Chapter 26.
The cold air nipped at Aeliana's cheeks as she crossed the darkening courtyard, the lamps along the inner walls of the citadel flickering to life one by one. She kept her pace steady, boots crunching lightly on the frost-tipped stones, the folded piece of paper gripped in one gloved hand.
The training room was just ahead. Her chest buzzed with something close to anticipation.
She was cleared. Finally.
Her arm was hers again. Still weak, but functional. The ache in her muscles wasn't pain anymore — it was promise.
She glanced down at the paper Elira had given her and then back up toward the door.
But just as she reached for the handle, a memory surfaced — uninvited.
Garrick and Xaden.
That fight.
The way Garrick had moved — all controlled fury and precision — and the aftermath, the tension that had hung in the air long after the punches stopped.
They hadn't been alone after that.
She hesitated for half a second, fingers hovering above the door's edge.
Then she shook herself.
No.
She was here to train. To rebuild.
She pushed the door open, and the moment she stepped through, something shifted.
Not in the air.
In him.
Her boots made a soft sound against the stone floor, her expression unreadable but determined as she walked under the flickering torchlight. She was holding up a folded slip of paper in one hand like a victory flag, her scarf loose around her neck, eyes sharp and focused—
—and her hair.
His brows lifted before he could stop himself.
It wasn't auburn anymore.
Gone was the dull brown that had blended into the background since the first week of school. Now, the strands catching the torchlight were unmistakably red — not the watered-down shade most people claimed as copper, but vivid, bright, fierce.
Like flame against the cold stone.
"You're early," he said, voice even as he straightened from his lean against the mat post.
"I was cleared," she replied, waving the paper with a small shrug as she moved closer. "By Elira. Just now."
He let his gaze sweep over her — the slight flush in her cheeks, the quiet pride in her posture — and then, deliberately, back to her hair.
"I like it better like this," he said.
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Your hair." His tone remained casual, but his gaze didn't waver. "The color suits you."
A pause. A tiny beat.
"It's... bold."
Her lips twitched, the closest thing to a real smile he'd seen from her in weeks. "Apparently, I'm done hiding."
That, he could understand.
He gave a short nod, his expression unreadable again. But something in his chest had shifted slightly, something he didn't bother to name.
"Good," he said. "You shouldn't."
He gestured toward the piece of paper. "Show me what Elira gave you."
She handed him the paper.
He scanned it with a quick, practiced eye. "Forearm stabilization, grip rotations... basic but good." He folded it and handed it back. "We'll incorporate it into our sessions. And you'll do them every day on your own. Like Elira said."
"Yes, sir," she said, half-saluting with mock formality.
His eyes narrowed in amusement.
"Don't make me regret being nice," he warned, turning toward the weapons rack. "I've got a few exercises ready that'll help adjust you back into rider life — grip, aerial stamina, shoulder recovery."
"That's good," Aeliana said, moving to follow him. "Virvolior's already been on my case about it. He said I'll need to train for control and speed if I want to survive flying with him at full velocity."
Garrick paused mid-reach and turned to look at her. "Full velocity?"
She nodded. "Apparently, what I've seen so far was just a glimpse."
He made a thoughtful sound and pulled down a weighted wooden staff. "Then we better make sure you're not flung off his back the next time he decides to show off."
She smirked. "That's the plan."
Garrick tossed her a leather-wrapped grip band, the weight of it landing solid in her hands. "Warm-up first. Mobility drills. Then we'll get into reaction training and grip work. If you feel anything pulling too hard in your arm, you say something."
"I will."
"Good. Let's get started."
Aeliana dropped the grip band at her feet and rolled her shoulders back, testing the limits of her newly cleared arm. It was stiff, but it moved without the stabbing edge of pain that had haunted her for weeks. Already, that felt like a win.
"Start with shoulder circles. Then full arm rotations. Twenty each direction," Garrick instructed, voice calm but clipped. "I want to see range first, then stability."
