Weightless on the Wind

Chapter 1.

She woke to the sound of tearing flesh.

Not real — not anymore. Just the echo of it. The kind that clings to your bones long after it stops. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes flew open, chest tight, hands already fisted in the thin blanket wrapped around her legs.

For a moment, all she could hear was the pounding of her pulse. Then the cold crept in: the kind that came from the inside, the kind that had nothing to do with air or temperature.

Her fingers loosened slowly. She let the breath out. Not a scream. Never a scream.

The dream slipped away like water through cracks — too much to hold, not enough to forget. She remembered flashes. Her mother's voice. The look in her eyes. A gloved hand reaching for hers. Heat, then cold. And the mark.

Always the mark.

She sat up on the cot and pressed her palms into her eyes until she saw stars. Then she pushed herself to her feet and crossed the room to the basin. She splashed cold water on her face. Once. Twice. Three times.

It didn't wash anything away. It never did.

She leaned forward, hands on either side of the chipped ceramic, and stared at the girl in the mirror. Brown hair now — auburn in the light — and too-long sleeves pulled over her wrists.

You are not that girl anymore.

She dried her face. Reached for her bag. It was time.

The pack settled against her shoulders with a familiar weight. She'd repacked it twice the night before — not because it needed organizing, but because sitting still made the silence louder.

She pulled on her boots. Laced them tight. Slid her gloves over callused fingers and adjusted the sleeves of her shirt until they covered every inch of skin they needed to. The fabric was worn but clean, light brown to match the dust of the road. Faded. Forgettable.

Just like she wanted.

Outside, the sun had only just started climbing, but the air already shimmered with heat.

The outpost sat low between two hills, a forgotten place with a sagging roof and a well that creaked even when the wind didn't blow.

The mare was tied up out front, already saddled.

Ryn stood in front of her, arms crossed, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like leftover bread crust.

He looked up as she approached. "You ready?"

She gave a small nod, then adjusted the strap on her shoulder again. She didn't speak until she reached him.

"Thanks for waiting."

"You think I'd let you ride in alone?" Ryn's tone was dry. "I didn't spend three years watching you knock Finnic off every rooftop in Rathmere just to let you fall off the Parapet."

She huffed — barely — but didn't answer.

They mounted and rode without ceremony. The last stretch of road wound up past old watchstones and outcroppings, the kind of terrain built to break weak knees and test discipline.

Basgiath appeared slowly, rising over the horizon in black iron lines and jagged edges.

Even from this distance, the Parapet cut through the air like a blade.

As they crested the final hill, the fortress city came into full view: all smoke-dark towers and steel banners fluttering against a brutal wind. The line of cadets waiting to cross was nearly gone.

She dismounted without waiting for help.

Ryn fell into step beside her as they approached the bottom of the steps.

"I'll walk with you to the front," he said.

She didn't argue.

They waited. One cadet in front of her took longer than the rest. His hands shook. His breathing was loud enough to draw looks. Ryn tilted his head toward him slightly.

"You don't have to do anything but walk."

Her lips twitched. "I've done harder things in worse weather."

"Damn right you have."

The cadet ahead of her moved up to the table.

She shifted her weight, checked her gloves again, and glanced sideways at Ryn. "You can go now."

He didn't answer at first. Just reached over and gave her a firm clap on the shoulder — the kind that said we see you even if they didn't know the whole story.

"You've got this," he said.

She nodded.

"Next," called the voice from behind the wooden table.

And then she stepped forward.

She took her place in front of the table, eyes flicking once over the two figures seated behind it. A scribe with ink-stained fingers already scanning the next line on the roll, and a marked rider — a man with a faded scar down the side of his neck — watching her with mild disinterest.

"Name?" the scribe asked, quill poised.

"Aeliana Sorynne."

The scribe's hand paused. Just for a second. Then he wrote.

No reaction. No second glance. No recognition.

