Chapter Text
The third lap burned, lungs and legs both, but Aelin pushed harder along the slick cobblestones. Sweat dampened her collar and clung to her braid, and she swore she could already hear Syrax laughing in the back of her mind at the idiocy of it. There were, after all, far better ways to train her endurance—ones that involved considerably fewer stairs and considerably more of Dain Aetos.
If only he hadn’t been trapped in yet another endless meeting with the other Aretian wingleaders, doing his best to keep the Quadrant from tearing itself apart in the halls.
So running it was. Mindless. Maddening.
She slowed only when a voice she knew too well cut across the bridge linking the Riders’ and Infantry’s sides of the fortress.
“Why are you alone? Where is Aetos?” Halden’s tone carried all the imperious weight of the crown, even with only Captain Winshire shadowing him like a steel wall.
“Did you hit your head?” Aelin dragged a hand across her damp forehead, grimacing. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
His mouth twitched, though not with amusement. “I don’t, but I know he’ll protect you if everything in this cursed Quadrant finally shatters.” His gaze slid toward the dragons circling above the fortress, then back to her.
“I can protect myself,” she shot back, hands on her hips, chest still heaving from the run.
“Fine.” His shrug was too sharp. “Then do what you want.”
She arched a brow. “That’s all you stopped me for? To lecture me in the middle of my run?”
His jaw worked once before he spoke. “The Senarium is on its way to Basgiath.” His eyes searched hers, calculating. “Will the Revolution talk peace? Are you willing to work with Navarre?”
“We’ve already said as much,” Aelin replied. “The Revolution is willing to strike a treaty—if, and only if, it is just. Not another ploy for control.”
“Why would you think the terms wouldn’t be just?”
She laughed—but there was no humor in it. “Don’t play dumb with me, Hal. We both know how father works. He doesn’t compromise, he conquers. And he loves control more than he loves his crown.”
Something flickered in Halden’s eyes, gone as quick as it came.
“Dad has pushed for full pardons,” Halden said finally. “Every rider who defected, every citizen who aided the Revolution. He expects you to keep your side of the deal.”
“It’s not much of a deal if I never had a choice to begin with,” Aelin said, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut skin.
Before Halden could answer, bootsteps echoed over the stone, steady and familiar. Aelin’s pulse shifted—quickening for an entirely different reason—as Dain strode towards the bridge, his dark curls damp from a quick shower, his uniform crisp despite whatever brutal meeting he’d just left behind.
He stopped at her side, his hand brushing low against her back in a gesture that was both casual and claiming. His gaze slid to Halden, unreadable. “Halden.”
Halden’s lip curved, though it held no warmth. “Aetos.”
Dain’s jaw ticked once. “What are you doing here?”
“Talking to my sister,” Halden said evenly, though his eyes flicked to where Dain’s hand rested against Aelin’s spine. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Dain’s stance shifted subtly, shoulders squaring. “She’s always my concern.”
The words landed like a challenge, though his tone stayed level. Aelin felt the faint press of his fingers flexing against her back, steadying, protective.
Aelin, half exasperated and half entertained, cut in before Halden could snarl. “Oh, for the love of Amari, are you two done measuring dicks, or should I go find a tape?”
Halden’s gaze lingered on Aelin, softer for the barest heartbeat. “Don’t do anything stupid, El.”
She blew out a breath, forcing her tone light, stepping closer to Dain. “Stay safe, Hal.”
Then Halden nodded once, turning sharply with Captain Winshire at his heels. His boots faded into the stone’s echo, leaving only the steady thrum of Dain’s hand at her back, grounding her.
They waited until Halden’s boots had faded completely, the bridge quiet except for the distant clatter of training cadets. Dain’s hand remained firm against her back and Aelin let herself inch closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her forehead brushed his as she tilted her chin, eyes curious and mischievous.
“So,” she murmured, voice soft, teasing. “How did the meeting go?”
Dain’s jaw ticked, a faint crease between his brows. “We’ve agreed to talk to the Basgiath wingleaders. Try to establish new rules for how the riders and fliers coexist. The flier integration is not going as well as we wanted… but we are hoping for the best.”
Aelin smirked, nudging him gently with her nose. “Sounds… optimistic.”
He looked down at her, the corners of his mouth twitching, caught between a tired exasperation and something softer—something that only she seemed to pull out of him. “Optimistic, yes, but fragile. Like everything else right now.”
Her grin widened, brushing her lips just above his as she whispered, “Fragile or not, I still like it when you do your serious face.”
He leaned down, capturing her mouth with his in a slow, deliberate kiss that carried both claim and warmth. Aelin tilted her head, letting the kiss deepen, lips parting just enough for him, teeth and tongue barely grazing, a tantalizing promise.
