Chapter 15.
The cold bit deeper tonight.
But she needed air.
Her breath fogged in front of her, rising like smoke. She walked without a real direction—past the edge of the training fields, past the mess hall, past the shadowed dorms and watch posts.
Her feet moved on instinct.
The wind tugged at her sleeves. Somewhere high above, the faint sound of dragon wings echoed and faded. But the rest of the world had gone quiet.
Still.
Her eyes lifted toward the familiar ridge, and her gaze landed on the narrow expanse of stone that cut across the gap like a scar.
The Parapet.
Her heart beat once, hard.
Then again.
Without thinking, she started climbing the stairs.
The stone bit into her palms where she touched the wall for balance, but she didn't stop. Her boots were silent on the steps. At the top, the wind caught her fully—cold, sharp, alive.
The Parapet stretched before her.
Narrow. Treacherous. Black as ink under the night sky.
Aeliana exhaled and stepped onto the stone.
She moved slowly at first, eyes scanning ahead, body adjusting to the sway of the wind. The drop on either side stretched into nothingness, the shadows swallowing the base of the towers below.
She walked halfway across.
Stopped.
Turned around.
Walked back.
Then again.
She picked up speed the third time.
Each step calculated. Planted.
She didn't falter.
Didn't waver.
After a few lengths, she paused in the middle of the stone span and turned sideways.
Then she moved—slow, deliberate fighting forms. Shifts of weight. Sweeps of her arms, pivots of her feet. A high kick. A low twist. Maintaining her balance through every motion, every breath.
Testing herself.
Pushing.
Proving.
She didn't know she was being watched.
From the shadowed ridge above the training fields, Garrick stood half in the dark, arms folded, wind tugging at the edges of his jacket as he tracked her progress below. He'd just returned—sore and sharp with exhaustion from the mission—when he'd caught sight of her.
Walking.
But not aimlessly.
There'd been purpose in the line of her shoulders, in the way her boots hit the path. Not like someone out for air, or to clear their head. No, Aeliana Sorynne had been heading toward something. And as soon as he saw where she was going, a cold knot formed in his chest.
The Parapet.
He followed her at a distance, making no sound as he crept to the overlook that sat just above the old bridge.
From his vantage point, he saw her step onto the stone, her posture clean and composed.
No hesitation.
She didn't pause at the edge like a cadet debating death. She moved like she had before—back on the first day of the year. Balanced. Focused. A strange, deliberate confidence that made his throat tighten.
And then... she began to move.
Not just walking.
Sparring forms.
Blade-less, but no less deadly. Garrick watched her body shift and roll with precise control, like she was dancing across a wire. Like she belonged up there.
And gods help him, he didn't dare say a word.
Didn't dare interrupt.
Not with one misstep meaning a hundred feet to the rocks below.
So he stood and watched.
Jaw clenched.
Heart in his throat.
And wondered who the hell she really was.
Only when her boots landed back on solid stone did he step out of the shadows.
A voice—tight, low, incredulous—cut through the darkness.
"Are you insane?"
Aeliana whipped around, muscles still taut, heart leaping. Garrick stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his jaw clenched hard.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, chest heaving slightly from exertion.
"I saw you heading this way," His voice was edged with something sharp—relief, maybe. Anger. "And followed. Thought—" He shook his head, stepping forward. "What the hell were you thinking, Sorynne? Walking the godsdamn Parapet at night?"
She blinked at him, then shrugged. "I used to do it all the time back home."
He stared at her.
She lifted her chin. "I don't want to fall behind. Just because I'm unbonded doesn't mean I'm going to waste the time I have here."
He exhaled harshly. "And that meant risking your life on the most infamous slab of stone at this entire college?"
"Why not?" she shot back. "We all had to walk it once. We do it because it trains balance. Because it matters even when the wind's pushing."
His eyes narrowed slightly, watching her. Calculating.
"And what do you think that has to do with anything?"
Aeliana crossed her arms, the wind tugging at her hair. "You've flown, right? You've sat on a dragon's back while it's banking and twisting midair?"
He gave a slow nod.
"Then you know," she said, voice calmer now. "You know the Parapet isn't just about the crossing. It's a test for the future. For flying. For surviving."
