slip.

No hesitation.

No fall.

The top greeted her like victory. And the cheer that went up—Rhiannon's scream, Liam's whistle—nearly made her laugh from pure relief.

She wasn’t the fastest. But she finished. She was finally done.

Breathless, radiant, she stood at the top and looked down.

Then Liam hit the course. And gods—he made it look easy. Like the obstacles bent for him.

He moved like liquid precision, strength and grace in perfect sync. He hit the ramp and cleared it without even a grunt, pulling himself up with that stupid, cocky ease that should’ve irritated her.

But all Leora could do was stare.

Because he was sunshine in motion. Golden. Confident. Alive.

He reached the top, spotted her and grinned.

Then he jogged to her. Grabbed her face and kissed her.

Hard. Fierce. Joyful. Like every bruise, every scream, every night she thought she’d never make it was worth it.

She gasped against him, laughing into his mouth, clutching his shirt as her knees wobbled.

When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

"You did it," he whispered, breathless.

“I did,” she said. “Told you I would.”

“You were incredible.”

“And you—” she looked him over. “Were indecently smooth about it.”

He chuckled, brushing her braid over her shoulder. “Still not cutting it?”

“Nope.”

“Good.” He kissed her again, softer this time. “It suits you.”

From below, instructors barked the next names. Cadets ran. But for now, they were just there—together, victorious, and finally breathing without the weight of failure.

And somewhere across the yard, a pair of golden eyes watched her from the shadows.

Silent.

Still.

And very aware she had never looked stronger.

—

The dragon presentation had ended hours ago.

Leora still felt the rush of it in her bones—the weight of those massive, ancient eyes passing over her, assessing her, not incinerating her. Not today.

She’d walked off the sands alive. That was all anyone could ask for.

Now the yard buzzed with anticipation for the next Night of Reprieve. Music already drifted from the commons, lanterns glowed low and golden, and cadets were starting to shed their armor and tension in equal measure.

She lingered at the edge of the path, hand trailing along the stone wall, still too wired to join the chaos. Looking for
Liam. The promised he made to her not long ago.

Then—

“Whitethorn.”

She didn’t jump. She knew that voice. Even without the cold edge it carried.

Xaden stood a few paces behind her, arms folded, dark uniform sharp against the orange tint of the dying sun. The scar along his jaw cast shadows over his cheekbone. He looked tired.

No. Not tired. Unsettled.

“Here to tell me I didn’t burst into flames impressively enough?” she said.

He didn’t smile. But something flickered behind his eyes.

“You didn’t fail,” he said simply.

Leora raised a brow. “Was that supposed to sound encouraging, Wing Leader?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that she felt the shift in the air.

“Most cadets clear the Gauntlet and think they’ve earned safety,” he said. “You didn’t. You kept pushing. That’s the difference between surviving and earning a bond.”

She tilted her head. “Was that a compliment?”

He ignored the question. “Your timing was better. Footwork cleaner. Ramp execution was… surprisingly good.”

Leora crossed her arms. “Wow. You’re practically gushing.”

He met her gaze, sharp and quiet.

“Don’t get used to it.”

She couldn’t help but realise he had come to find her. Had chosen to say something nice. Well, nice in the realm of Xaden.

She glanced toward the commons. “You going to the social?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His gaze lingered on her face for a second too long. “Because I don’t do distractions.”

The weight of it landed between them like thunder.

Her heart kicked. But she didn’t let it show.

“Lucky for you, I’m not a distraction,” she said, chin high.

He held her eyes.

Then said, quieter, “No. You’re not.”

Warm arms slipped around her middle and she knew it was Liam.

“Alright, Xaden, I’m here to take my little ballerina away now,” Liam called, grinning before sweeping Leora off her feet. Laughter rang through the air as he carried her off, carefree and triumphant.

Xaden watched them go, the sound of her laughter trailing behind—clinging to him like shadows.

---

It was messy. Rushed. Frantic.

Kisses stumbled between laughs and gasps as Liam led her into an empty classroom, hands already wandering. With effortless strength, he lifted her onto the professor’s mahogany desk, his mouth finding the soft curve of her neck.

“Liam—” Her moan slipped out before she could stop it, and it lit something in him.