When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his, breath mingling. “Better?” she teased softly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Much,” Dain murmured, voice low, and stole one more kiss—a promise she felt all the way to her ribs.
They broke apart only when a group of cadets jogged across the bridge toward the obstacle yard, gawking like they hadn’t seen two people kiss in their lives.
Aelin bumped her shoulder into Dain’s. “Come on, Wingleader. I need to go beat someone up. For morale.”
His answering snort warmed her chest. “Let's go Princess.”
They fell into step together, winding down the stairs and across the inner courtyard toward the training gym. The doors opened, heat spilling out—thick with sweat, steel, and tempers so taut they could snap with the wrong breath.
Second Squad was already stretching. Ridoc was teasing Eris about his flexibility—Eris was pretending not to preen about it. Cianna and Quinn were in a quiet competition over who could touch the floor flat-palmed. Good. Normal. As normal as traitors on enemy ground could be.
Dain gave Aelin’s hand a final squeeze. “Don’t kill anyone,” he said, too straight-faced to be serious.
“No promises,” she purred, brushing her thumb along the edge of his palm before letting go.
He walked toward Rina—Fourth Wing’s Executive Officer—who looked one missed meal away from throwing someone out a window. Aelin turned toward her squad.
Imogen lifted two fingers in greeting. “You look like death and bad choices.”
“I missed you too,” Aelin said dryly, dropping beside her and folding into a stretch that made her hamstrings scream.
Imogen breathed out through her nose. “How’s the ‘my twin is in charge of pardons but might also be ready to arrest me’ situation?”
Aelin huffed, leaning forward until her forehead nearly hit the mat. “Oh, you know. Sunny skies. Birds singing. The usual.”
Imogen’s lips twitched. “So: disaster.”
“Yes,” Aelin admitted. “But Dain kissed me twice, so I’m coping.”
They moved through another stretch in sync, bodies folding and twisting with practiced ease.
When they made it to the mats, Aelin stood, rolling her shoulders. “You ready?”
Imogen cracked her knuckles. “I’ve been waiting all week to punch you.”
They began to circle—weight balanced, breath steady.
Aelin struck first—fast jab, testing. Imogen blocked and snapped a kick toward her thigh. Aelin pivoted, caught her ankle, and twisted. Imogen dropped, rolled, came up sweeping for Aelin’s knees.
They were a blur—elbows, balance, shifting hips and feet, working muscle and memory. Sweat slicked the back of Aelin’s neck as she dodged a brutal hook and planted both palms against Imogen’s shoulders, shoving her down onto the mat.
Imogen wheezed, staring up at her. “I hate how much stronger you get every time I look away.”
Aelin offered her a hand. “Try not looking away.”
Imogen took it, yanking Aelin down instead. They tumbled, laughing breathlessly, before rolling apart and collapsing onto their backs.
But the moment didn’t last.
The gym doors slammed open.
Bootsteps. Voices—too sharp, too smug.
Aelin sat up.
“Oh shit,” Imogen muttered. “Why is Aura here?”
“I don’t know,” Aelin said, already bracing.
Aura Beinhaven, stalked into the gym like it had already been gifted to her. Five Basgiath riders followed.
Cat and Maren appeared at Aelin’s shoulder.
“Who is that?” Maren asked.
“Aura Beinhaven,” Imogen said. “Senior Wingleader.”
“She looks like a bitch,” Cat observed.
“She is,” Aelin answered.
Aura didn’t spare the gym a glance—her eyes locked onto Dain and Rina. Her lip curled. She said something sharp—Aelin couldn’t hear it over the rising tension, but she saw the way Rina stiffened, the way Dain’s jaw clenched.
Then Aura shoved a finger into Dain’s chest.
“Oh, she fucked up,” Imogen breathed.
Aelin didn’t remember standing, just the satisfying crack of her joints as she stalked forward.
Aura noticed her approach and smirked. “If it isn’t your girlfriend, Aetos.”
“Is there a problem here?” Aelin asked, voice sweet as rotted fruit.
“Nothing that involves you,” Aura said.
“Well, Beinhaven, it does involve me,” Aelin countered, stepping closer, “because you are intruding on Fourth Wing’s training.”
“You are nothing but traitors,” Aura snapped. “You shouldn’t be allowed to breathe our air.”
“We booked the gym for Fourth Wing,” Dain said, tone dangerously level.
“And I’m telling you to get out,” Aura snarled. “I won’t allow flier trash to touch the equipment.”
Aelin felt the temperature shift—sharp, dangerous. Fliers straightened. One cracked his knuckles like a promise.
“Those fliers saved your life,” Aelin said, voice low and lethal. “Start showing respect.”
“Or what?” Aura stepped closer. “You’re going to start a fight, Tauri?”
“Is that an invitation, Beinhaven?” Aelin asked, already smiling. “You want to try me again?”
