Chapter 14.
The dining hall was louder than usual.
The low hum of conversation vibrated off the stone walls, punctuated by the occasional clatter of utensils or scrape of benches. Most cadets sat in tightly packed squads, laughter flowing freely among the newly bonded. The energy was different now — sharper, bolder, tinged with triumph.
Aeliana stepped inside and hesitated for just a breath.
Her fingers curled around the edge of her tray as she scanned the room.
Rhiannon was laughing at something Ridoc had said, her dragon's relic faintly visible above the collar of her uniform.
Reece and Thorne were seated with their own new squads, their expressions more relaxed than she'd ever seen before Threshing. And Liam—
He was with them, seated between Violet and a girl Aeliana didn't recognize, head tilted in conversation. His shoulders looked lighter now. Like a weight had finally been lifted.
She didn't expect him to wave. He didn't see her.
Which was fine.
She turned away and walked toward the farthest corner table, the one where the unbonded had started to gather by default.
There were only a handful of them, and none looked particularly interested in conversation.
Most ate in silence or picked at their food with the kind of listless frustration that only came from watching everything you wanted slip through your fingers.
Aeliana sat at the end of the bench, alone.
She poked at her meal — bland rations today, overcooked rice and a piece of something vaguely resembling meat. Her appetite was long gone, but she forced herself to chew. Energy would be required for tomorrow's chores.
"Rough day, princess?"
She didn't have to look up to know the voice.
Oren dropped onto the bench beside her without asking, flanked again by Tynan and Jace. He set his tray down with an obnoxious clatter and leaned his elbow across the table, grinning like he was about to share the most hilarious joke in the world.
"Didn't think you'd make it through cleaning duty," he said, glancing sideways. "Figured you'd bolt halfway through like the dragons did."
She looked at him flatly. "You're right. I should've left you to mop up your own piss-slicked reflection."
Jace choked on a laugh. Tynan elbowed him, grinning.
Oren smirked, clearly unfazed. "Feisty. That's cute. Shame it didn't win you a dragon."
She didn't answer. Just stood, taking her tray with her.
"Touch a nerve?" he called after her.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look back.
Let him bark all he wanted. She wasn't in the mood to play the game.
Outside, the air was cooler. Crisper. Autumn settling in properly now as night dropped over the courtyard.
She returned her tray to the bins and walked the quiet path back toward the barracks.
The halls had dimmed by now, torches flickering low against the stone.
She passed no one on the way — the bonded cadets would be scattered across their new quarters, the second years likely prepping for the next round of flight lessons.
The unbonded barracks — her old home in Tail Section — had changed.
Fewer bunks. More space.
And a silence that settled into the bones.
She found her cot where it had been pushed to the corner. Tucked her boots underneath and pulled her blanket over her shoulders. Her muscles ached from the chores, and her palms still stung from scrubbing the sparring mats.
But her mind... that was quieter now.
Not at peace.
But settled.
This wasn't where she wanted to be.
But it wasn't the end.
Tomorrow she would wake.
She would run.
And she would begin again.
~
The sky was still dark when Aeliana jerked upright in her bunk, sweat cold against the nape of her neck.
Her breath came in shallow pants, lungs fighting against the phantom pressure of arms that were no longer there—hands dragging her, nails clawing against the stone as she screamed and kicked, trying to break free. Not good enough, the voice had said. Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not enough.
She scrubbed her face with trembling fingers and exhaled through her nose.
This nightmare sunk deeper than the one before, like rot beneath the skin.
A glance across the darkened barracks confirmed what she already knew: the others were still asleep, most of them dead to the world after yesterday's schedule of chores and drills.
The air was thick with the scent of unwashed uniforms and sweat and the quiet disappointment that hung over all of them like smoke.
She swung her legs over the side of the cot, laced her boots with swift, practiced motions, and slipped outside before the sun had even begun to rise.
Her run started like every other — steady, paced — but by the time she reached the outer walls of the citadel, she wasn't just running anymore.
She was chasing something.
Distance. Silence. Peace. Maybe all of it.
The pounding of her boots on packed earth was the only sound she allowed herself to focus on. No memory. No expectation. Just the burn in her thighs and the rasp of her breath in the chill morning air.
She didn't stop at her usual marker.
Didn't loop back when the cliffs came into view.