“I don’t think I’ll get sick of that,” he muttered between kisses.

“Threshing needs to hurry up,” she gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Before I lose my mind.”

“We don’t have to wait for Threshing,” he growled, nipping at her ear. “Not for you to come.”

His hands moved with purpose, untying the strings of her pants.

“Liam—” she gasped, grabbing his hand. “Anyone could walk in—”

“Not tonight,” he said lowly, gaze locked on hers. “Tonight, I want to hear you say my name.”

With ease, he tugged her pants down. She kicked off her boots, helping him, heart hammering in her chest.

His fingers slid along her entrance—drawing a soft sigh from her lips.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, taking his time.

Leora gripped the edge of the desk, head falling back. His hand caressed her neck, slowly sliding down her chest, over her ribs.

“Can you imagine,” he whispered, lips ghosting her jaw, “when I’m inside you?”

A whimper broke from her throat. His fingers curled inside her—slow, rhythmic, devastating. His then slipped behind her neck, pulling her forehead to his, breath mingling.

“Taking my time…” he murmured, pressing kisses along her lips. “You, moaning my name.”

“Please, Liam…” she begged, the ache between her legs flooding her whole body. Her hands gripped him, desperate to stay grounded, to hold onto something as the pleasure built and built.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice all heat and promise. He quickened his pace. All thought eddied in her head, but the pleasure deep within her.

Her back arched, her mouth parted in a cry as the pleasure crested and tore through her.

She collapsed against him—chest heaving, breath catching, skin flushed.

“Liam…” she breathed.

Her hand reached for his hardness, but he caught it gently, bringing it to his lips.

He kissed the pads of her fingers—slowly, reverently.

A burst of laughter echoed from beyond the classroom doors, and they both startled—hearts still racing, but for a different reason now.

“We should go,” Leora whispered, already reaching for her pants.

Liam grabbed them for her, along with her boots. “I’m sure the others are wondering where we are.”

They slipped into the corridor, footsteps soft against stone. Around the corner, a few cadets ducked into shadows—stealing their own moments.

Liam reached for her hand, fingers interlacing with hers as they walked.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when the dragons choose,” he said quietly. “But whatever comes next… I want to be there. With you.”

Leora looked up at him, her voice barely more than breath. “So do I.”

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like a promise whispered between two people still learning how to heal. Something soft in a world built to harden them.

When they finally pulled apart, she didn’t step away.

Her fingers stayed curled in the front of his shirt, like she wasn’t ready to let go—and maybe never would be.

Chapter Text

The grass beyond the War College wall glinted with the last few stars, holding onto the last tendrils of night.

Leora had slipped away, barefoot in the cool night, her jacket discarded beneath a tree. The breeze played with her braid, but she didn’t tighten it. She just wanted to feel. Not think about strategy, not planning, or Not think. Not plan. Not survive.

The last twenty four hours had been grueling. No. The last few months had been. But she’d done it. Ryan would be proud. Shocked possibly.

Her dad… she couldn’t finish that thought. The way it tugged at her heart.

So she stretched, breath curling in the air. Arched. Rolled her shoulders back. Let her arms rise. Her toes pressed into the earth like it was a stage.

And then she moved. Her body remembered before her mind did. A sweep of her arms, a twist of her hips, a lift onto the balls of her feet. The first dance she’d done in weeks just for herself. Since before everything changed.

She spun—slowly at first. Eyes closed. Movement carving silence into the air. Step after step. Twirl after twirl. And then she felt it. She wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

The sound of bootsteps—low, deliberate—cut through the stillness.

She turned and Xaden stood just beyond the shadows, fresh from another forbidden flight. His black leathers clung to him, collar askew. Wind tangled his hair. His chest rose and fell with the remnants of adrenaline.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said breathlessly.

He didn’t smile. Just tilted his head. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

She arched a brow, chest still heaving. “And you should?”

He didn’t answer.

“You missed the festivities,” she added, stepping toward him, teasing. “Laughter, music, casual chaos. The usual.”

“I don’t celebrate.”

“Right, you did say that,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “But since you’re here… dance with me.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” she coaxed, stepping even closer. The night sky shifted over to welcome the day. “No one’s here to see the infamous Riorson drop his mask. I won’t tell.”

