Chapter 18.
The day passed in a way that almost felt... normal.
Not in the way it used to, back before Threshing, before dragons and chores and bruised hands and nights spent trying not to fall apart—but in a new way. One that felt steadier. Like something that had been tilted off balance for too long had finally righted itself.
Aeliana walked into the history classroom just before the bell, the sunlight slanting through the high windows. Her boots tapped quietly against the stone, and as always, her eyes scanned the rows before she made her way toward the back.
Liam was already there.
He didn't wave or call her name—he didn't need to. He just smiled, and it was the kind that softened the edges of the world for a moment.
She slid into the seat beside him, and something in her chest... loosened.
The tension that had clung to them for days—no, weeks—was gone. Not just pushed aside. Not dulled or buried. But melted, burned away by something simple and quiet and real.
They exchanged a glance, and then a grin.
And for the first time in too long, they laughed.
Not the cautious kind of laugh shared between people treading carefully around wounds.
But something genuine. Bright. The kind of laugh that made the cadet in front of them turn around and raise an eyebrow.
The kind that made the Professor pause when he walked in, then shake his head and mutter something under his breath about "finally. "
Liam leaned over halfway through the lecture and whispered a sarcastic comment about the absurdity of General Melgren's campaign strategies, and Aeliana snorted into her sleeve.
When she scribbled a quick doodle in the margin of her notes—tiny wings on the back of a very poorly drawn horse—Liam caught sight of it and tried not to laugh out loud.
He failed.
And she elbowed him for it, her smile tugging wider.
It wasn't that everything was perfect. The bruises still throbbed under her sleeves, and her chores still waited. Oren still existed. But... the day was light. Easier.
Like she could breathe again.
And beside her, Liam looked brighter too—like something had cracked open in his chest and let the sun in.
For that hour, they weren't just surviving.
They were something closer to themselves.
~
She should've stayed.
Liam had told her—more than once—that it was fine, that she was welcome, that he'd even cleared the edge of his desk for her things and mumbled something about needing to fix the window latch so the morning chill wouldn't creep in too early. He'd smiled at her like it was obvious she belonged.
But Aeliana hadn't wanted to impose. Not again.
So she'd gone back to the barracks.
Now, hours later, she regretted it.
The room was quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets, the faint sighs and snores of the unbonded cadets curled in beds around her.
Shadows stretched long across the ceiling from the flickering hallway torchlight that seeped in under the door.
Her pillow was too flat. Her skin still felt damp from the icy bucket prank earlier in the week.
And Oren's voice—low and mocking—echoed in the back of her skull like a curse she couldn't shake.
She rolled over.
Then again.
Still nothing.
Her body was tired, but her mind wouldn't quiet.
With a sigh, she shoved the thin blanket back, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and moved silently across the floor. She pulled on her boots with practiced ease and slipped out into the hall without a sound.
The night was cold, sharp against her skin as she stepped into the open air. Basgiath was cloaked in quiet, moonlight gilding the stones silver. The wind whipped down from the ridges, tugging loose strands of hair across her cheek.
She didn't hesitate.
Her feet carried her toward the Parapet like they knew the way without her help.
The long, narrow beam stretched ahead of her, just as it had the first time she crossed it. Just as it had every time she'd returned since—those rare nights when her thoughts grew too loud to ignore and the weight in her chest needed somewhere to go.
Tonight, it welcomed her like an old friend.
She stepped onto it without a word, letting the cold bite her skin and the wind tug at her sleeves. The drop was the same — terrifying, endless — but it didn't scare her.
Aeliana took a few slow steps forward, finding her balance easily. Her body remembered this. The way the wind shifted just before it surged. The way her core had to stay taut and her muscles fluid.
She exhaled, deep and steady.
Then she began to move.
Not fast. Not flashy. Just a slow, deliberate sequence of movements — blocks and turns, pivots and counters, the kind of things Garrick had drilled into her until they lived in her bones.
She let the motions carry her forward, fighting imaginary opponents that had no names, only shapes.
It wasn't about aggression.
It was control.
Clarity.
A storm in motion that steadied her pulse instead of igniting it.
The wind roared past her, dragging at her clothes, but she didn't falter.