She ran harder. Farther. Until her lungs ached and her shirt clung to her spine and the edges of her vision sharpened with that strange clarity that came only from complete exhaustion.
Only then did she slow.
Only then did she turn toward the showers, the eastern horizon blooming faintly with the first blush of morning.
Her limbs were heavy but loose, and her mind... quieter.
Until a hand shot out from between the archway pillars and caught her wrist.
She twisted instantly, muscle memory overriding logic, her other arm coming up in a sharp arc meant to break a jaw—
—but the strike never landed.
Fingers closed around her forearm, stopping her mid-motion with practiced ease.
Her gaze snapped up, wild and startled, only to meet familiar eyes.
Garrick.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't speak right away either, just held her wrist in his hand and studied her with a quiet intensity that made the tension in her chest coil tighter.
She dropped her arm, pulse hammering.
"Oh," she said, straightening, voice casual. "Hi."
His brows drew together. "Where were you last night?"
She blinked. "Last night?"
"We had a session," he said. "Training. It was on the schedule."
Aeliana's stomach twisted.
"I—" She hesitated, then shifted her weight. "I figured with Threshing over and all your first-years bonding dragons, you'd be too busy for extra lessons."
"I made time," he said flatly.
There was a beat of silence.
Her expression softened, just slightly. "I didn't mean to ditch. I just... didn't think it still stood."
"It does," Garrick said. "Every week. Same nights. If I change it, you'll be told."
She nodded, her voice quieter this time. "Right."
He studied her for a moment longer, and then released her wrist.
"You're tired," he said.
She huffed a laugh. "That obvious?"
"Your form was slower. That punch—off by half a beat."
"Maybe I'm slipping."
"Or maybe you're not sleeping," he said, voice lower now.
She didn't answer.
Didn't deny it.
His jaw ticked once, but he didn't press. "Next session's tomorrow night. Don't be late."
"Yes, sir," she said, offering a mock salute.
Garrick's expression didn't change, but something in the set of his shoulders relaxed. He stepped back, giving her space.
"You did well out there," he said as he turned to go. "Even without a dragon."
And then he was gone, disappearing into the early morning haze like he'd never been there at all.
Aeliana stood still for a long moment, her heart finally beginning to slow. She looked down at the wrist he'd grabbed — still faintly red — and flexed her fingers.
The nightmare had shaken her.
But Garrick's presence — solid, unflinching, reliable — had anchored her again.
She turned toward the barracks, the air colder on her skin now, and started toward the showers.
Tomorrow, she'd be ready. And she wouldn't miss again.
Not if she wanted to survive this year.
~
The week passed in a haze of bruises, dishwater, and dust.
Aeliana found herself falling into a rhythm, though it was nothing like the schedule she'd trained for.
Her days were split between lecture halls—where she still sat in on strategy and weapons classes—and backbreaking chores that left her arms aching and her clothes perpetually damp with sweat.
She wasn't bonded, and so she had no flight lessons, no Professor Carr lectures on signet development, and no extra drills reserved for riders with wings to master.
Still, she rose early each morning.
She ran until her thoughts quieted. Trained when she could. Kept to herself in the dining hall, where the unbonded cadets had all migrated to the same corner table like exiled ghosts.
At night, she shared a barrack space that had once belonged to her squad, now echoing with the silence of missing voices. The others had all moved to their first-floor rooms, quarters earned by blood and bond. Now, only the unchosen remained. Huddled. Bitter.
And increasingly, Oren's gaze found her.
He hadn't said much the first few days. But his stares had sharpened, lingered too long. Always flanked by his usual pair of hangers-on—Tynan and Jace, both lanky and sharp-boned—he seemed to have shifted his attention fully to her.
Maybe it was because she didn't cower. Maybe it was because she didn't align herself with the others. Maybe he just didn't like her face.
Either way, she'd felt the shift.
It started with remarks in the dining hall. Jokes made just loudly enough to be heard. Then it was Oren "accidentally" knocking her cleaning bucket over in the middle of the main hallway, forcing her to scrub twice.
The instructors hadn't noticed.
Or maybe they had.
No one in Basgiath intervened unless it turned deadly.
And even then...
It was nearing dusk now, the sun throwing long shadows through the high windows of the sparring room.
The mats were empty—clean, thanks to her.