Aura’s face twisted. Whatever restraint she’d arrived with snapped.
Aura ripped her dagger free and slashed, aiming high and vicious, all fury and entitlement. Aelin didn’t even step back. She twisted inside the strike, caught Aura’s wrist mid-swing, and turned.
Bone popped.
Aura screamed as her grip failed, the dagger clattering to the floor. Before the sound finished echoing, Aelin drove her shoulder forward and hooked a foot behind Aura’s knee, shoving down and across with ruthless precision.
Aura hit the mat hard. Wind punched out of her in a sharp, ugly wheeze.
Aelin followed her down.
One knee planted between Aura’s shoulders. One hand twisted the already-ruined wrist up behind her back. The other closed around Aura’s neck—not squeezing. Not yet. Just enough pressure to make the point unmistakable.
Five blades of fire burst into existence between one breath and the next, bright and razor-thin, each hovering at a different throat.
The Basgiath riders froze so fast it looked painful.
One more inch and they would have opened themselves on flame.
Timin Kagiso had half-drawn his dagger when his eyes crossed to the burning edge resting beneath his jaw.
“Don’t even think about it, Timin,” Aelin said, not bothering to look at him.
The gym went dead silent.
Aelin leaned in, voice low and almost conversational. “Rule one,” she murmured. “If you’re going to start a fight—finish it.”
Aura clawed at the mat, face flushing, eyes wild. Humiliation burned brighter than pain.
“Rule two,” Aelin continued, tightening her grip just enough to steal the next breath, “don’t touch Dain.”
“What is happening here?” Professor Emetterio’s voice cracked like thunder through the gym.
Aelin released Aura instantly and stood, calm as if she hadn’t just dismantled a Senior Wingleader in under three seconds.
“She attacked me,” Aelin said evenly. “I disarmed her.”
Aura lay gasping on the floor, wrist limp, dignity in pieces, five riders staring at her like they’d never seen her before.
Emetterio’s gaze flicked briefly to the fading fire at the riders’ throats, then back to Aura’s fallen dagger. The witnesses—rider, flier, Fourth Wing alike.
Then his eyes landed on Aura and hardened.
“Get up, Beinhaven,” he ordered.
Aura struggled, face mottled with rage and shame as one of her riders hauled her to her feet. Her wrist hung uselessly at her side.
Emetterio didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “This gym was reserved by Fourth Wing. You were not invited.”
Aura opened her mouth.
Emetterio cut her off. “And you drew a blade. On academy grounds. During a scheduled training.”
The silence sharpened.
“Get out,” he said flatly. “All of you. Now.”
Aura’s jaw worked. Her gaze snapped to Aelin, venomous and shaking. She stepped close enough that only they could hear her, breath hot with fury.
“You’re going to pay for this, Tauri.”
Aelin didn’t blink.
“Oh, I’m trembling,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “Now get the fuck out.”
For a heartbeat, Aura looked like she might try something monumentally stupid again.
Then Emetterio cleared his throat.
Aura spun on her heel.
Her riders followed in rigid formation, boots pounding as they exited. The doors slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.
Only when they were gone did the gym breathe again.
Emetterio turned back to Aelin. “This is the last time, Tauri.”
Aelin met his gaze without flinching. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t justify. She simply inclined her head—sharp, respectful, unyielding.
“Yes, sir.”
His jaw tightened. “That doesn’t mean I approve.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Aelin replied calmly.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then Emetterio exhaled through his nose. “Fourth Wing—resume training.”
The room exhaled as one—like the whole gym had been punched in the lungs and finally remembered how to breathe. Voices rose again, bodies moved, but it wasn’t the same. The air was sharper now; metal edges under skin.
Dain didn’t need to say a word—not with the look he leveled her. The one that said you’re in trouble far more effectively than any lecture ever could.
Aelin only lifted her chin. You’re welcome, she mouthed.
His eyes narrowed: We’re going to talk later.
Fine, she mouthed back, then spun on her heel and strolled—perfectly unbothered—back to her squad.
Ridoc let out a low whistle. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Someone is going to get their teeth knocked out,” Aelin replied sweetly, stretching her neck until it cracked.
“By you, Princess?” Ridoc pressed a hand to his heart. “It’d be an honor.”
Aelin rolled her eyes and dropped down beside Imogen, who passed her a waterskin in silent solidarity. Quinn settled next to Aelin a moment later, worry pinching the edges of her mouth.
“The riders are going to be asses to the fliers. It’s only a matter of time before someone ends up dead,” Quinn murmured.
“I know,” Aelin said. “And if we don’t fix it fast, Basgiath is going to start killing itself before the venin ever get the chance.”
“We better find it soon,” Imogen added, gaze sharp as ever.