He was quiet.
"So since I'm not allowed near the flight lessons," she continued, "this is the next best thing."
He dragged a hand down his face and muttered something under his breath.
"You are insane," he said aloud, finally.
"Maybe." She tried a faint smile.
He didn't smile back. Just sighed and jerked his chin toward the stairway. "Come on. Let's get you inside before someone actually does fall off something."
She fell into step beside him as they started down.
The wind howled behind them, pulling at the high ridges, but Aeliana's heartbeat was steady now. Her steps sure.
And for the first time in days, something uncoiled in her chest.
She didn't need to fly to feel like she belonged.
Not yet.
But she would.
~
Two days later, the edge of a storm lingered on the horizon as Aeliana stepped onto the mats.
The training room was quiet—emptier than usual for this time of evening.
Most of the first-years were still basking in their post-bonding euphoria, shoulders high with pride, too busy flying drills and comparing relic scars to spend their free hours here.
But Garrick was already waiting, standing at the far end of the mat with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on her like he'd been there longer than he should have.
Aeliana dropped her pack by the door.
The tension between them wasn't thick—it wasn't even tense. It was just... there. Unspoken. The way dust hangs in the air after a fight. The way silence echoes when something important's been left unsaid.
She hadn't seen him since the night on the Parapet.
He hadn't brought it up.
Neither had she.
"You're late," he said.
"Three minutes," she replied.
Garrick arched an eyebrow. "And slow by your standards."
She stepped onto the mat. "Do you want to fight, or are you just going to insult me until I go home?"
There was a flicker of a smirk. Barely there. Then he shifted into stance.
"Let's see if you remembered how to move."
They circled each other, steps slow and measured, gauging distance. She struck first—a low, swift sweep meant to bait. He dodged easily, countered with a jab that forced her to twist on instinct.
It went on like that for a few minutes. The rhythm wasn't off—but it wasn't the same.
She was holding back.
He saw it in the way she reset between strikes. How she didn't follow through. How her body flowed like it always had, but the fire behind her movements was dampened. Guarded.
When they broke apart again, he didn't press. Just said quietly, "You're pulling your punches."
She didn't deny it. Didn't meet his eyes either. "Maybe I'm tired."
"You don't spar tired. You spar angry. You fight like someone who's got something to prove."
Aeliana dropped her gaze to the mat. "Maybe I don't feel like proving anything tonight."
Garrick straightened slowly, watching her. "Something happen?"
She gave a humorless snort. "You mean besides the obvious?"
He didn't respond. Just waited.
She exhaled. "You were right. About the aftermath. About how everything changes when you're not bonded. I thought I could handle it. But..."
"But?"
Her jaw clenched. "It's not just the looks. Or the chores. It's the shift. Like everyone forgot I used to matter. Like they see the empty patch on my shoulder and think that's all there is to me."
"You haven't said a word in Battle Brief in weeks."
"That's because no one's listening."
He stepped off the mat, grabbed a water skin, and tossed it to her. "You haven't even looked me in the eye since the Parapet."
She caught it easily but didn't uncap it. "You think I'm embarrassed?"
"I think you scared the hell out of me, and now you're acting like none of it happened."
That got her attention.
Her eyes flicked up, sharp and surprised. "Why would it matter? I didn't fall."
"No," he said, voice lower now. "But you've been acting like you did."
Aeliana didn't respond. Just sat down on the edge of the mat, elbows resting on her knees. The silence stretched again, but this time, Garrick didn't break it.
Eventually, she said, "The bond was never the plan. Not really. I thought I wanted it—needed it—but now..." She shook her head. "I think I'm more afraid of being forgotten than I ever was of being burned."
Garrick crouched in front of her, resting his arms across his thighs. "No one who sees you move forgets you, Sorynne."
She blinked. "Was that a compliment?"
He smirked. "Don't get used to it."
—
Earlier that day, Battle Brief had been worse than usual.
Aeliana had arrived early, taken a seat at the far edge like always, a full row removed from the bonded riders who now filled the front with casual dominance.
Professor Devera started the briefing on strategic ground positioning, her voice sharp, hands moving smoothly over the big map. Garrick sat near the central dais, silent but watchful as always, his expression unreadable.