She picked up the quill, signed her name beneath the last.

The rider gestured lazily toward the turret door at the base of the tower. "Through there. You'll cross the Parapet when it's your turn."

She nodded once and stepped aside, boots scraping against the stone.

The turret swallowed her in shadow.

Stone walls rose on either side, narrow and echoing, the torchlight flickering from sconces set into the curve of the spiral staircase. The boy in front of her moved with jittery, uneven steps — one hand brushing the wall, the other clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.

He glanced back at her once.

She didn't meet his eyes.

The first fifty steps were quiet.

By a hundred, he was breathing heavily.

At a hundred and fifty, he nearly tripped.

Aeliana kept her pace steady. Each step the same. Each breath controlled. She let the rhythm ground her — boot, stone, zigzag breath. Boot, stone, breath. The air grew thinner the higher they climbed, but she welcomed it. It made it easier to focus. Easier to forget.

By step two hundred, the boy was muttering under his breath.

She tuned him out.

At the two-hundred-fiftieth step, the staircase opened up into harsh sunlight.

The roar of wind hit first — hot and dry, sweeping across the top of the chasm like a warning. The sky beyond the open arch was sharp and blinding. The Parapet stretched before them, narrow and cruel as the stories had promised, the drop on either side waiting like an open mouth.

The boy stepped forward, trembling.

She stayed where she was.

Three riders stood at the entrance, backs straight against the wind. One held a cloak over a long scroll, struggling to keep it steady. Another barked instructions at the boy in front of her. The third leaned against the stone arch like this was the most boring assignment in Navarre.

The boy shifted nervously as he stepped forward.

"Name?" the rider with the scroll asked.

"E-Eric Telvon," he stammered, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind.

"Center," the second rider ordered. "Don't look down. Keep your eyes ahead. Move when I say."

Eric stepped up to the edge, breath shaking, feet too close together. A gust hit, and he flinched.

Behind him, Aeliana waited — calm, still, hands at her sides.

"Next," the scroll rider said, eyes already on her. "Name?"

She stepped forward just slightly, just enough to be heard.

"Aeliana Sorynne."

No flicker of recognition. No pause. Just ink on parchment.

Then she nodded toward the boy ahead of her, whose arms were already flailing against the wind.

"Since I'm the last one, is it okay if I wait a little longer?" she asked dryly. "He's kinda slow."

The bored rider gave her a look. "I don't thi—"

Eric screamed.

Everyone turned just in time to see his foot slip off the edge, his body tipping sideways. His hand shot out, grasped at nothing, and then he vanished — down into the chasm below.

A gust followed. No one said a word.

Aeliana exhaled through her nose. "Never mind."

With her hands in her pockets and the wind whipping at her coat, she stepped onto the Parapet in silence, as if it were just another path and not a test meant to kill her.

~

On the far side of the chasm, Garrick scrawled the name of the most recent cadet into the logbook, his handwriting already messier than usual. He handed it off to the rider beside him without looking up.

"Everson made it," he muttered. "Barely."

Xaden didn't respond. He stood a few paces back from the table, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the cliff beyond — but unfocused, like he was already bored with the day's quota of fear and blood.

A sharp whistle cut through the wind.

Both men turned.

"That'll be the last one," Garrick said, scanning the Parapet.

His eyes caught on the figure stepping out of the turret.

She moved like she had all the time in the world.

Hands tucked casually into the pockets of her pants, sleeves pulled down over gloved wrists. Her shirt — plain and light brown — fluttered lightly with the wind, and her hair whipped around her face in loose, wild strands. No braid. No tie. No fear.

Just calm.

"She doesn't seem to give a shit," Garrick said.

Xaden raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

Then the wind shifted — just enough to sweep her hair from her face.

He narrowed his eyes.

"She has her eyes closed," he said flatly.

Garrick leaned forward a fraction. "What the fuck."

