Chapter 23.
She'd barely spoken the rest of the evening.
Not to Liam. Not to Ridoc. Not even to Rhiannon, who'd given her a sidelong glance before heading off after dinner with Violet and Sawyer. Aeliana had just waved them off with a too-casual, "I'll catch up," and never did.
Now she curled beneath her blanket, knees drawn halfway toward her chest, and tried not to think about the sparring gym.
Tried and failed.
Because the images wouldn't leave her.
Garrick's body in motion—solid, efficient, every muscle working like it had a purpose. She had seen him fight before, trained with him. But that was different. That was controlled. Tame.
Today had not been tame.
And neither had he.
The scars along his ribs. The edge in his grin. The way he'd moved like he knew exactly how good he looked and didn't give a damn who noticed.
Aeliana let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair.
It wasn't just Garrick, though. It was what came after.
The relic. The dragon mark that sprawled across Xaden's entire back.
And the silver.
She couldn't stop thinking about the silver.
At first, she'd thought it was part of the mark—some strange flourish from Sgaeyl. But it wasn't. It was scar tissue. Dozens of them, woven so closely into the relic that she'd only seen it when he'd turned just right, the lanternlight catching raised skin where ink gave way to memory.
She'd never seen scars like that before.
Aeliana turned onto her side and curled her fingers into the edge of the blanket, clutching it closer as if it might keep the thoughts at bay.
It didn't.
Because it wasn't just the fight still echoing in her mind. It was something quieter. Something that had slipped past her attention in the moment and now circled back with unsettling clarity.
Imogen.
Not her words—she hadn't said much. But the way she'd been watching during the spar.
Not Xaden.
Garrick.
Aeliana's brow furrowed into the pillow.
Imogen had been focused. Not just casually observant like the rest of them—fixed. Her gaze hadn't drifted once. And not in the way someone watched a good fight. It had been... deliberate. Intent.
Aeliana wasn't sure what to make of that. Or why she'd noticed.
She'd been too distracted at the time—by the blur of movement, the overwhelming energy pouring off the mat, the sheer force of two elite riders fighting like it meant something. She hadn't realized Garrick was that fast. That precise. That—
She exhaled sharply. Whatever.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was the way Imogen had looked at him.
And how that made her take note.
Not because she cared.
Just... observation.
Old habits. Reading people. Staying one step ahead.
That was all.
She rolled onto her back again and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
He didn't recognize her.
That shouldn't bother her—gods, she'd counted on it. Had made sure of it. The new last name. The dye darkening her once-familiar hair. The fact that she never once looked him in the eye.
And he didn't.
Not once.
She was just another rider to him. Another cadet, another girl on the fringe of someone else's story.
But she had known him. Long before the rebellion relic, before Basgiath, before the weight of dragons and death.
Once.
They'd played in the trees behind the outpost, raced across muddy fields and dared each other into trouble. His laugh had been sharper then—boyish and bright, a sound she still remembered in quiet moments.
But that was before. Before everything burned.
And when it did... he hadn't come looking.
She'd waited. Gods, she'd waited.
Until waiting felt worse than grieving.
Until she taught herself to stop hoping.
Until she changed everything about herself so no one would ever ask her name.
And now he was here. Right here. Breathing the same air. Walking the same halls.
And he didn't see her.
Didn't look at her.
Didn't know.
Aeliana swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The ache in her chest wasn't heartbreak—not anymore. It was colder than that. Older.
She didn't want him to remember.
She just wanted to forget that she ever expected him to.
~
By Thursday afternoon, Aeliana was crawling out of her skin.
Chores only went so far in distracting her. With her right arm still under restricted use, she wasn't cleared for combat training, couldn't lift anything heavier than a practice dagger, and had officially run out of excuses to "accidentally" end up near the flight field.
So, she did what she never thought she'd voluntarily do again: she went to the infirmary.
Elira looked up from her desk the moment Aeliana walked in.
"Oh," the second-year healer said, blinking once. "You're not limping, bleeding, or glaring. Should I be worried?"