His silence wasn’t a refusal. Not exactly.

Leora smiled wider. Got him.

“What were you even doing?” he asked, brow arched. “Those fancy arms and pretty kicks?”

She rolled her eyes. “No wonder you and Liam are friends.”

“It’s called a développé, actually,” she said, lifting her leg with controlled grace, foot pointed.

He blinked. “That’s what I said.”

The grin tugged at her lips before she could stop it. Just to be petty, she lifted into a high grand battement, the snap of her leg slicing through the air.

Then she stepped in again, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

“Come here,” she said, reaching for his hand without waiting. “You’re going to place it here.”

She guided it to her waist. He stiffened at the motion. His palm was warm, rough, calloused and the contact sent a ripple down her spine.

“You’re tense,” she teased.

“That’s because this is ridiculous,” he muttered, voice tight.

“Don’t be a prude,” she said, voice low and wicked. “It’s just body placement. Surely even you can manage that.”

His breath caught. Not visibly, not to most—but she saw it.

She shifted, raising her leg slightly—higher this time—and caught his wrist, guiding it lower, to the underside of her thigh.

Right beneath the bend. Right where he’d have to catch her if she truly fell. His jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to be impaled by your boyfriend,” he muttered.

She paused. Then said softly, “He won’t. He’s asleep.”

The silence that followed was thick.

She let it stretch, until the only thing between them was breath and want. Then, without looking at him, she raised her leg slightly higher, guiding his touch.

“Now hold,” she whispered.

And Gods. He held her. His hand was solid against her bare thigh, the press of his palm warm and certain. His other hand rested at her waist, thumb grazing bare skin.

She could smell him—mint and leather and something darker, something sky-born. Her skin tingled where his fingers gripped her. The calluses scraped just enough to remind her: this man wasn’t soft.

But he was being careful. Careful with her.

She lowered her leg slowly, her hand lingering against his wrist as she did. The heat of his touch remained, searing the inside of her thigh.

She stepped back. Her heart now thundered. For entirely different reasons.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Now a turn.”

He blinked. “A turn?”

“Don’t worry. You barely have to move.” She smiled. “Just catch me.”

His brows lifted. “Catch you?”

“You can manage that, can’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned her back to him and began.

The first two steps were sweeping. Light. Her arms lifted, spine extending, breath syncing with motion. It was instinct, not choreography. Grace that came before war and consequence.

She spun. A pirouette. Precise and blind. As she tilted into the fall—an arcing developpé—he was already there.

His hand slid beneath her ribs, the other catching her thigh mid-lift. Exactly where it should be.

No hesitation. No fumbling. No questions. Precise.

Her breath caught as their bodies aligned—his chest steady, her leg pressed along his side.

She could feel him breathing. Controlled. Restrained.

Her skin flushed. Lips parted. She was so close she could feel the edge of his restraint like a blade between them.

“Liam missed that spot once,” she whispered.

He went still.

She could pull away. She should. But she didn’t. She stayed in that dip, breath brushing the hollow of his throat.

“You didn’t even ask where to put your hands,” she murmured.

His voice was gravel-soft. “Didn’t need to.”

She could fall. Right now. And she knew he wouldn’t let her hit the ground.

He didn’t speak. Not when his grip shifted. Not when his hand glided from her thigh to the small of her back. Not when he pulled her upright in one fluid motion—bringing her flush against him.
Leora’s hands landed against his chest to steady herself.

And then time just stopped.

She felt everything. The rigid line of his body. The warm, solid certainty of him. The unyielding muscle beneath his shirt. The heat that singed her skin, into her bones.

She had to focus not to let her hands roam across his chest.

His hands were splayed across her back, fingers resting just beneath the curve of her spine. Holding her like he couldn’t let go.

They were both breathing hard. Chests rising and falling with the same rhythm. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could feel it.

His eyes—those molten, gold-flecked eyes—locked with hers.

Then they dropped to her mouth. Just for a second.

Too long. Too much.

Her breath stuttered. Her fingers curled against his chest. Her body didn’t know if it wanted to pull him in or push him away.

But he chose for her and stepped back. His hands fell from her body like they’d burned him.