She obeyed without protest, standing in the center of the mat and beginning the slow, deliberate motions.
At first, her movements were careful—more mental than physical—gauging tension, bracing for pain that never came.
By the tenth rotation, her muscles had loosened just enough to remember the rhythm.
Garrick circled her slowly like a hawk—watching, evaluating, probably cataloguing every microtwitch and compensation.
"You're favoring your left side too much," he noted.
"That's because my right arm was recently shredded," she shot back, then sighed.
"I'll stop doing it once I'm not subconsciously terrified of pulling something."
He nodded once. "Switch to grip work."
She grabbed the leather band again and started the reps Elira had scribbled on the paper. Slow squeezes. Repetitions. Twisting for forearm rotation.
Garrick stepped beside her, lifted her elbow gently. "Keep it higher. You'll build tension in your wrist if you let it drop."
His hand left as quickly as it came, but it left a trail of heat in its absence. She gritted her teeth and focused.
Ten more reps.
Then Garrick handed her a light practice blade. "Let's see how that arm holds up with movement."
Aeliana blinked. "You want me to spar?"
He tilted his head. "Not a fight. Just controlled motion. Walk the blade through forms. I want to see your grip under tension."
She took the weapon, testing its weight in her hand. It wasn't much, but after weeks of inactivity, even that felt heavier than it should. Still—she adjusted her stance, placed her feet, and began the forms.
Cut.
Parry.
Spin.
Step. Pivot. Slash.
Her breathing came steadier with each movement. Her shoulders remembered what to do before her brain could even catch up.
She was rusty. Slow. But not broken.
Not anymore.
Garrick crossed his arms, watching closely. "That's better than I expected."
She flicked her blade down and arched a brow at him. "That was almost a compliment."
"Don't get used to it."
She smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He stepped forward again, this time holding a padded training stick. "Let's test your reactions."
She barely had time to nod before the stick came sweeping low toward her ankles.
She jumped back instinctively, heart thudding in her chest. "Seriously?"
"You said you wanted to train."
"That's not training. That's ambushing!"
"It's reflex work," he corrected, circling again. "You'll thank me when someone tries to knock you off your dragon midair."
She gave him a look but dropped into a lower stance, weight centered. "Fine. Hit me again."
His lips twitched — almost a grin.
"Gladly."
The next ten minutes were a blur of feints and blocks, ducking and side-stepping, her blade clacking against his stick in a rhythm that grew more fluid with each pass. Her breath came harder, sweat beginning to prick at her back, but her arm held.
It held.
"Faster," Garrick said.
Aeliana pushed harder. Her footwork cleaned up. Her reactions sharpened. The world narrowed to movement and muscle memory. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't nursing an injury or shrinking from the whispers in the barracks or wondering who might be watching her—
She was fighting.
And it felt right.
"Again," Garrick ordered, bringing the stick down in an overhead arc.
She blocked, stepped in, pivoted to the side, and tapped the flat of her blade to his ribs.
He stilled.
Her breath caught.
A beat of silence passed.
Then he pulled back, eyes meeting hers with something unreadable sparking behind them.
"Not bad," he said quietly.
They stared at each other for a long moment — the space between them charged with something unspoken.
Then Garrick broke the moment, voice low and even. "Let's continue with the rest of the exercises."
Aeliana blinked. "I thought that was it."
He raised a brow. "You're cleared. That means we build everything back — not just your arm."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already moving toward the far wall where a series of wooden beams and padded mats were stacked neatly.
"Elira mentioned rebuilding grip strength," he said, grabbing a set of weighted sandbags and a small balance disc. "But if you want to stay on a dragon's back during a dive, you'll need more than just arms."
Aeliana followed, a flicker of curiosity chasing the ache blooming in her shoulder. "What is this?"
"Leg work," Garrick said, setting the weights down in a line. "Seat training. Core stability. You're not strapped in when you fly. It's your body that keeps you on."