Aeliana gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Bored."
That earned her a smile. "Now that I can treat."
Elira waved her over to the cot by the back, where she gently unwrapped the bandage from Aeliana's upper arm and checked the bruising underneath. Her fingers were quick and efficient, her touch light but practiced.
"You've been taking care of it," Elira said with a nod, reaching for a salve. "No swelling, scabbing nicely, no signs of strain."
"Been trying to behave," Aeliana muttered.
"Miracles do happen."
Aeliana huffed something that was almost a laugh.
Elira glanced at her sidelong as she reapplied the wrapping. "You'll be cleared for full duty by next week if nothing flares up."
Aeliana nodded, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed.
The quiet lingered for a moment, warm and familiar, the way silence could be when it wasn't a punishment. Then Elira straightened and wiped her hands on a clean cloth.
"You can stick around, if you want," she offered. "I've got inventory to sort and some dried herbs to reweigh."
Aeliana hesitated. "You don't mind?"
"If I minded, I wouldn't have asked."
So she stayed.
It wasn't much—just repackaging feverfew and checking the cork seals on tincture vials—but it kept her hands busy, and Elira didn't fill the air with needless conversation.
They worked in tandem, quiet except for the occasional scrape of glass or soft instruction from Elira on how to sort things alphabetically.
It was... nice.
"So," Elira said eventually, voice mild, "how do you know what you're doing?"
Aeliana blinked. "What?"
"You know how to handle glassware. How to measure. You didn't flinch when you saw the burn salve from that flight mishap last week."
"Oh." Aeliana shifted her weight. "I helped out a healer. In the city where I lived. Before Basgiath."
Elira looked up, intrigued. "A real one?"
"Not like you. Just a man who'd set up a place near the market. I cleaned tools. Prepped bandages. Ran for supplies when something ran low." She hesitated. "He let me stay in the back sometimes, when things were... rough."
There was a pause. Elira didn't speak, didn't press, but her hands slowed.
"Sounds like you knew what you were doing," she said softly.
"I liked being useful," Aeliana admitted. "I wasn't much good at anything else back then."
Elira didn't correct her. She didn't need to.
Another beat passed, quieter this time.
"You lived with your family?" Elira asked carefully, not quite prying but toeing the line.
Aeliana shook her head. "I was on my own for a while. Then a blacksmith's family took me in."
Elira paused, giving her a long, unreadable look.
"They were... good to me," Aeliana said. "Real people. Didn't ask questions. Just... made space."
She didn't say more. Didn't explain the first time Brinley had called her sister, or how Maren had noticed when she started eating full meals again. Or the day Jorric had left a new set of tools on her bench without a word.
She wouldn't. Not here. Not out loud.
But Elira nodded slowly, like she understood more than Aeliana had said.
Then, gently, "What about your parents? Your real ones?"
The words sat there for a moment, too heavy for the air.
Aeliana looked down at the vial she was corking. Her fingers stilled.
She didn't speak.
Elira didn't push. She only glanced briefly and deliberately toward Aeliana's left arm, just below the long sleeve and handwraps she always wore.
They never talked about it. Not aloud. But Elira had seen it, weeks ago, when Aeliana was barely conscious and bleeding out. And she had kept that knowledge to herself.
Now, she met Aeliana's eyes with quiet understanding.
"You don't have to say anything," she said, returning to her work.
Aeliana exhaled. Not quite relief. But something close.
She refocused on the herbs, fingers moving more slowly now, the moment hanging between them like soft fabric—light, but present.
Elira didn't press again. Instead, she quietly picked up a bundle of dried feverfew and started sorting it beside her.
Then, after a minute, she said, "I'm from Vavaryn."
Aeliana glanced over. "The border town?"
Elira nodded, fingers nimble as she tied off a bundle. "Close enough to see the Western Range. Close enough to smell war in the distance, even when it never touched the ground."
Aeliana stayed quiet, letting the words settle.
"I've got five siblings," Elira continued. "I'm the second oldest. We all helped in my parents' shop—textiles, mostly. They dye their own cloth. My mother says her hands have been stained blue since before I was born."