Training ended an hour later. Dain stayed behind, deep in discussion with Rina and Professor Emetterio, while Aelin and the rest of Second Squad wandered to the Gathering Hall to wait out the dead hours before perimeter checks.
Two hours of dice games, stolen pastries, and Ridoc’s increasingly desperate attempts to get Eris to arm-wrestle him later, Dain finally appeared—with Rina at his shoulder. He didn’t need to speak. That look was back.
Aelin sighed dramatically and stood. “If I don’t return, I want a monument. Preferably marble. With bewitched lighting.”
Ridoc waved her off. “We’ll use a rock and a candle.”
She walked with Dain in silence through several corridors before she asked lightly. “So. What were you discussing with Rina and Emetterio?”
“We’ve agreed to propose relocating the fliers to the Infantry Quadrant,” he said.
Aelin frowned. “They’re not going to like that.”
“Rina said the same,” Dain replied. “But it’s for their protection.”
He stopped at a door, opened it, and gestured her inside. Oh yes. The lecture room. Fantastic.
Aelin slid onto the desk, crossing her arms. “Dain—”
“No.” He shut the door behind them. “I’m the one talking right now.”
Oh, he was using the command voice. Delightful.
Dain planted himself in front of her, jaw tight. “You cannot fight the Senior Wingleader because they irritate you. I can handle her.”
“She wasn’t irritating me,” Aelin countered. “She was shoving a finger at you, and you’re too polite to break it, which is why you have me. Apart from being extremely beautiful and terrifyingly smart, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m also very threatening.”
“That is not the point,” he said through his teeth. “You cannot be violent on my behalf.”
Aelin slid off the desk, stepping into his space. “You are very commanding when you’re angry.”
“Aelin,” he warned. “Don’t change the topic.”
She skimmed her hands over the front of his shirt, slow and wicked, then looped them behind his neck. “Come on, Dain. Are we really going to waste our very limited alone time on a scolding?”
“You are trying to distract me,” he muttered, though his hands found her waist.
“I absolutely am.” She brushed her lips against his, breath ghosting over his mouth. “And it’s working.”
“No,” he said, voice thinning. “It’s not.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Her smile was slow and lethal. “And I have ideas for our time. Involving fewer clothes. A lot more kissing. Possibly against that wall. And if we’re efficient… maybe the desk.”
Dain let out a low, strangled sound. “Aelin, we can’t—”
“Time is ticking,” she whispered.
Whatever remained of his resolve collapsed spectacularly.
Dain’s mouth crashed onto hers, heat curling through her like flame. The kiss was gentle only for a heartbeat—then his hand slid into her hair, angling her head as he deepened it, hunger stealing what little air she had left. His other hand gripped her hip, dragging her flush against him.
Aelin gasped, half-laugh, half-moan, fingers already slipping beneath his jacket, pushing it back off his shoulders. She wanted him here, now, with a sharp, aching certainty that made her pulse race.
She traced her hands under his shirt, nails grazing the hard lines of muscle there. The sound he made—gods, that sound—sent molten heat straight through her.
She nipped at his bottom lip. “Lecture’s going great so far.”
“This conversation is not over,” he managed.
“Liar,” she whispered, dragging him back into her.
His mouth was heat and hunger, claiming her lips again and again until her thoughts scattered into sparks. He tugged at the hem of her shirt, fingers sliding beneath it just enough to make her breath hitch, thumbs brushing bare skin at her waist. Aelin shoved his jacket the rest of the way off, needing fewer barriers between them.
Her back hit the wall, the impact knocking a sharp breath from her lungs.
Dain took advantage of it.
His hands slid under her thighs without warning and lifted. Aelin gasped, legs locking instinctively around his waist as he pinned her there—solid, immovable. The wall was cold at her back. Dain was anything but.
He broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along her jaw, teeth grazing skin, breath hot and uneven. Aelin tipped her head back without thinking, giving him access—and felt the low sound he made vibrate straight through her.
His mouth traced down her throat, warm and relentless, pausing where her pulse hammered beneath her skin. His lips lingered there, pressure firming just a fraction, breath teasing.
Aelin sucked in a sharp breath, fire skittering under her skin. She wanted him desperately—wanted his weight, his hands, the way he was already unraveling her.
“That’s unfair,” she managed.
Dain smiled against her neck—she felt it more than saw it. “You started this.”
His mouth returned to hers, swallowing her protest whole. She kissed him back just as fiercely, nipping his lip. Her hips shifted instinctively, seeking friction, and his grip tightened in response, pressing her harder into the wall.
“How much time do we have left?” she asked breathlessly, lips still brushing his.
Dain didn’t answer right away. He kept kissing her—slow, infuriatingly thorough—before finally pulling back just enough to glance over his shoulder toward the far wall.
“Not enough,” he said quietly.