When Professor Devera opened the floor for cadet analysis, it was Ridoc who spoke first—confident, sure, making a decent argument about wind direction and cliffside ambushes. A month ago, that might've been Aeliana's cue to counter with her own view.
Today, she kept her mouth shut.
Garrick's eyes had flicked toward her once during the exchange.
Just once.
She hadn't met them.
Rhiannon spoke next, her voice calm, incisive. Reece followed, cracking a joke and earning a few snickers. Even Thorne added something curt and useful.
Aeliana stared at the edge of the table, nails pressed into her palm. Not because she didn't have something to say. But because saying it felt like inviting a room full of stares she didn't want to meet.
Professor Devera dismissed them ten minutes later, and Aeliana slipped out.
It had become a pattern.
Distance. Silence. The ache of standing in a place where she used to belong.
—
Now, back in the sparring room, Garrick pushed off his crouch and grabbed a staff from the rack.
"Get up."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because we're going again. And this time, you're not holding back."
"I just said—"
"You're tired. I get it. I don't care."
He tossed her the second staff and took his position. "You don't get to fade into the background, Sorynne. Not with me. You want to be invisible, do it somewhere else. But if you're going to keep coming back here—if you're going to train with me—then show up. For real."
She looked at him.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't pushing out of frustration.
He was challenging her.
The way he always had.
Aeliana rose slowly and stepped onto the mat, staff held low.
"Fine," she said. "But don't cry when I knock you on your ass."
Garrick's grin was quick and sharp. "There she is."
They moved again.
And this time, she didn't hold back.
~
The next morning, Aeliana's hands ached like they'd been smashed beneath stone.
She flexed her fingers slowly, one at a time beneath the rough blanket pulled up to her chin, and hissed between her teeth when her right knuckle popped sharply.
The pain lanced through her hand and up into her forearm, dull and insistent—an ugly reminder of what had happened after she left the sparring room last night.
She should've walked away.
She had tried to walk away.
But Oren hadn't let her.
Neither had Tynan or Jace.
She blinked up at the ceiling of the unbonded barracks, dim morning light bleeding in through the slit windows. Around her, the others were still asleep, breath even, limbs tangled in rumpled sheets. No one stirred. No one noticed.
She sat up slowly, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched tight.
Her hands—both of them—were bruised. The skin across her knuckles was scraped raw, one side swelling, the bruises already turning from deep red to the ugly purples of a fresh fight.
She'd managed to clean up before returning to the barracks the night before—nothing visible but the slight limp in her left leg and the way she avoided using her right hand too much. No one had said anything.
No one ever did.
She hadn't gone looking for the fight.
But Oren had been waiting.
Waiting for her to be alone. For the others to drift out. Waiting for his moment.
He'd pushed—taunted—until she finally pushed back.
Aeliana let out a slow breath and swung her legs over the edge of the cot.
It was stupid. She shouldn't have hit him.
But she had, and now her body paid the price.
Oren's retaliation hadn't been explosive—he was too clever for that.
But it had been deliberate. Sharp. One of his rings had split the skin across her middle knuckle, and the way his elbow had slammed into her ribs still made it hard to take a deep breath.
She stood, rolled her shoulders, and flexed her fingers again.
The bruises would fade.
They always did.
But the way she felt now—tight, wound, restless—it didn't come from the fight. It came from the silence. From the knowledge that no one had helped. That no one had seen.
She moved slowly through the early morning routine, washing her face in the basin, binding her hands in worn, off-white cloth she kept in the footlocker. No one asked why she always wore it. No one noticed she never took it off.
By the time she laced her boots and stepped outside, the air was sharp with frost, biting at her cheeks as she started toward the edge of the field.
The sky was still half-asleep, dark with streaks of fading blue. A handful of bonded dragons soared lazily in the upper wind currents—far enough above that their wingbeats were only a whisper.
Her breath curled in the air as she broke into a jog.
Her lungs protested the cold. Her hands throbbed with every pump of her arms. But she didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
This pain she could live with.
This pain meant she was still moving.
Still fighting.
Even if no one else saw it.
Even if, right now, she was fighting alone.