Neither of them moved as she kept walking, her pace steady, her posture unnervingly calm. Just a girl on a narrow strip of death, walking like it was a hallway.

Then she reached them.

Stopped just long enough.

"Name?" Xaden asked, gaze flicking over her.

"Aeliana Sorynne," she answered, clear and clipped, not sparing him a second glance.

She walked on.

Garrick blinked. "She's weird, man."

Xaden didn't respond. Not right away.

His eyes followed her as she disappeared into the crowd of waiting cadets.

There was something there — a feeling, a shadow, a name that almost meant something.

But then it was gone.

~

She walked past the riders without sparing them a second glance.

Her boots met stone with calm precision, the weight of her pack steady against her spine. She joined the throng of cadets gathering in the courtyard — the ones who'd made it — and came to a halt near the back edge, facing the stone dais that overlooked the courtyard.

No one spoke. Some looked pale. A few looked like they were about to vomit.

She stood alone for a moment until someone shuffled up beside her and nodded once in silent greeting.

He didn't say anything. Neither did she. But they stood shoulder to shoulder as the final riders came in behind them, sealing the group in.

A few moments later, the crowd shifted. Whispers scattered.

Xaden Riorson stepped onto the platform.

He wasn't the tallest rider on the dais, but he might as well have been. The air changed around him. Cadets edged out of his path instinctively, as though his very presence demanded space. Even the third-years kept a careful distance.

Aeliana's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him move — calm, deliberate, lethal. Not a wasted motion. He hadn't changed much. Older. Sharper around the edges. But not unfamiliar.

Commandant Panchek took the stage, flanked by senior riders.

"Three hundred and one of you have survived the Parapet to become cadets today," he announced, gesturing to the gathered crowd with a wide smile. "Good job. Sixty-seven did not."

Some cadets flinched. Aeliana didn't.

"As the Codex says," Panchek continued, lifting his voice to carry, "now you begin the true crucible!"

A hush settled across the courtyard.

"You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive to Threshing, and if you are chosen, you will be riders. Then we'll see how many of you make it to graduation."

Aeliana kept her face blank, but she'd heard this before — not in official words, but whispered between riders in dark corners of old rooms. The numbers were never good.

"Your instructors will teach you," Panchek added, sweeping a hand toward a group of professors standing by the doors. "It's up to you how well you learn."

He paused. Let it settle.

"Discipline falls to your units," he added, voice hardening. "And your wingleader is the last word. If I have to get involved..." A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. "You don't want me involved."

A beat of silence.

Then: "With that said, I'll leave you to your wingleaders. My best advice? Don't die."

He stepped off the dais and left without another word.

A woman took his place — tall, broad-shouldered, with silver spikes on her uniform and a sneer carved into her expression.

"I'm Nyra," she barked. "Senior wingleader of the quadrant and head of the First Wing. Section leaders and squad leaders — take your positions now!"

The formation shifted as seasoned cadets moved forward. Aeliana adjusted her stance slightly as a redheaded rider with a scroll began calling names.

One by one, cadets were sorted into squads.

"Fourth Wing. Tail Section. Second Squad," she called.

A squad leader raised a hand from near the far side of the formation

The roll-keeper began listing names, sharp and steady.

"Mairi, Liam."

Aeliana watched as the boy who'd stood next to her at the back of the crowd gave a quick start and stepped forward, weaving through the bodies toward his squad.

"Sorynne, Aeliana."

She moved. No hesitation. Just the same even steps she'd taken across the Parapet.

By the time she reached her place in the line, Liam had already turned to glance at her. He gave a short nod — recognition, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.

She mirrored it and took her place beside him.

They were in.

The rest of the squads filled in.

And then—

The sound came. Wings.

Beating the sky into submission.

Gasps. Cries. Aeliana didn't move.

Eight dragons descended from the clouds like thunder given form — scales flashing, wings flared. They landed with a blast of wind that staggered the cadets in the front rows. The very air shook with their arrival.