That drew the ghost of a smile from Aeliana.
Elira tilted her head, her voice softening. "They cried when I volunteered to come here."
That made Aeliana's eyes flick sideways.
"I wasn't drafted," Elira explained, still watching her own hands. "In villages like ours, they draw lots for Basgiath. Too many children, not enough soldiers. But when the conscription officer came, I told them to pull one name out."
"You offered yourself," Aeliana said quietly.
"I'd always wanted to heal," Elira said with a shrug, though there was weight behind it.
"Even when I was little, I used to sneak herbs into the washbasin, trying to make fever tea.
My father used to say I didn't care what someone's politics were—if they were sick, I was going to boss them into bed and shove garlic paste down their throat. "
Aeliana actually huffed at that.
Elira smiled, then added, more quietly, "My parents didn't want me here. Not because they didn't believe in it. Just... because they knew the cost."
A beat passed.
"They were proud," she added, just above a whisper. "But they were afraid."
Aeliana stared down at the half-filled jar in her hands.
She didn't say, mine never got the chance to be either.
She didn't say anything at all.
~
The moon was high, a pale silver coin in a sharp winter sky, casting long shadows across the frost-bitten flight field. Every breath Garrick exhaled misted the air as he fastened his harness and swung up onto Chradh's back, the dark brown scales warm under his hands despite the December chill.
"Second Squad, ready up!" Xaden's voice cut cleanly across the night, low and commanding.
Beside him, Sgaeyl stood like a dark sentinel just behind her rider, wings folded tight.
The dragons' eyes reflected the moonlight in sharp glints — gold, green, icy silver — and the tension that hung between them was palpable.
Even without battle lines, something about night flight drills made everyone more alert.
And there she was.
Aeliana.
She walked across the grass beside Ridoc, gloved hands shoved into the sleeves of her coat, shoulders hunched against the cold.
Her breath clouded in front of her, and the scarf wound around her neck was tugged high over her chin.
She didn't look at the riders or the dragons.
Her eyes were on the sky. Focused. Still.
She always watched like that — like she was learning the whole world through movement.
Garrick's eyes lingered a moment too long.
Then Xaden turned from Sgaeyl and began explaining the exercise — tiered patrol flight, three-person formations, visual coordination in low-light conditions, pivot-and-break maneuvers between cloud coverage. Simple on paper. A nightmare if anyone fell out of rhythm midair.
The cold hit harder once they were airborne.
Wind knifed through his flight leathers as Chradh lifted into the sky, his massive wings slicing through the December air with practiced ease.
Moonlight shimmered across the field below, illuminating frost-bitten grass and boot prints in silvery white.
Garrick kept his body low over the saddle, squinting ahead as Second Squad found their altitude.
"Form up!" he called out over the wind.
Rhiannon shifted into position ahead and to the left, Liam at her flank, with Ridoc and Sawyer bringing up the rear.
Sgaeyl glided a few lengths behind, cutting through the air like a blade.
Above them, Xaden soared higher on her back, black against black, nearly indistinguishable from the night sky.
The first pass was textbook.
Chradh pivoted with a strong left tilt, guiding the squad into their first loop around the outer ring of the field.
The drill wasn't complicated—standard tiered patrol meant spacing, elevation awareness, and maintaining field visibility.
The trick was doing it blind, with only the moonlight and each other to rely on.
"Adjust your spread," Garrick called to Ridoc. "You're drifting."
"Copy."
They tightened formation, wings angled, silhouettes cutting cleanly against the moon.
Far below, Aeliana was watching them intently. Her head was tilted up-eyes locked on the sky.
Garrick looked away.
The second pass took them into a cloud bank. Visibility dropped to half, and Liam called the pivot first. Rhiannon flared, Ridoc mirrored, and for a moment, they were weightless, turning as one.
Chradh vibrated beneath him—focused, steady.
This was what they trained for. This exact kind of maneuver.
And they were doing it right.
Garrick was about to call for the altitude split when Chradh's body went taut beneath him.