She turned into a kick, dropped low into a crouch, then rolled smoothly back to her feet and paused.
The stars stretched overhead. The valley lay still below. And for just a second, the world felt... clean.
Her chest rose and fell with quiet breath, her hands open at her sides.
No fear. No Oren. No whispers in the dark.
Just her.
Alive.
Aeliana closed her eyes and stood there, balanced between sky and stone, until the cold started to seep into her limbs again.
Only then did she step off the Parapet.
Only then did she look back.
And only then did she whisper, "Still here."
Then she turned and walked back into the dark, her head a little clearer than before.
The halls were silent this time of night. Shadows pooled thick along the stone walls, lanterns extinguished or flickering low. Her boots made no sound as she padded down the corridor toward the barracks.
She rubbed at her arms, the chill still lingering. Maybe she'd grab her cloak before heading to bed—
Voices.
She stilled.
Low, hurried voices—footsteps, barely concealed, rushing toward the stairs that led to the first floor. The riders' rooms.
She stepped back into a darker alcove, breath shallow, watching.
Four shadows moved past her, then another two. One stayed behind to whisper something to a seventh.
Aeliana's stomach twisted. She didn't recognize all of them—but she knew that gait.
Oren.
What the fuck are they doing?
She waited a few breaths more before following, her steps careful, silent. She reached the top of the stairs just in time to hear a door slam shut ahead.
Then more footsteps, running.
A chill swept down her spine that had nothing to do with the air.
She rounded the corner just in time to hear someone hiss, "Fuck! She is awake!"
Aeliana's heart dropped.
Violet.
Without thinking, she broke into a run. The door was shut, muffling the commotion inside. She heard grunts, sharp cries, the clash of steel.
She didn't hesitate.
She threw her shoulder into the door with everything she had.
It burst inward, crashing against the wall with a splintering crack.
What she saw on the other side made her blood run cold.
Violet was on her feet, a dagger slashing across the shoulder of a woman lunging at her. Another cadet was stumbling back, clutching a thigh where Violet's second blade had landed. The rest—
There were too many of them.
Aeliana didn't pause. She reached for her daggers, loosing them from her thighs as three of the attackers turned toward the noise.
"Shit, it's her!" one of them shouted.
"Get her!"
Oren, standing behind Violet, yanked her up by the hair. "Hold her!"
No.
Not again.
Aeliana launched herself into the fray, meeting the first cadet mid-run and slamming her knee into his stomach before slicing a shallow line across his forearm. He yelled, but she was already ducking the next swing, pivoting toward a second attacker. Her movements were clean, precise—brutal.
But there were too many.
She was already backing toward the wall, driving one cadet into the door with such force that it slammed shut again behind him.
A quick glance. Violet's chest heaved—air rushing in like she'd only just been able to breathe again—and Oren's blade flashed in the moonlight, grazing the side of her throat.
Aeliana made a choice.
She hurled one of her daggers.
The door burst open again behind her, wind rushing in—but her focus was on the silver glint arcing through the air.
Time slowed.
For Violet, it stopped.
Her breath caught as the blade spun, suspended in midair—aimed perfectly at Oren's shoulder.
But another knife was descending at the same time—aimed at Aeliana.
She raised her arm on instinct to deflect it, the pain blooming in her right forearm as the blade sliced deep.
She hissed, staggering.
Then everything exploded into motion again.
Shadows.
A voice like thunder.
"You're all fucking dead."
Xaden Riorson stood in the ruined doorway, the jagged remains of the wooden frame still trembling from the force of his entrance, mage light bursting into the room above his head, shadows spilling across the walls like smoke let loose from a sealed vault.
His rage was quiet—ice beneath a cracked surface.
Oren's head snapped up, blood already darkening his shoulder where a dagger protruded.
His shadows surged forward.
And with them, power.
Fear.
Screams froze in throats. Movements halted mid-strike.
Every assailant, every one of the seven cadets who dared raise steel in the dark of night against one of their own, found their necks wrapped in living shadow.
Every one except Oren.
"NO! Let Aeliana go!" Violet's voice cracked the stillness like a whip as her hand gripped his arm.
His head whipped toward the girl on the floor.