As if the universe took that as a cue, the bells began to toll—low and distant, the first call before the next rotation. Fifteen minutes.
Aelin groaned and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “I was really hoping to at least make it to the desk.”
Reluctantly, Dain lowered her back to the floor. The loss of his warmth was immediate—and deeply offensive.
They stood there for a beat, breathing hard, before reality crept back in like an unwelcome guest. Dain straightened first, running a hand through his hair and tugging his shirt back into place, then smoothed it back into something resembling order.
She finished adjusting her clothes and stepped back into his space, sliding her arms around his neck like she hadn’t just been moments from being devoured. His hands settled automatically at her waist—gentler now, but still sure.
“Are you still angry with me?” she asked, tipping her head just enough to look up at him.
“Hmm.” He brushed a kiss to her cheek, thoughtful. “I’m… slightly less angry now.”
“Slightly?” Aelin pulled back, affronted. “I’d say we handled at least fifty percent of that tension.” A pause. A wicked grin. “We can work on the other fifty later tonight.”
“That is not the point,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
She sighed dramatically and dropped her hands. “Right. Lecture. Scolding. Serious tones. Go on, then.”
His voice shifted—quiet, controlled, that edge of command he only used when it mattered. “I know why you stepped in. And I don’t fault you for it. But you already carry too much. Let me deal with Aura.”
Aelin turned away, fingers lifting to her hair. She unbraided it quickly, efficiently, then began rebraiding, tighter this time.
“Fine,” she said. “You deal with her.” A beat. “But if she keeps pushing, she’s going to find herself mysteriously tripping down a staircase.”
“Aelin.”
She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Fine. Fine. No stairs.”
That was when he went still.
Dain’s gaze snagged on the curve of her neck—sharp, focused. A flicker of something mischievous crossed his face before he winced as if he’d stepped on a blade.
“What?” Aelin asked as she finished braiding her hair.
“Uh…” He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “You might want to, um… check your neck.”
Her brows shot up. “Check my—?”
She yanked her dagger from her thigh sheath and angled the polished steel just so, catching her reflection in the faint shine.
And there it was.
Dark. Deep. Impossible to miss.
Aelin-Tauri-has-been-thoroughly-and-vindictively-kissed territory.
Her mouth dropped open. “Dain Aetos.”
He had the audacity to look both smug and terrified at once. “In my defense, you are extremely distracting.”
“In your defense?” she hissed, lowering the dagger to jab it in his direction. “You marked me like a damn first-year sneaking out of the dorms.”
A laugh slipped out of him, choked and nervous. “I may have… gotten carried away.”
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
“Could’ve been worse,” he offered, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I could’ve left more than one.”
Her glare sharpened, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “I should throw you off the parapet.”
“And yet,” he murmured, stepping close, “you won’t.”
Before she could snap back, he reached up, gently tugging her braid loose until her hair fell forward, a golden curtain to cover the incriminating mark. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he swept her hair aside again, ducking his head to press the softest, most reverent kiss to the very spot he’d bruised.
“I love you,” he whispered against her skin. “Please don’t kill me.”
Aelin’s lips curved wickedly even as her pulse fluttered. “Rhiannon’s going to make a tally board,” she muttered, shoving at his chest, though not hard enough to make him move. “I can feel it.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” Dain said solemnly, as if preparing for a public execution. Then, with a wicked grin: “As the victim of a very persuasive princess.”
She snorted, right before his mouth captured hers again in a swift, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, his smile was boyish and maddening. “I’ll face it like a man.”
“You’ll face it like a martyr,” Aelin muttered, but her lips tilted upward as she kissed him again—quick, sharp, addictive. He kissed her back without hesitation, her fingers tangling briefly in his curls before she shoved him toward the door.
“Now move, lover boy. If we’re late to Devera’s briefing smelling like pre-sex and sporting battle trophies, we’re never hearing the end of it.”
He smirked, utterly unrepentant now. “We are definitely finishing this tonight.”
Her answering laugh was low and dangerous. “You’re lucky you kiss well, Aetos.”
The steam from the bath chamber still clung to her skin, damp hair sliding down her back as Aelin stepped into the quiet corridor.
And there he was.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, the picture of smug ease. His gaze roamed over her, lingering above her collarbone where damp hair clung to the bruise.
His grin was slow and wicked. “Missed a spot.”
Aelin scowled, lifting her hair to blot at the mark—like sheer will could erase it. “You know I’m going to make you regret that.”
“I look forward to it,” he said, falling into step beside her as they headed toward the eastern stairs. “Shall I schedule a formal duel or just wait to be ambushed in my sleep?”
“Depends,” she muttered. “How much do you value your kneecaps?”
He chuckled, slipping a hand against the small of her back. “Still glowing, Princess.”
She jabbed him sharply with an elbow. “Still obnoxious, Wingleader.”