Wings slowed.
Nostrils flared.
"Something's coming."
Chradh's voice laced through Garrick's thoughts like smoke through cracks in stone — deep, low, and undeniably calm.
The kind of calm that made Garrick's skin crawl.
He scanned the skies — nothing. Not at first. Just the squad holding their line, drifting into the far arc of the drill pattern.
But then—
Wings faltered.
A hitch in Deigh's rhythm.
A subtle jolt in Aotrom's turn.
And then, without warning, Sgaeyl roared, the sound slicing through the night and shattering what little order they had left.
Dragons scattered midair. Formations broke. The careful spiral of the exercise snapped like a torn wire as a ripple of something swept across the sky.
The riders might not have seen it yet.
But the dragons had.
And then he saw it too.
A shape — pale and fast — slipping low between the clouds. Too fast for any of theirs. Too fluid. Its wings shimmered silver-white as it knifed through the sky like it belonged to it.
"What is that?"
"I knew it," Chradh said, almost gleeful.
He tilted his head slightly, wings twitching with anticipation.
"Knew what?" Garrick snapped.
"That he'd show himself. Any day now. And look—" A pause. "He's finally had enough."
Garrick's pulse stuttered.
"Enough of what?"
"Hiding." Chradh sounded amused. "He was never supposed to. But he came anyway."
The white shape dove under two dragons attempting to cut him off — evaded them like they were standing still.
"Chradh, what the fuck is that thing?"
"Not a thing," the dragon replied. "A force."
The wind bit harder now as Garrick climbed higher, trying to get a better view — and that's when Chradh said, quieter this time:
"Ever since I smelled her, I knew it was only a matter of time."
Time stopped.
Garrick's gaze dropped—fast—searching the field below.
There.
Aeliana.
Standing alone near the far end of the flight field. Wrapped in her coat, scarf pulled high, completely still. Unmoving.
Watching the sky.
Garrick's heart gave one heavy, leaden beat.
"Her," he echoed. "You mean her."
Chradh didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Garrick's eyes flicked between her and the fast-approaching dragon, now streaking straight for the field, dodging every interception without faltering once.
"He's going for her," Garrick muttered.
"Yes."
"We need to get down there."
"We do."
No further command needed.
Chradh folded his wings and dove.
The wind screamed past them, slicing at Garrick's leathers as they dropped from the sky. Torchlight rushed up to meet them. Frost-covered ground blurred into view. And Aeliana—still motionless—grew closer, her face pale under the moon.
They landed with a thud of claws and a rush of displaced air.
Garrick swung down from the saddle the second Chradh steadied, boots crunching into frozen earth.
He turned just in time to see the dragon drop out of the sky.
Straight toward her.
And Garrick felt it.
Not fear.
Not magic.
But the electric weight of something ancient, long-forgotten, returning home.
-
The cold had teeth tonight.
Aeliana pulled her gloved hands tighter into her sleeves and exhaled through her scarf, watching her breath curl into the air before fading. The sky above glittered with stars, the full moon bathing the field in silver light, casting long shadows across the frost-covered grass.
Liam, Ridoc, Sawyer, Rhiannon, Violet... all part of the formation, now lifting into the sky on dragonback like black arrows loosed from a bowstring.
She tilted her head up as Second Squad rose. Sleek wings slicing the air. The snap of wind rushing past them.
They looked like they belonged up there.
She couldn't look away.
This was why she came to these things, even though she wasn't required. To watch. To learn. To understand the bond between dragon and rider, the way they moved like extensions of one another. There was something mesmerizing about it.
Especially when-
Her eyes caught on one of the dragons making a tight spiral upward. Chradh.
Garrick's dragon.
She recognized the way he moved - a little heavier than the other, but precise. Grounded. Steady.
Her gaze flicked just ahead of him - Deigh flaring her wings wide, Aotrom weaving in behind.
Aeliana took a step forward without realizing it, boots crunching faintly on the hard ground.
And then-
Something shifted.
It was subtle at first. A flicker in the formation. A falter in a wingbeat.