The first — a red dragon with gleaming fangs and coiled muscle — snapped its wings once as it settled. Its eyes swept the crowd. For a split second, they paused on her. Aeliana felt it, sharp and strange, like being caught mid-thought. Then the dragon looked away.

Another — bronze and wide-bodied, with horns like broken blades — exhaled a puff of steam and slowly tilted its head in her direction. It blinked once. Moved on.

Then the navy-blue dragon landed just ahead of her, steam curling from its nostrils. Its golden eyes narrowed — not scanning, not passing over — but locking. On her.

Aeliana didn't flinch.

Its gaze held hers.

For a moment, it felt like the world around her had quieted. Like the roar of wings and breath and panic had dulled into background noise.

A cadet screamed — bolted — running toward the keep.

The red dragon on the left opened its mouth and fire tore across the courtyard. The fleeing cadet turned to ash before he'd taken ten steps.

Sixty-eight dead.

Aeliana's jaw clenched, but she didn't look away.

More heat. More screams. Two more cadets lost.

Seventy.

The navy dragon tilted its head slightly, eyes never leaving her. Like it knew her. Like it saw her.

She lifted her chin.

It blinked — slow, deliberate — and then turned away.

Aeliana exhaled once. Steady.

Just a dragon, she told herself. Nothing more.

Across the courtyard, Xaden stepped forward.

"You're all cadets now," he said, voice like steel sliding clean from the scabbard. "Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by Codex not to kill you."

A murmur of tension rolled through the crowd.

"But just because they can't end your life doesn't mean others won't," he added. "You want a dragon? Earn one."

Cheers from the bolder cadets.

Not from her.

He walked the edge of the dais like a general surveying a battlefield.

"And I bet you feel pretty badass right now, don't you, first-years?" he called. "You feel invincible after the Parapet, don't you? You think you're untouchable!"

The crowd shouted in response.

Wings shifted above.

"You're on the way to becoming the elite! The few! The chosen!"

Roars and cheers.

Then steam blasted from the dragons' nostrils — a wall of heat and sound. Aeliana stood her ground. The cadet in front of her wasn't so lucky. His legs buckled.

Xaden pointed to the dragons.

"To them, you're just the prey."

His words hung in the air like smoke.

Silence fell across the courtyard.

No cheers now. No laughter. Just the stunned, too-still quiet of cadets who had seen death land in front of them, spread its wings, and walk away.

The wingleaders turned without ceremony and stepped down from the dais, boots striking stone with crisp finality. Xaden didn't look back.

One by one, the dragons followed — launching into the air in perfect sequence, massive wings cracking against the wind. Dust whipped up around them. The last to rise was the blue one.

Aeliana watched it until it vanished over the wall.

Then—

"Tail Section, Second Squad, Fourth Wing!"

The voice cut cleanly through the hush — not sharp, but steady. Measured.

A woman stepped forward from the right edge of the courtyard. Just a year older than them, dark braids pulled back tight, eyes sharp but not unkind. Her posture was upright, like a blade balanced on its edge.

"I'm Vessa," she said, stopping just short of their squad. "Your squad leader."

Her gaze swept across them — not sizing them up, but taking them in.

"You made it across the Parapet, so you've already done something most people won't in their entire lives. That doesn't make you safe. Not here."

She let the silence hold a second longer.

"My job is to keep you alive as long as I can. Your job is to make that easier. Understood?"

A few cadets nodded. Aeliana just held her gaze.

"Good," Vessa said. "You'll get your assignments, your schedules, and your sleeping rolls once we're inside."

She nodded once. "Follow me."

She turned and began walking — steady, confident, giving them just enough time to fall in behind her without rushing.

Aeliana and Liam fell into step together.

No one spoke as they crossed the courtyard and passed beneath one of the archways. Ahead of them, the blackstone barracks loomed — plain, windowless, waiting.

Not a place to rest.

A place to survive.