Aeliana Sorynne. Hair tangled, chest heaving, blood painting her arm in long red lines, her eyes blown wide in panic as she clawed at the invisible force choking her.
His eyes darted between her dagger on the floor and the one buried in Oren's shoulder.
Recognition punched into his chest like a falling star.
She'd helped.
She hadn't just wandered in—she'd fought.
She wasn't fighting anymore. Just gasping. Drowning on dry land.
Tears streaked her dirt-smeared cheeks as her fingers scratched at her own neck.
And his shadows—
Fuck.
He released her immediately.
The shadows recoiled like wounded animals, slithering away from her throat and back into the dark recesses behind him.
Aeliana collapsed fully against the wall, coughing violently, nails bloodied, her free arm wrapped protectively around the one that bled freely from a deep gash on her forearm.
Xaden turned slowly toward Oren, whose palms were held up now in surrender, a smirk trying to cling to his blood-spattered face.
"Riorson, listen," Oren said quickly, his voice cracking under the weight of the power swirling through the room. "You of all people know she shouldn't have bonded that dragon. She's not strong enough. She's a threat. We were just correcting a mistake."
Xaden stepped forward.
His voice was silk and stone. "It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep."
"Come on," Oren pleaded. "You know it's true. She's weak. You've seen it. She's not worthy. You wanted her dead too, didn't you?"
"You think surrendering will save you?"
The question was delivered softly, almost gently.
It was terrifying.
Shadows moved again—coiling tighter around the necks of the cadets still kneeling. Their bodies went rigid. Their mouths opened. No sound came out.
Their faces turned purple.
They sagged. First one. Then two.
Then all five hit the floor like discarded puppets, twitching faintly before falling still.
Xaden barely blinked.
He turned to Oren, and his voice dropped lower still. "She should've killed you in the field. But she's merciful."
He reached out a hand, and the dagger rose from the floor, gliding weightlessly through the air until it slapped into his palm.
He looked down at it—the hilt slick with someone else's blood. Her blood.
"That's not a flaw I possess."
Before Oren could say another word, Xaden slashed.
A clean, horizontal slice.
Oren's throat opened in a line of red.
He stumbled, gurgled—and dropped.
The room fell into silence again, broken only by the wet splatter of blood hitting the floor.
Garrick stepped into the room.
His boots crunched over shattered wood and splintered frame. Sword already sheathed, his hand dropped instinctively to his side, ready for whatever the hell this mess had left behind.
"Damn, Xaden," Garrick muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "No time for questioning?"
His gaze swept automatically to Violet—alive, shaken, but standing.
Then to Xaden.
Then—
Coughing.
Sharp and wet.
His eyes snapped to the corner of the room.
A figure hunched low against the wall.
Aeliana.
"Aeliana!" Garrick's voice cracked.
She didn't look up.
One arm was clutched to her throat like she was still trying to claw the air back in, the other hung limp, blood dripping steadily from the deep gash along her forearm.
Her body was curled in on itself—knees drawn up, shoulders hunched, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Her breath came in short, rapid gasps, too shallow to be useful.
Not breathing.
She wasn't breathing right.
Her fingers twitched, scraped uselessly at the floor. The whites of her eyes were showing.
Shadows still clung to her skin.
And when her gaze lifted just enough to spot Xaden stepping forward—
She flinched like she'd been struck.
"Don't come any closer!" she rasped, the words tumbling out between breaths. Her voice cracked on the last syllable, raw and broken.
"Shit," Garrick swore under his breath and surged forward.
He crossed the room in seconds, boots sliding over spilled blood, his heart in his throat. He dropped to his knees in front of her just as her breaths began to come faster—shallow pants that bordered on hyperventilation, chest rising too quickly.
"Aeliana," he said, more softly now. "Aelia, look at me."
She didn't.
Her nails dug into the sleeve at her throat, as if the shadows still lingered there, as if they hadn't fully released their grip.
"I can't—can't—" she choked out, eyes wide and unfocused.
"I know. I know, but you're safe now. Look at me."
She rocked slightly, breath rattling in and out like her lungs were full of glass. Her gaze darted wildly from wall to floor to shadows and back to Xaden—until Garrick gently reached forward, cupped her jaw, and turned her face toward him.