~
By the time the midday bell rang, Aeliana's nerves were frayed down to threads.
It hadn't started with the bruises — though the throb of her fingers every time she flexed them didn't help. It hadn't even started with the smirks Oren kept flashing her way all morning, smug and knowing.
It started at breakfast, when Liam laughed.
She hadn't heard the joke. Probably something Ridoc had said, given the way the two of them had leaned close across the table, shoulders shaking.
She hadn't been sitting anywhere near them — obviously. The unbonded were still doomed to their own corner, away from the warm camaraderie of squads and dragons. She was at the edge of that corner, back straight, jaw clenched, food untouched.
Liam hadn't looked at her. He hadn't for weeks now.
Not once.
She knew it wasn't personal. He was busy. He had new responsibilities now. A new life. A dragon.
And maybe that was what stung the most — that he'd stepped into something bright and blazing while she stayed behind in the cold shadow of it.
She sat through her morning classes silently, scribbling notes with her left hand when her right began to tremble too much. She didn't speak with anyone.
Invisible.
Lunch passed in a similar blur. More laughter from Ridoc and Liam at the far end of the dining hall. Someone slapped a tray down near her and scraped their bench loudly — Oren. But she didn't look up. Didn't flinch.
She didn't have it in her today.
Didn't have it in her to smile. To pretend.
~
Aeliana stood near the edge of the sparring mats, hands aching from the weight of every movement.
Across the room, Ridoc and Liam stood near another mat, heads bent close as they exchanged something—words or jokes, she couldn't tell. Both of them smiled, Ridoc's laugh easy and Liam's low and familiar. It shouldn't have bothered her. But it did.
They looked like they belonged. Like they'd found new rhythms.
She looked away, rolling her shoulder and bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, ignoring the small twinge in her hip. No one noticed her standing alone. Not even them.
Professor Emetterio's voice cut through the thrum of bodies and weapons.
"Cadet Mairi."
Liam's head snapped up.
Across the gym, his spine straightened and he turned instinctively toward Violet, already half a step forward to take his usual place behind her.
But she was safe, chatting with Rhiannon, armor polished and untouched.
Garrick—who stood along the edge of the mats, arms crossed—met Liam's eyes across the space.
Liam hesitated.
Then nodded slightly.
Garrick moved without a word, stepping into Liam's former spot like he'd expected the ask. Liam exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped forward.
His name had been called.
Then—Professor Emetterio spoke again.
"Cadet Sorynne."
Liam's head snapped toward her, she didn't meet his eyes.
The second he saw her limp, Liam knew something was wrong.
It wasn't just the way she favored her right leg as she crossed the gym floor, her steps measured and stiff.
It was the way she didn't bother to hide it.
Aeliana was never careless about her posture.
She moved with intent—even when she was half-dead from exhaustion, she walked like she still had something to prove.
But today... she walked like she wanted him to notice.
And then he saw her hands.
Bruised, the skin around her knuckles torn and angry red. The faded cloth wrapped around them was half-soaked through—sweat, maybe. Or blood. Probably both.
His stomach twisted.
What the hell had happened?
Aeliana halted on the edge of the mat.
She didn't look at the crowd. Didn't look at Garrick. Just at Liam.
And her eyes—
They weren't angry. Not exactly. They were... tired. Hardened.
Not the kind of tired that came from a bad night's sleep, but the kind that settled in your bones. That spoke of a week too long, with too many silences, and too many people looking the other way.
He should've noticed.
He should've been there.
They stepped onto the mat.
Liam opened his mouth to say something—to ask if she was okay, to apologize, anything—
Then Professor Emetterio signaled.
Aeliana didn't wait.
She moved—not toward her belt, but straight at Liam.
Bare-handed.
Liam blinked in surprise and instinctively raised his blade, shifting into a defensive stance.
"Aelia—" he started, but she was already on him.
Her fist came fast, aimed at his ribs. He twisted to block, stepping back, but she followed the momentum—two quick jabs, low and high, forcing him to deflect with his forearm and pivot.
She wasn't reckless.
She was methodical.
Every movement was controlled, her balance only slightly thrown by the limp she clearly wasn't bothering to hide. But gods, she moved like a storm. Efficient. Ruthless.