Their banter followed them down the stairwell and across the long bridge connecting the Riders Quadrant to the rest of Basgiath. The weight of the day settled heavier with each step toward the battle brief, laughter thinning into silence as reality reasserted itself.
The towering doors of the debriefing hall swung open before them, and from inside came the low hum of tension—more controlled than outright shouting, but heated nonetheless.
Aelin pushed inside to find Second Squad at the center of a lively discussion: Quinn and Imogen exchanged pointed looks over a map, voices lowered but sharp; Bragen hovered nearby, hands raised in futile mediation; Cianna and Eris leaned in, clearly keeping score on the tension.
Other squads and several lieutenants filled the room, watching and listening. All Aretian.
Dain’s voice cut through mildly as they approached. “Why so tense in here?”
Quinn didn’t look up. “Because Imogen thinks we should reroute patrols to the northern cliffs. I think that’s reckless.”
Imogen’s lips pressed thin. “Because the venin have been spotted there again.”
Aelin slid into her seat beside Imogen, Dain dropping into the chair next to her, his arm stretching lazily along the backrest behind her shoulders.
“Carry on with your reasonable disagreement,” Aelin said dryly. “We’re just here for the show.”
“Oh good, you’re back,” Eris said, glancing at them. “Did you two get lost, or... busy?”
“Busy,” Dain replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Aelin bit back a laugh, elbowing him subtly in the ribs.
“Oh gods,” Quinn muttered, rubbing her temples. “He said it. He actually said it.”
Imogen finally glanced at Aelin—and her sharp eyes caught the exposed skin above her collarbone.
She blinked. Twice.
Then laughed outright.
“Holy shit,” Imogen gasped. “Is that a bruise?”
“Let me see,” Eris said, leaning forward with a grin. “Someone get the tally board!”
Before anyone else could react, Rhiannon flipped open one of her notebooks, already scribbling.
“I got it,” she said without looking up, mischief dancing in her voice. “New column: ‘Royal Mishandling.’”
“Don’t you dare,” Aelin snapped, tugging her hair forward to try and hide the mark.
Dain chuckled low, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You were right—Rhiannon does have a tally board.”
Aelin shot him a mock glare, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Great. Just what I needed—my reputation officially immortalized.”
Bragen coughed discreetly, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Looks like the Princess got ambushed in broad daylight.”
From the next row over, Trager offered dryly, “To be fair, we all assumed she’d be the one to draw blood first.”
“She did,” Dain said smoothly.
“Oh my gods,” Cat muttered. “I came here to plan a patrol, not this.”
“Same,” Maren said brightly. “But this is better.”
“Shut it,” Aelin muttered, already starting to blush. The heat was crawling up her neck now—right toward the bruise everyone kept staring at.
From behind, Sloane piped up, “If you need salve, I have one that works wonders.”
Aelin’s head snapped around, eyes wide, horrified at the implication.
Cam, of course, only shrugged from his seat beside Sloane, entirely unrepentant. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m not the one with a mark on my neck.”
Dain choked, nearly swallowed his own tongue, while Aelin made a strangled noise that was half growl, half despair.
“Oh gods,” Violet muttered. “That’s going on the board twice.”
“Three times,” Ridoc corrected from across the room, already scratching something onto the slate. “One for the neck, one for Aaric’s comment, and one for the sheer audacity of thinking you could hide it with your hair.”
“Already ahead of you,” Rhiannon chirped.
“Don’t you people have better things to do?” Aelin hissed, eyes narrowing as she tugged her hair further to cover the bruise.
“Nope,” Cianna said cheerfully. “This is the highlight of our week.”
Ridoc leaned dramatically across the table. “Please tell me it was good. Because if you ruined that, you’ve officially destroyed all my fantasies about Dain.”
“Wait—fantasies plural?” Alric asked from his perch at the end of the row.
“Obviously,” Ridoc said, absolutely unashamed. “I have layers.”
Kai grinded and said, “Maybe we should all take notes. Apparently, Dain’s got some skills we’re missing.”
Aelin groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Dain.”
“Yes, gorgeous?” he asked, far too innocent.
“You said you’d take full responsibility.”
He leaned back in his chair, arm still draped lazily behind hers. “I did.”
“Then take it,” she hissed.
Dain lifted his chin and addressed the group solemnly. “Ladies, gentlemen, and Ridoc… I fell victim to a very persuasive princess. I am not ashamed. I would do it again. Will do it again. Repeatedly.”
Aelin shot him a look that could have burned flesh from bone.
Ridoc gasped like he’d been slapped. “Dain. You can’t just— Gods, how dare you give me material.”
Cat groaned. “I’m begging you all to stop talking.”
Cianna waved a hand. “Wait, wait—was this a hallway situation? Storage closet? Don’t tell me it was the stables.”