She'd spent the last hour on her knees, scrubbing dried sweat and grime from between the seams, rearranging weapons, organizing throwing daggers into their wall-mounted slots.
The scent of lemon oil and steel clung to her hands. Her wraps were soaked through with cleaning supplies and sweat.
Her shoulders burned. Her knees ached.
But she felt good.
Focused.
Alone.
Which made the sound of the door creaking open behind her all the more jarring.
She glanced over her shoulder as Oren strolled in, flanked—as always—by Tynan and Jace.
Of course.
Aeliana rose slowly to her feet, wiping her palms on her trousers, expression flat. "If you're here to help clean, you're late."
Oren smirked. "Didn't know it was your personal chore. You always do it all by yourself?"
She didn't answer.
He stepped onto the mat, rolling his shoulders. "Heard you used to train with Garrick."
Her eyes narrowed.
Oren gave a mock bow. "Care to demonstrate?"
"No."
His grin widened. "What, afraid of being shown up by someone who didn't get picked?"
"You're not a rider either," she said evenly.
"Yet." He flashed teeth. "But at least I didn't get stared down by a dozen dragons and still get ignored."
A flicker of heat curled in her stomach. How did he know?
He took that as an invitation. "Come on, Sorynne. What happened out there? They sniff you and decide you were already half-rotted?"
Tynan snickered. Jace elbowed him and muttered something.
Aeliana stepped fully onto the mat, squaring her shoulders. "You want to spar? Fine. One round. No dirty shots."
Oren raised his brows in mock innocence. "Of course."
He nodded to the other two.
And they stepped onto the mat.
Aeliana didn't move.
"Three on one?" she said, incredulous.
Oren tilted his head.
"That's not what I—"
"You think dragons are fair?" he interrupted. "You think squads are fair?" His eyes glittered. "This is war college, princess. Nothing's fair."
Her spine stiffened, but she didn't retreat.
She couldn't.
She wouldn't.
"Fine," she said, and dropped into a ready stance. "Let's get this over with."
Jace moved first—fast and sloppy, like he was used to throwing weight around instead of thinking through a strike. She ducked his punch and twisted, using his momentum to shove him sideways. He stumbled, nearly crashing into the rack of short swords behind him.
Tynan came at her next, a flash of elbows and knees. She blocked the first, dodged the second, and took the third to her shoulder with a grunt.
Pain bloomed—but she was already turning, already bringing her leg around in a sweeping arc that knocked his feet out from under him.
Then Oren was there.
He didn't charge like the others.
He stepped in, cool and calculated, and landed a blow to her ribs that stole the breath from her lungs.
Aeliana reeled.
Jace recovered. Tynan was back on his feet.
Three again.
She blocked one strike. Took another to the thigh.
Every part of her body screamed.
But she didn't stop.
She couldn't.
She'd survived the Gauntlet.
She'd survived worse than this.
Oren stepped in again, and this time, she caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted. He grunted, trying to pivot, but she shoved her palm into his chest and sent him staggering back.
The others hesitated.
So did she.
Only for a second.
Then they were moving again, and she braced herself for the next round, eyes narrowed, blood thrumming in her ears.
Aeliana's grip slipped.
Tynan caught her around the waist, dragging her off-balance while Jace dove low, sweeping her legs from under her.
She hit the mat hard, breath knocked from her lungs. Pain lanced through her shoulder as she rolled instinctively to avoid the next strike, but Oren's boot pinned her down.
"Give up," he said, breathless but grinning.
She didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Her limbs screamed in protest. Her vision blurred at the edges. And worse than the ache blooming under her ribs was the cold press of humiliation under her skin.
Oren's foot shifted.
She batted it away and shoved to her feet, chest heaving.
None of them said anything as she staggered backward, wiping her arm across her mouth.
The air in the sparring room felt thick. Suffocating.
She didn't look back as she grabbed her jacket from the bench and shoved through the doors.
Didn't stop moving.
Didn't even think.
Her feet carried her out into the courtyard, down the barracks row, the burn in her throat climbing higher with each step. She could feel sweat drying across her spine, mixing with the sting of scraped skin and bruised pride.
The campus was quiet at this hour. A few upperclassmen flew overhead, a couple of second-years crossing toward the training fields, voices light with the ease of routine.