One dragon cut wide unexpectedly.
Antoher climed too fast.
Then Sgaeyl roared.
The sound tore through the night, deep and commanding, and the sky exploded into chaos.
Dragons scattered in every direction - not in fear, but in a frenzied, calculated response. Not random. Reaction.
Aeliana's breath caught.
She squinted upward, trying to see what had triggered it-
And then she saw them.
A handful of dragons had broken off from the others, flying hard towards something in the upper sky. She could barely make it out - a sliver of white motion, almost a blur, slicing through the moonlight like a blade. Too fast. Too graceful.
It wasn't one of theirs.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She couldn't explain it, but something in the air had changed. It felt thick. Heavy. Electric. Like the world was holding its breath.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
Something's coming.
Not just something - someone. Something ancient. Known. Forgotten.
She didn't know how she knew that. She just did.
Like the knowledge had been sleeping inside her, waiting for a moment like this to wake.
A sudden rush of wind caught her coat as something descended from the sky, and she turned just in time to see Chradh land, claws digging into the earth with a controlled thud, wings flaring wide to slow the descent.
Garrick was off his back in a blink, boots hitting the ground, his eyes locked on her.
But she barely registered him.
Because the energy-the pressure-was still coming.
Still building.
Her gaze snapped back to the sky.
And then it happened.
Out of the cloud above, the shape dove - white wings cutting through the dark like fire through ice. He spiraled once in the air, tucking his limbs as he dropped, and then flared wide, slowing just in time to land with terrifying, effortless grace.
Directly in front of her.
The breath left her lungs.
The dragon was enormous. Every scale shimmered pearlescent in the moonlight, his entire body gleaming white - not sterile, but luminous, like snow under starlight. His eyes were pale gold, but not cold. Not distant.
They were looking right at her.
And she couldn't look away.
Not even if she wanted to.
The world was silent.
Not in the way that meant peace.
In the way that came just before a storm.
The white dragon stared at her, unblinking. Massive. Motionless. His head lowered slightly, angled as if memorizing the shape of her. Every breath he took sent clouds of steam curling from his nostrils into the cold night air, pooling around her boots and rolling back like fog.
She couldn't move.
Didn't want to.
The pressure in the air was thick, almost syrupy. It clung to her lungs, her skin, her spine.
And still—he didn't speak. He just stood there, eyes locked with hers, like he'd been waiting a long time to see her.
Overhead, wings beat heavily.
Then—
"Aeliana!"
It was Ridoc, shouting from somewhere above. "Don't move! Bow your head!"
She didn't.
Couldn't.
She was locked in place — not by fear, but by recognition.
Somewhere deep in her bones, she knew this dragon.
Not his name. Not his face. Just... the feeling of him.
Like wind and frost and something ancient and safe.
And then—
"Finally."
Her eyes widened.
"There you are."
The voice wasn't spoken.
It was inside her head.
Not loud. Not demanding. Just... there.
Warm and ageless, laced with something that curled through her like memory.
She staggered back half a step.
"Garrick," she said hoarsely, eyes still on the dragon. "He just spoke to me."
A few paces behind, Garrick froze. "What?"
She blinked hard.
"My name is Virvolior."
The name echoed through her like a stone dropped into a still pond.
Virvolior.
She didn't say it. But it filled her chest like breath.
"Turn around."
The command wasn't harsh, but it was absolute.
Aeliana's limbs moved slowly, stiffly. Her boots crunched the frost as she turned her back to him—eyes scanning the field.
And froze.
Tairn and Sgaeyl stood just behind her.
Watching.
They didn't move, but their presence was weighty—coiled and silent like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Tairn's lip curled ever so slightly. Not a snarl. But a warning.
Aeliana's breath caught.
And then—
Fire.
The burn ignited low on her back and clawed its way up, searing her spine with white-hot pain. She gasped, stumbling forward a step, hand flying to her shoulder.
The pain wasn't just heat. It was power, ancient and wild, threading through her skin like it had always belonged there.
She gritted her teeth, jaw tight.