“It was not the stables,” Aelin barked.
“Oh,” Maren said, mock disappointed. “Then what’s the point of the gossip if there’s no dramatic location?”
“Enough,” Aelin snapped, burying her face in her hands again.
Dain just looked entirely pleased with himself, his fingertips drumming lightly against the back of her chair.
Aelin jabbed Dain in the ribs with her elbow—hard. He barely flinched, just grinned wider.
“This,” she said under her breath, “is the last time I let you open your smug mouth in public.”
“I said I’d take responsibility,” he murmured, nudging her knee with his. “I didn’t say I’d be subtle about it.”
At that moment, the double doors at the far end of the hall slammed open, and Professor Devera strode in with her usual clipped authority, papers in hand and eyes sharp as freshly forged steel.
The room snapped to attention like a drawn bowstring. Conversations cut off mid-word. Chairs straightened. Boots shifted.
“Glad to see the noise level has already breached command-room standards,” she said dryly, glancing at the squads. “Try not to explode.”
Aelin sat straighter, her damp hair falling loosely over her shoulders, the heat of embarrassment still clinging to her skin. Dain didn’t bother pretending to adjust himself—he looked like he’d just won a war.
Devera set a rolled parchment on the central stone table. “Before assignments are issued for perimeter rotations, there is a matter of security. Effective immediately, all fliers currently housed in the Riders’ Quadrant will be temporarily reassigned to the Infantry Quadrant.”
A ripple of outrage broke instantly across the room—several fliers straightening in their seats, others already halfway to their feet.
Devera didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
“Sit,” she ordered.
They sat.
“This measure is not a punishment,” she continued, gaze sweeping the room like a blade. “It is a shield. Until the Revolution, Navarre, and Poromiel formalize treaty terms and issue full pardons, every rider and every flier in this room remains a target. And the fliers,” her tone thinned to cold iron, “are at particular risk, given they don’t have the ability to channel inside the wards. One angry rider with a grudge and an open courtyard is all it takes to start a massacre.”
Silence stretched—tight, uneasy.
“The Infantry Quadrant is fortified and better suited to protect you until this is resolved. You will retain flight privileges,” she added, before anyone could open their mouth again, “but access to the flight field will be restricted to scheduled operations only. You will check in and out with the duty officer each time. This arrangement stands until further notice.”
Devera did not pause for comfort.
“Now,” she said, dropping a second parchment weighted with a carved slate token, “to the reason I was pulled from my dinner.”
She unspooled the report in one sharp motion.
“Six venin confirmed killed last night. Four tracked and executed near the western cliffs—abandoned outposts, mostly buried in brush. Two more were spotted just before dawn attempting to cross the broken watchtower ridge. They engaged. One of ours fell in the process.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Even the more seasoned cadets sobered. Aelin felt the shift down to her bones.
Devera’s mouth thinned. “Cadet Cecil Veltain, Third Wing. Killed in the line of duty. Lieutenant Caswyn injured—she’ll recover. The rest of her patrol made it back intact.”
Silence.
Then: “Were they alone?” asked Tibbot from the back, arms crossed, brow drawn.
“No,” Devera said tightly. “They followed formation protocol. They moved in pairs. The venin split mid-pursuit—classic trap behavior. Veltain gave chase. She was pulled too far from sightline. By the time the others caught up…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
“They are weakened by the wards but remain deadly,” Devera continued. “They are splintered, harder to track, and more unpredictable. They’re using terrain to their advantage. Hiding where we hesitate to look. No one engages alone. You move in rotations. Final.”
She looked across the hall. “What areas remain unpatrolled since last rotation?”
A lieutenant stood. “The eastern escarpments above the lake are still unswept. Terrain’s too unstable for dragon landings. We’ve only had ground teams up there once.”
“And?”
“Nothing. But the soil had recent shift marks. It wasn’t wind.”
Devera nodded once. “Lieutenant Hane, assign a four-rider rotation and pair them with a flier drift by dusk. No exceptions.”
“Yes, Major.”
She turned to another cluster of cadets. “What’s the venin’s pattern been this week?”
A girl from Third Wing raised her hand. “They’re avoiding the gates now—hunting for weak spots. They aren’t attacking directly.”
“They’re biding time,” murmured Bragen.
“Correct,” Devera said. “They’re testing us. And they are not done. We believe their objective is threefold: weaken morale, disrupt the forging operations, and—worst case—attempt another breach. If they succeed, this school burns first.”
Aelin’s stomach turned cold. She knew the forging process was barely stable, even with the wardstone restored. If the venin got close enough to corrupt it...
“We will be assigning new patrol rotations tonight,” Devera said, rolling the parchment closed with a sharp flick. “Expect night shifts. Expect traps. Expect to lose sleep.”
Quinn raised her hand. “Are we still pairing riders and fliers for all recon?”