"Sounds brutal," she muttered, eyeing the setup.
"Good," he replied. "Then we're starting in the right mindset."
He directed her to sit on the balance disc and hold the lightest sandbag between her knees. "Squeeze. Hold. Don't let it fall."
She sat, adjusted, and immediately felt the burn along her inner thighs.
"Feel that?" he asked.
She glared at him. "Unfortunately."
"Good. You'll do that again tomorrow."
He moved her through a series of seated and standing holds, squat pulses, and mounting-position drills — all tailored for the strength and stability needed to stay locked onto a dragon during high-speed maneuvers.
Every time her form dipped or wobbled, he adjusted her — a hand on her shoulder, a quiet correction at her hip, always precise.
"Focus on riding posture," he said as she held a low squat with her knees pressing in. "Weight centered, thighs tight, heels down."
"I feel like my legs are on fire."
"That means they're working."
"And what about you?" she muttered through gritted teeth. "Are you just going to stand there and judge me?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Judging builds character."
"Pretty sure that's a lie."
He shrugged. "Still works."
The banter helped. Distracted her from the burn, the ache, the sweat trickling down her spine. And when her thighs trembled and her grip nearly failed, she caught the briefest flicker of approval in his eyes — quickly hidden, but there all the same.
"Alright," Garrick said finally, after what felt like an hour but was likely only fifteen minutes. "That's enough for now."
Aeliana sank to the mat, breath coming fast, arms draped over her knees. Her muscles hummed — tired, but alive.
"Next time we push harder," he said, tossing her a water flask. "Your dragon might be rare, but your body's still made of the same bones as the rest of us."
She caught the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink.
"Thanks for the reminder," she muttered. "And the pain."
He gave a single nod. "You did well."
She looked up sharply.
Garrick was already walking away, towel slung over his shoulder. "Don't get used to that either."
This time, she smiled.
Not because of the compliment.
But because she knew she'd earned it.
~
The hallway was quiet by the time she climbed the last set of stairs, boots heavy against the stone with every step.
Her muscles ached — not the sharp pain of injury, but the deep, bone-heavy fatigue of real work. The kind that left her feeling wrung out, emptied, and maybe... just a little satisfied.
Aeliana reached the end of the corridor and pushed open the door to her room, the creak of the hinges echoing into the silence. The last golden light of day filtered in through the corner windows, dust motes dancing in the air.
Her bags were still right where she'd dropped them that morning, one half-slung against the edge of the bed, the other on the floor in front of it — both untouched, unpacked, like the room had held its breath waiting for her return.
She didn't bother lighting the lamp.
Instead, she crossed to the wardrobe beside her desk, grabbing a clean undershirt and a soft black long-sleeve from where she'd tucked them into the top flap of her bag. Her fingers moved slowly, methodically, as if even small motions now came at a cost.
The brief walk to the adjoining bathroom felt like a mile, but the promise of hot water was worth it.
She stripped quickly, wincing at the stiffness in her thighs and shoulders, then stepped under the flow of the narrow shower.
The water wasn't exactly hot — not at this hour — but it was warm enough to coax a sigh from her lungs as it hit her skin.
She let it run over her neck, her spine, her arms, easing the tightness in sore muscles.
By the time she dried off and pulled on her fresh clothes, her body had begun to slip into that slow, post-training haze — the kind where thoughts drifted more than they formed.
She glanced at the bed, then at her unopened bags.
Flight leathers.
"Damn it," she muttered.
She'd forgotten to go to Central Issue.
She'd meant to go after training. She'd even thought about it on the way back from the healing ward. But between Garrick's drills and Elira's clearance and the blur of dinner with a squad that clearly didn't want her there, the intention had slipped straight through the cracks.
Tomorrow, she promised herself.
The leathers would still be there in the morning. Her muscles, however, might not forgive her if she didn't lie down now.
She tugged back the covers and sank into the bed with a quiet groan, limbs stretching out under cool sheets. The pillow smelled faintly of old parchment and clean stone — like the room itself.