"Aeliana."
That anchored her.
Barely.
Her eyes met his—blown wide, glistening with unshed tears—but she was there. Present. Holding on by a thread.
"You're safe," he said again, voice slow and steady, like it might convince her heart to believe it even if her body didn't yet.
She gasped, a rough, dragging inhale, and clutched at the front of his shirt.
"Good," he murmured. "Keep breathing. In. Out. Just like that."
"I—I thought—he—" she tried, but couldn't finish.
"I know," Garrick said, brushing a blood-soaked curl out of her face. "I know. But he's not touching you again. You're okay."
Her shoulders hitched as another shuddering breath escaped her. Then another. Slower this time. Less frantic.
"I've got you," Garrick promised.
"I—I don't—why—" she tried again, breath breaking again on a sob.
"You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You saved Violet." His voice cracked with the intensity of it. "You were brave as hell. And now you're safe."
Xaden took one step forward.
Aeliana flinched violently, scrambling back, her palms smearing blood on the floor as she pressed herself hard against the wall like it might absorb her.
"Don't—don't let him—" Her voice was shrill now, small and shaking.
Garrick whipped his head around. "Back off."
Xaden froze mid-step.
"Fuck, Xaden," Garrick snapped, rage biting every word. "Why the hell did you have to choke her? She's one of the good guys!"
"I didn't know," Xaden said, voice gritted. "She wasn't supposed to be here."
"Well, she was," Garrick growled. "And she nearly got herself killed helping Violet."
"I realized too late," Xaden muttered. "I didn't mean—"
But Garrick was already back with her, wrapping a strip of torn fabric from his shirt around the gushing wound on her arm, his fingers slick with her blood.
"You need the healers," he said urgently. "This is deep. You've lost too much already."
Aeliana gave a small, jerky nod. Her face was pale, lips colorless, and the adrenaline was fading fast—leaving only pain and trembling exhaustion behind.
Just then, Bodhi appeared behind him, eyes scanning the carnage. "What the hell—?"
He stopped mid-step.
His gaze locked on Garrick, who was crouched low beside Aeliana.
And Aeliana—gods, she looked wrecked.
Blood slicked her arm, the makeshift wrap already soaked through.
Her other hand trembled where it braced against the stone floor, bruises blooming dark across her knuckles.
Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts, like she couldn't get enough air, even though the shadows had long since faded.
Bodhi's eyes narrowed. "She wasn't one of them."
"No," Garrick said tightly, without looking up. "She wasn't."
Behind them, Violet's voice cracked into the silence. "This is my fault."
"No," Aeliana rasped, her voice raw but firm. "This is not your fault."
Everyone turned.
She was pushing herself upright now, blood still dripping from her arm, but her eyes were on Violet. Fierce. Clear.
"This is not your fault," she repeated. Aeliana's voice wavered, but her words didn't. "There is no version of this where this is your fault. Those fuckers were cowards. You were asleep. They came for you."
She winced, steadying herself against the wall. "I made a choice. I followed them. I stepped into this room knowing I might not walk back out. I made that choice, Violet. Me."
Garrick steadied her with a hand on her back, but didn't interrupt.
Violet's throat bobbed. "But you wouldn't have been there if—"
"If what?" Aeliana snapped. "If you hadn't dared to exist? If you hadn't bonded dragons they think you didn't deserve?"
Her tone dropped. Softer now. "That's not on you. That's on them."
Then her eyes slid to Xaden.
"If anything," she said slowly, "it's his fault."
Xaden's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it.
Bodhi let out a low whistle under his breath. "She's got balls."
"She's got more than that," Garrick muttered, rising to his feet and slipping his arm under Aeliana's knees. "She's got enough scars from tonight to last her a lifetime."
"My arm is cut, not my legs! I can walk—" she started again, but her voice faltered.
"With the amount of blood you've lost?" he said dryly, already heading for the door. "You'll pass out before we make it halfway."
She opened her mouth—probably to argue—but the sound that came out was more like a breathless sigh.
And by the time they crossed the threshold into the corridor, her head dropped to his shoulder.
She was unconscious before they reached the infirmary.