“Yes,” Devera said. “You move in pairs at minimum. If I hear of anyone chasing leads solo, I will ground you myself.”
Ridoc muttered under his breath, “Unless the venin die from boredom waiting for our paperwork to clear first.”
Professor Devera’s head snapped toward him like a predator scenting blood. “Something to share, Cadet Gamlyn?”
“No, Professor,” Ridoc said instantly, sitting up straighter.
“Good. Because your next patrol just doubled in length.”
The room winced collectively.
Devera glanced at the stone clock embedded in the far wall. “Check your gear, finalize your patrol partners, and prepare to depart by seventh bell tomorrow.”
She gathered her papers, tucked them beneath one arm, and walked out without another word.
The silence she left behind was thick. Weighty.
Aelin exhaled through her nose, the teasing and laughter from earlier already distant. Her fingers itched for her sword. Her eyes drifted to the map still unfurled on the table.
Dain’s arm remained stretched behind her chair, quiet and steady now.
“That’s going to be one miserable patrol,” Ridoc muttered under his breath, breaking the tension like a blade through fog. “Thanks, everyone. Couldn’t have elbowed me or something?”
Aelin didn’t look at him. “You brought that on yourself.”
“You could’ve distracted her,” he said. “Flashed a little collarbone. Given her a better target.”
Quinn leaned over. “You’d deserve it. Honestly, that joke was so bad, I almost let her double our shift just for proximity.”
“Let the record show,” Ridoc said solemnly, “that I suffer for my art.”
“Your art just gave you double patrol,” Imogen said, standing and stretching with a groan.
“Gods, if I die out there, tell my mother I died beautiful.” Ridoc said with a dramatic sigh.
Alric snorted. “I’ll tell her you died whining.”
Bragen leaned back in his chair. “If you die, Ridoc, it’ll be because you tripped over your own melodrama.”
“Untrue,” Ridoc said with dignity. “I would at least trip doing something heroic.”
“Like flirting with a venin?” Maren said dryly.
“Some of us can’t help being charming,” he shot back.
“Some of us shouldn’t try,” Kai added under his breath, earning a quiet ripple of laughter around the table.
“So who’s dumb enough to volunteer to patrol with Ridoc?” Imogen asked, half-joking.
“Not it,” Quinn said instantly, raising a hand.
Neve made an exaggerated shudder. “I’d rather take on two venin solo.”
“Oh come on,” Ridoc protested. “I’m delightful company.”
“You snore and narrate your dreams,” Alric said. “It’s like rooming with a bard.”
“That was one time,” Ridoc muttered, sulking.
“Actually,” Bragen cut in with a grin, “I’ll take him.”
Heads turned.
Bragen shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to lose. And if he gets annoying, I’ll push him off a cliff.”
“See?” Ridoc said, nudging him with an elbow. “A real partner.”
Aelin shook her head. “Pick your teams. Check your weapons. We’re not losing anyone else tomorrow.”
“Aelin and I will sweep the cliffs,” Dain said as he turned to the group, his hand brushing her shoulder. “We’ll take Cat and Trager”
Cat and Trager gave a short nod.
“Glane’s already marked the trail points up there,” Imogen added, lifting a copy of the route map. “If you’re lucky, you’ll only have to deal with loose footing and not a surprise venin orgy.”
Ridoc, as always, perked up at the most inappropriate word. “Gods, please tell me that’s not a real classification.”
“‘Orgy of venin’ does sound like a collective noun,” Maren offered dryly from across the aisle. “Right next to ‘a disaster of riders.’”
“A chaos of fliers,” Kai threw in, grinning.
“A tragedy of cadets,” Alric said flatly.
“I vote we make a book,” Trager said. “Title it How We Died With Style.”
“Chapter One,” Ridoc intoned solemnly. “Dain and the Hickey Heard Round the Quadrant.”
Aelin groaned, dropping her head into her hands as half the squad burst out laughing.
“You know,” Violet said from a nearby bench, voice wry, “it’s weirdly comforting how quickly we go from venin murder stats to sexual war crimes.”
“That’s because death and danger are literally our school motto,” Imogen said cheerfully. “It’s either laugh or cry—and I already used my crying quota when someone ate the last cinnamon roll at breakfast.”
Bragen grunted. “That was me.”
“You’re dead to me,” she said.
“You say that daily.”
“And I always mean it.”
Dain stood, stretching with a grunt, then reached down to help Aelin up without a word. His fingers laced with hers for a heartbeat before letting go, like it had become habit.
“See you bastards at dawn,” Aelin said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“You better,” Cianna called. “Or we’re looting your stuff.”
Aelin grinned. “Touch my tea stash and I swear I’ll haunt you.”
“I’ll help,” Dain added.
Laughter followed them out the hall.