Chapter Text
It’s well past curfew, his lock now broken. The lights are off; Sloane’s knife discarded at their feet. It’s not just within his rights to kill her – it would be the logical decision.
She’s a woefully unprepared assassin, but now’s not the time to chide her. She had opened the door empty handed, eyes wide like mirrors of his own bewilderment. Gasping, she slammed the door, rattling the pens on his desk. Clumsy hands grasped a knife sheathed at her ribs, weight shifting backwards as if she was the one on defense.
He had always been a light sleeper – there was no need to wipe his eyes before he closed in, dodging the flailing, amateurish attacks. He pressed her against his bookshelf, leather bindings creased against their shared weight. She pushed back as he seized her drawn blade, throwing it down with a clang. She tried for its twin but he was faster, trapping both wrists and forcing them behind her back. She glared at him, jagged and furious, wrenching in the arms that caged her as if only just grasping the severity of the situation.
Rider's Codex Article 3, Section 2: An executable offense to attack any cadet while sleeping.
She angles her shoulder, intent on shoving him back. His grip is firm and he’s not letting up. Pulse racing under his fingertips, her breaths come shallow and quick. It would be more just to disarm her, to throw her in the brig. To bring the case before formation, lay the facts in broad daylight. He could even remove his hand in the decision if he wished, leaving process and protocol to the newly formed cadre.
But he knows, deep in his bones, that he could never let her face the same fate as Amber Mavis. That the possibility was unfathomable, over something as trivial as an attempt on his life. He had known the moment he recognized the silhouette as her, dim light painting the harsh angles of her face golden. That the secret of whatever she could do next – cruel, unimaginable, baffling– would never leave the confines of his bedroom. He’d sooner step before Cath’s fire than let it touch her, ever. Wetness stains his black shirt darker, hot then cold. The world stills, and her shudders rattle them both.
All he knows is that he’s holding her. That he wants to help, but doesn’t know how.
“Breathe,” he says to the crown her head. She smells like wind before it snows, the way cold and ash settle in the quiet of night like grief. He hushes her like she’s a child woken by a storm, not the cold-blooded rider she seems to be. This is the weakness, he thinks. The one his father had recognized, spent precious time beating from his only son. The one he hid his first and second years, buried by accolades, titles, logic, and order. He’s a fool to think he ever had control over himself. “Just breathe.”
It’s clear why she’d want to kill him – for Liam, and the part he played. His honest attempt to do right by a friend, the ruin it caused. For her mother, his father – the fights of the parents, continued through the children. She moves against him, lifting her chin and looking into his eyes for long, pleading moments. Wetness pools inelegantly atop her upper lip, and he gives, barely, so she can twist into her arm to wipe it away. His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t look away. She’s so despondent that he wishes for her rage.
“Do it,” he says, only because he’s confident she won’t. She’s never been one to follow orders. He guides one hand to his exposed arm, locking it in place. “You’re a siphon now, right? You don’t even need a weapon. Take me out. Take the dragon who chose me, while you’re at it.”
“Stop,” she cries, shaking her head. She hadn’t killed anyone, as far as the records said. But why would she come here, if not for this? Was she trying to provoke him? To die by his hand?
“Mairi,” he says, softer now. “What are you doing?”
She chokes back a sob, eyes darting around the room before finding his again. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“In my own room?”
“No. The upperclassmen – you were all supposed to be at the bar. I thought –” she sniffs again, looking down at his hand and her wrist. He had been out, but turned in early. “I needed an address. To send a letter. I know it’s not allowed yet, but I wanted to let Visia’s family know she died bravely. They deserve to know – so she’s not just another name from a template.”
He thinks of Basgiath’s letterhead, the snarling dragon twisting around the citadel. The wax seal perched proudly on his father’s desk. The fireberry, its serrated leaves and barbed vines twisting in the margins. His fingers had traced the neat indentations of his own name, his title – Wingleader. It was as if touching the ink could make the dream real, to keep it from being taken away. It had come in a thick envelope, even before his new patches. His belongings, still in wooden boxes between his old room and new.
“Tell a cadet carry the rest,” his father had said, firmly patting his son’s shoulder. Had he ever done that before? But when Dain looked back at him, his smile had hardened, as if he could see something that Dain couldn’t.
He thinks of Sloane on a summer day, soft hands opening a letter.
He steps back, letting her go. “Don’t ever do this again, Mairi.”
She stumbles, righting herself, keeping her distrustful eyes on him as he crosses the room to his desk. He is all too aware of her movements when he turns his back, pulling a canvas ledger from a neatly stacked pile. He flips the pages, finding the correct one, then writes the address on the back of a discarded drawing of an aerial formation.
He places the ledger on top of its pile, pulling open a drawer to find what he needs. Returning to her, he presses the scrap of paper and a square stamp in her hand. “If you need something – anything – ask. Or finish the job. I need my fucking sleep.”
She takes it, but doesn’t thank him.
He’s unable to sleep in the half-hour that passes, even after he fixes the lock with small magic. He lays on the hard mattress, staring at the spot on his ceiling where the stucco chips and falls.
An alarm pierces through him, and he jerks up.
“Your cadet, wingleader.” Cath says. “Thoirt’s rider. She carries a satchel. Thoirt approaches the courtyard.”
Terror rips through him with the sudden realization. The address – Sumerton. She’s a marked rebel, planning to cross the Navarrian border. It’s where defense will be the thickest. The patrols – it’s a risky mission for anyone, and she’s a first year. She’s in no state to do it alone, especially after witnessing the way she handled the covert operation in his room.
“Stall them,” he practically begs, grabbing his flight jacket and running to the door. “I’m coming.”