And just when the pain began to fade—
A second flare.
And a third.
She didn't scream. But she swayed on her feet, breath shallow, her fingers trembling at her sides.
Three...?
Before she could finish the thought, a voice answered gently in her mind.
"Yes. One for me."
"The others... for my brother and sister."
Her eyes flew open as she turned back around.
But she didn't speak.
Because Virvolior stepped forward.
Lowered his head.
And breathed.
A burst of frigid mist blasted out over her, curling around her body like a stormwind. Her coat snapped behind her, hair lifting around her face like it was caught in a gale.
She staggered again, eyes watering.
And when it settled—
She felt it.
Something... different.
Lighter.
A strand of hair fell across her eyes.
A deep, resonant voice whispered inside her mind:
"This is better. It's as bright as I remember."
Her brows furrowed.
What is?
But she didn't get the chance to ask.
A roar shattered the air.
Tairn.
Her gaze snapped over her shoulder.
He and Sgaeyl were staring at Virvolior with narrowed eyes and lifted chins—silent, unmoving, but unmistakably bristling.
And then the stillness shattered.
The air burst into motion as several dragons took flight at once, wings slamming downward hard enough to send her coat snapping and her hair flying back again. Wind tore across the field.
Aeliana ducked, crouching instinctively, hands flying over her head as frost and dust blasted around her.
And then—silence.
When she finally rose, boots unsteady, her heart still pounding—
"Aeliana!"
Garrick was the first to reach her, boots thudding against frozen ground. Ridoc and Liam weren't far behind.
"What the hell just happened?" Garrick demanded, scanning the sky as if expecting Virvolior to reappear.
She turned toward them, face pale, scarf tugged loose around her neck.
"He..." She touched the back of her coat, her voice low. "He burned his relic into my back."
Garrick's eyes widened. Ridoc stopped cold.
"You're sure?" Liam asked.
She nodded slowly, still slightly dazed. "It hurt."
They stood in stunned silence.
Then Liam tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her.
"What?" she asked.
He squinted harder. "Is it just me, or does your hair look... different?"
She blinked, reaching up instinctively to touch a lock that had fallen across her shoulder.
"Could be the moonlight," Ridoc muttered.
"Could be," Liam agreed, though he didn't look convinced.
None of them could fully make it out in the dim light, but there was a subtle shift — not just in her hair, but in her presence.
Something had changed.
Before any of them could speak again, the air shifted behind them.
Boots.
Slow, deliberate steps crossing the field.
Aeliana turned.
Xaden Riorson walked toward them, expression unreadable. His coat fluttered in the breeze left behind by the dragons. His dark eyes flicked between her, Garrick, and the empty sky.
By the time he reached the edge of the group, the night had turned deathly still.
The dragons had vanished into the sky, but their absence left a kind of pressure behind — like the world was waiting to exhale.
Aeliana stood in the center of it all.
Her coat hung loose around her shoulders, scarf half-untied, and her hair —
Xaden blinked.
It looked different.
Lighter. Brighter.
In the pale moonlight, it gleamed with shades of copper and gold-red he didn't remember seeing before. But he couldn't be sure. Not in this light.
He frowned.
Then dismissed it.
Not important right now.
She met his gaze as he stopped in front of her, her expression unreadable. But it wasn't blank.
It was cold.
Garrick stood a few paces off, tense. Ridoc and Liam flanked him, unusually quiet.
Xaden kept his attention on her.
"We won't have an answer tonight," he said. "The Empyrean is meeting to discuss the situation now. Depending on what they decide, I'll take it to leadership first thing in the morning."
Aeliana didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The same unspoken resistance he'd felt from her since the first week of school was there — but sharper now. Not defensive.
Distant.
She was retreating.
"Go back to the barracks," he said evenly. "You've had enough attention for one night."
Her gaze didn't falter.
"Yes, Wingleader Riorson," she said, voice cool and precise.
Then she turned and walked away.
No dramatics. No flinch.
Just... gone.
Xaden stood there, jaw clenched.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't know what to make of the whole situation.