Her throat worked around a knot.

“I should go,” she whispered.

He nodded. Just once. Then turned and disappeared into the dark.

Leaving her there—skin still buzzing from his touch, breath trembling in her throat.

Chapter Text

The barracks were dim and silent when Leora slipped back inside.

There were a few more cadets than usual. The squad and wing leaders, turning a blind eye to the extra or lack of cadets in their rooms. Rhiannon softly snoring, curled up against someone with a dark mass of long hair. Liam was still where she left him.

She moved quietly, toeing off her boots, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

Her heartbeat hadn’t slowed. Her skin still hummed.

She slid under the blanket beside him, careful, hoping he was asleep so she wouldn’t have to speak. Wouldn’t have to lie.

But his arm slid around her waist as soon as she settled.

“You okay?” His voice was low, thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just went out for some air.”

“You should’ve woken me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the back of her neck.

She swallowed. “You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His grip tightened slightly, hand splayed over her stomach now, pulling her closer. “Still would’ve gone with you.”

“Next time.”

Liam sighed softly, his breath warm against her skin. “Mmm. I like you coming back to me.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just let herself be folded into him. His warmth was steady. Familiar. Safe.

But as he tucked his knees behind hers and buried his face against her neck, she realised it wasn’t enough to dispel the heat Xaden had left behind.

That fire still burned low and deep in her chest. In the places his hands had touched. In the spot on her back where his fingers had lingered too long.

Liam’s hold was home. But Xaden’s touch had left scorch marks.

And no matter how tightly she curled into Liam’s chest… She could still feel the ghost of that moment. The way Xaden had looked at her. The way he had walked away like it hurt.

Leora shut her eyes and didn’t sleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

The flight was long, and Xaden’s muscles ached as his boots finally hit solid ground. He slipped away from the revelry unnoticed. It wasn’t for him. Not tonight. Not with more pressing matters gnawing at the back of his mind.

He took the familiar path toward the College until movement caught his eye.

A silhouette. Leora.

He knew it instantly. The way her back arched, arms lifted high above her head. Fingers feathering through the air, her leg extending behind her with precise control.

She moved to a rhythm only she knew.

Without realizing it, his steps carried him closer.

She stilled. Turned. Met his gaze.

She was beautiful—and it infuriated him how easily that truth lodged in his chest.

Those warm brown eyes. That too-long ebony hair—too much of a liability. And those pink lips that seemed to say more than they should.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said, breathless.

Xaden didn’t smile. He tilted his head. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

She arched a brow, still panting lightly. “And you should?”

That gods damned mouth.

“You missed the festivities,” she added with a teasing lilt. “Laughter, music, casual chaos. The usual.”

“I don’t celebrate.”

“Right,” she smirked. “You did say that. But since you’re here… dance with me.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” she coaxed, stepping closer. “No one’s here to see the infamous Riorson drop his mask. I won’t tell.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And still—he was losing.

Leora smiled wider. She knew.

“What were you even doing?” he asked, deflecting. “Those fancy arms and pretty kicks?”

She rolled her eyes. “No wonder you and Liam get along.”

“It’s called a développé,” she said, lifting her leg in a slow, fluid arc—foot pointed with precision.

“That’s what I said.”

She raised her leg higher, enough to reach his shoulder. High enough for him to catch. To bring over his shoulder and.… he shoved the thought away.

Then she stepped toward him again. Bold. Unapologetic. Not many people dared to approach him like that. It tightened something in his chest.

“Come here,” she said, and reached for his hand. “You’re going to place it here.”

Her hand guided him to her waist.

He stiffened. Her skin was warm. Too warm. And under the softness—strength. Hard-earned and unhidden.

“You’re tense.”

“That’s because this is ridiculous.” Trying to focus on anything but how soft her skin felt.

“Don’t be a prude,” she murmured, voice low and wicked. “It’s just body placement. Surely even you can manage that.”

His breath caught. She noticed. Of course she did.

Then she raised her leg again, this time slower. Higher. Her fingers caught his wrist and guided it to the underside of her thigh.

Right where he’d have to catch her if she truly fell. Not that he would let her fall. Not her.

“I don’t want to be impaled by your boyfriend,” he muttered.