Aeliana didn't see them.
She didn't even realize where she was going until she stopped in front of a door she hadn't meant to find.
Liam's.
She blinked.
Then, without letting herself second-guess it, she raised a hand and knocked—twice, sharp and fast, like her knuckles couldn't wait for her mind to catch up.
Silence.
The silence stretched.
Aeliana didn't move. The doorway stood still around her, warm air drifting faintly from within.
But no one answered.
No footsteps. No greeting. No Liam.
She stood there another moment, pulse thudding against her ribs, before the weight of it all sank in.
He wasn't here.
Her hand slipped from the doorframe. The tremble in her fingers felt more obvious now—like it had been waiting for this confirmation to take hold truly.
She turned around, each step heavier than the last as she descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard. The stone paths blurred beneath her gaze, edges of the world dulled by the low glow of campus lanterns flickering to life.
The barracks came into view, dimly lit and hushed.
Laughter echoed faintly from the dining hall across the yard, followed by the distant clatter of plates.
She didn't turn toward it.
Didn't think she could stomach food. Not after the taste of defeat still thick in her throat.
Inside the unbonded barracks, a few voices murmured near the far end, but no one paid her any attention. Good.
She crossed to her cot, peeled off her sweat-soaked jacket with stiff arms, and sank down onto the edge of the bed.
Every muscle ached. Her ribs throbbed with a deep bruise that was already forming, and her right wrist—wrenched sideways during the final grapple—was beginning to swell.
But none of it hurt quite like the sharp, invisible ache behind her sternum. The one that curled in tighter the longer she sat there.
Aeliana lay back without undressing fully, still in her long-sleeved shirt, pulling the blanket over her head like it might shield her from the day that had somehow managed to scrape against every part of her armor.
She didn't cry.
Didn't even sigh.
Just let the silence settle, heavy and absolute, as night fell beyond the thin windows.
Sleep came slow.
But eventually, it came.
~
Another week bled into the next.
The days passed with the same rhythm: wake up before dawn, run until her lungs burned, finish chores before breakfast, sit in the corner of every lecture—silent, invisible. No signet lessons. No flight training. No squad.
Aeliana sat at the end of the long table reserved for the unbonded, but even there, she felt apart.
The others kept their distance now, subtly shifting down the bench whenever she approached.
Not just because she hadn't bonded. Because Oren had started picking her out like a scab he meant to tear open.
Especially when they were alone.
Especially when she was cleaning the sparring room.
"Missed a spot, Sorynne," he'd say from the doorway, arms folded, flanked by Tynan and Jace like a pair of shadows. "Bet if a dragon had seen that mess, they'd have rejected you faster."
She said nothing. Just kept scrubbing. That was safer.
She tried not to mind. Focused on her tasks. On the feel of movement. On surviving.
Some nights, when the weight of the day pressed too heavily across her chest, she found herself climbing the stairs to the first floor. To his door.
She knocked twice.
Waited.
Nothing.
She did it again a few nights later. And again.
Still nothing.
She told herself he was probably training. Or asleep. Or showering.
On the fifth night, she knocked softly—barely more than a whisper of knuckles on wood—and waited.
Still, nothing.
Shoulders slumping, she turned and started back down the hallway.
Then she heard it.
Laughter.
Faint, just ahead—carried down the corridor from a cracked-open door a few paces away. One door down. Across the hall.
Rhiannon's room, if she wasn't mistaken.
She slowed, heartbeat hitching.
Inside, voices rose and fell in easy cadence. Liam's laugh—unmistakable—rippled through the hall, bright and open.
Warmth she hadn't heard in weeks.
A deeper voice followed. "And Ridoc—oh, gods, the look on his face when the dragon dove past him—"
Another laugh. Liam again. "I've never seen him run that fast. I thought he was gonna piss himself."
They all burst out laughing.
Aeliana stood frozen in the hall, caught between steps, her hand still lightly brushing the wall.
It shouldn't have stung.
They were friends. Squadmates now.
It wasn't wrong for him to be laughing with them. To be part of them.
Still, something sharp twisted under her ribs.
He hadn't answered the door.
Hadn't said a word to her in weeks.
But he could laugh like that—like everything was fine—just one door down.
She turned, quietly, and made her way back down the stairs.
Back out into the cold.