He had to remind himself to breathe.
She didn't go for his dagger. Didn't try to disarm him. She fought like the blade didn't matter—like he didn't matter. Just something in her way.
He slashed low, not to injure—never that—but to remind her that he was still armed.
She ducked under it and drove her shoulder into his chest.
He stumbled, caught off guard.
"Take out your dagger," he said between clenched teeth.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she swept his legs out from under him.
He hit the mat with a grunt, rolled, and came up in a crouch, dagger raised between them.
She was already moving again—circling, testing. Her bruised hands curled into fists, her knuckles split and raw, but still she fought like they didn't ache.
She faked right. Pivoted left. He barely blocked her elbow as it came toward his jaw.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, trying to find her eyes again.
She didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
Because he already knew—she wasn't trying to prove herself to him.
She was fighting something else entirely.
And he was just the one standing in front of it.
He backed off a step, giving her space, trying to break the rhythm. "Take the blade."
"No," she said simply.
Then lunged again.
He wasn't sure how long they fought—seconds or minutes—but it didn't matter. Her strikes came faster now, more desperate. Not sloppy, but raw. She moved like someone who couldn't afford to lose, even if she had nothing left to win.
He caught her wrist mid-punch and tried to hold her steady. "Aelia."
She yanked free and drove her knee into his thigh.
He hissed and lost his footing.
That was all she needed.
She twisted his wrist with brutal precision—he cried out, and his dagger hit the mat.
And then her bruised hands were on him—one gripping the front of his shirt, the other snatching the blade and pressing it flat against his throat.
The gym fell silent.
Every pair of eyes turned to them.
Her chest heaved with breath, sweat glinting along her hairline, but her gaze didn't waver.
Liam didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He tapped twice against her wrist.
He stood slowly, muscles protesting.
And she... didn't wait.
She still hold his dagger in her hands.
She looked at it once.
Then tossed it at his feet.
A soft clatter.
Aeliana didn't look back as she stepped off the mat.
Not when the dagger clattered at Liam's feet.
Not when the silence rippled through the room in her wake.
Not even when her name was murmured by cadets she couldn't see.
She walked.
Past the lines of practice mats. Past the stretch of windows catching the late light. Out the side doors into the cooler corridor beyond.
Her limp wasn't as sharp as earlier, but every step still throbbed. Her knuckles pulsed with a dull ache, every heartbeat reminding her that she had hit too hard—again.
But it wasn't the pain she noticed most.
It was the weight in her chest.
The one that hadn't gone away even after she'd won.
Especially after she'd won.
She found the first stretch of quiet stone and sat down, back against the cool wall, knees drawn up. Her head dropped forward as she exhaled slowly, arms draped over her thighs, heartbeat beginning to settle.
That wasn't about him.
She knew it. Had known it the moment she'd walked onto the mat. But somewhere between her first swing and his last block, it had become about him.
Because she'd seen his face when her name was called.
She'd seen the hesitation. The regret.
The shift in his posture.
And gods, when she'd driven the dagger to his throat, when he tapped out and looked up at her with those wide, soft eyes...
She hadn't seen anger.
She hadn't seen pride.
Just... shame.
Not at losing. But at realizing too late how far he'd let the distance grow between them.
Her fingers curled slightly against the floor.
She'd wanted to be angry.
Had every right to be.
He'd left her behind when she'd needed him most, laughing with new squadmates while she bled quietly through bandaged hands. He hadn't knocked on her door, hadn't looked long enough to see the bruises. To see her.
But that look on his face when she walked away—
The hurt that bloomed there like a bruise—
It wasn't performative. It wasn't guilt to look good.
It was real.
And that made it worse somehow.
Because now she didn't know whether she should be more angry at him—
—or at herself, for still caring.
Her jaw clenched.
She had no doubt she'd hurt him back on that mat.
And maybe he deserved it.
But the way he looked at her...
Like he'd finally seen what he'd been missing.
Like he regretted it.
It unraveled her a little.
Not enough to take back the fight.
Not enough to undo the space between them.
But enough to whisper something she didn't want to hear.
He didn't mean to leave you.
And gods help her...
She wasn't sure if that made it better.
Or worse.