She paused, gaze flickering to the side. “You won’t. He’s asleep,” she said quietly.

Something shifted in his chest.

She raised her leg again, and didn’t look at him as she guided his hand.

“Now hold,” she whispered.

He obeyed. His fingers adjusted—light but secure. His thumb grazed the curve of her bare thigh. Her scent wrapped around him—spiced amber, wind, and something clean and earthy he couldn’t name. It grounded him. Undid him.

As she lowered her leg, her hand lingered on his wrist. His skin burned where he had touched her.

She stepped back.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Now a turn.”

He blinked. “A turn?”

“Don’t worry. You barely have to move.” She smiled. “Just catch me.”

He lifted a brow. “Catch you?”

“You can manage that, can’t you?”

For her, he would.

She spun, tilted—falling into movement with complete trust and he moved without thinking. His hand slid beneath her ribs, the other catching her thigh mid-lift. Perfect placement. No hesitation. Like he knew the rhythm she moved to.

Her breath caught as their bodies locked into place—his chest solid against hers, her leg curled along his side.

He could feel her breathing. Her skin flushed. Lips parted. His own control frayed at the edges.

“Liam missed that spot once,” she whispered.

The name hit him hard. Yet—he could not pull away.

“You didn’t even ask where to put your hands,” she said softly.

“Didn’t need to,” he said softly.

His grip shifted—hand gliding from her thigh to the small of her back. Her hands rested on his chest now and he could feel the subtle twitch.

Every part of him burned.

He couldn’t help as his eyes dropped to her mouth. He heard her breath stutter and felt her fingers curled.

He stepped back. Hands falling from her like they’d scorched him. He couldn’t do this. Had to get distance between them.

“I should go,” she whispered.

He nodded once. Just once. Then he turned back into the dark, every step heavier than the last.

He flexed his fingers. The burn of her still etched into his hand like a brand he’d never be rid of.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted softly through the barracks windows, warming the stone floor and casting golden stripes across the beds.

Most of the cadets were still asleep, delaying the inevitability of a hangover or gone for breakfast.
Leora sat at the edge of her bunk, braid loose down her back, her fingers nervously twisting the tie at the end. She hadn’t moved much since Liam had left. Hadn’t said much either.

Across from her, Rhiannon stood leaning on the opposite bunk, cradling something warm and staring at her with quiet patience.

She didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence. Eventually, that was enough to make Leora speak.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said softly.

Rhiannon didn’t move. “With what?”

A pause. “Everything.”

Leora rubbed her thumb across the callouses on her palm. Her hands are no longer soft after all the training. A sign she had left her old life well and truly behind. “Liam… he’s good. Safe. Steady. And I do care about him. I just…”

Rhiannon gave her a small nod. “But someone else is getting under your skin.”

Leora glanced up, eyes wide. “You knew?”

“You’ve been twitchy since Gauntlet day,” Rhiannon said gently. “And last night? You came back glowing but looked like you’d seen a ghost. I’m not stupid, Leora.”

Leora let out a shaky laugh. “No. You’re really not.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “It’s not like anything happened. Not really. But it felt like something did. And that’s… what messes with me.”
Rhiannon sipped her drink. “Do you want something to happen?”

Leora didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the floor.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “With Liam, I feel grounded. Seen. Like I can exhale. With him…” She trailed off, pulse skipping. “It’s like being caught in a lightning strike. I don’t know if it’ll kill me or wake me up.”

Rhiannon didn’t flinch. She just nodded, swirling the liquid in her mug.

“I don’t think it has to be one or the other,” she said. “But I do think you’re allowed to be confused. To not have all the answers yet. You’ve been surviving this place every single day—you don’t owe anyone perfect clarity.”

Leora swallowed. “Including myself?”

Rhiannon gave her a soft, crooked smile. “Especially yourself.”

That broke something small in Leora’s chest. She felt she could finally take in a breath.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Rhiannon bumped her knee gently. “You’ve got a dragon to impress in a day or two. This,” she said, waving vaguely toward Leora’s heart, “can wait.”

“Right,” Leora said, half-laughing. “Dragons before drama.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in companionable silence, the sun warming their skin, and for the first time in hours, Leora didn’t feel quite so tangled.