Outside the window, the wind rustled gently through the trees at the edge of the flight field. Distant voices echoed from the lower corridors. Somewhere far off, a dragon's roar split the sky.
But here, in this corner of stone and stillness, it was quiet.
Safe.
The tether in her mind pulsed softly — Virvolior's presence humming low and steady, not speaking, just... there.
Aeliana let the exhaustion take her, eyes slipping closed as her thoughts drifted.
~
The air was crisp with frost, morning mist clinging low to the stone paths as Aeliana jogged the final stretch back toward the riders' wing.
Her breath came in steady puffs, boots rhythmically striking the ground.
Her muscles ached pleasantly from exertion, and for once, her thoughts weren't tangled in nerves or regret.
She'd run this route countless times over the last months, but this morning felt different.
She was a rider now.
The thought alone still felt strange.
Aeliana slowed to a walk as the entrance to her wing came into view, sweat cooling against the back of her neck.
The halls inside were quiet, only a few early risers lingering near the stairwells.
She climbed the steps two at a time, intending to grab a change of clothes before heading to breakfast.
But as she turned down her corridor, she pulled up short.
Her new squadleader stood just outside her door.
His arms were crossed, posture straight and unreadable, as if he'd been waiting for her. His golden squad patch caught the morning light like fire.
Aeliana's stomach dipped.
"Sir?" she said carefully, slowing her steps.
Varrin's eyes met hers, unreadable as always. "Cadet. Change of plans this morning."
She straightened. "Is something wrong?"
"No," he replied flatly. "But I want an assessment of your combat proficiency. I like to know what you are capable of."
She blinked, then nodded. "Understood."
His gaze dipped briefly to her right arm. "Any injuries I should be aware of?"
Aeliana hesitated, then lifted the arm slightly. "Five weeks ago, I sustained a serious injury to my lower arm. Torn muscle and nerve damage. I was just cleared last night by Healer Elira — full clearance for training, but it'll take about five weeks to rebuild full strength."
Varrin nodded once, sharp and efficient. "That's good to know. Come with me."
He turned without waiting for a response, and Aeliana hurried after him.
They didn't speak as they walked — not down the stairs, not across the chilly stone courtyard, not even as he unlocked the side door to a small training hall she hadn't used before.
The room was simple and utilitarian: polished stone floor, tall windows, racks of weapons on the far wall, and padded mats laid out in formation squares.
Aeliana stepped inside, already pulling her hair back and tying it off at the nape of her neck.
"We fight with purpose in this squad," Varrin said as he pulled two wooden training blades from the rack.
One was the standard length for a rider blade — balanced for close combat but with enough reach to deflect in formation.
The other was slightly shorter. He tossed the standard one to her.
"Speed, control, and discipline. I don't care if you're flashy — I care if you can hold the line and cover your squadmate. "
She caught the blade and adjusted her grip. It felt... good. Her hand curled instinctively, muscle memory flickering in.
"Yes, sir."
"We rotate primary weapons every month," he continued. "This rotation: long daggers and short blades. You'll get time with lances later in the season."
Aeliana nodded, stepping onto the mat across from him.
"Let's start with movement," he said, sliding into a defensive stance. "Try to hit me."
The blade felt right in her hand — familiar in weight, if not entirely in steadiness. Still, as Aeliana moved, a sharp pull flared in her bicep. Her thighs were already protesting, muscles taut and heavy from the exercises Garrick had worked her through the night before.
But she didn't hesitate.
She struck cleanly, aiming for Varrin's side, only for her blade to be deflected with ease. He pivoted, sliding behind her and rapping the flat of his blade against the back of her shoulder. Not enough to bruise — just enough to humiliate.
"You're slow," he said coolly. "Not hesitant, which is something — but still slow."
Aeliana reset, exhaling through her nose, and went again.
This time, she feinted left and twisted low, trying to catch him off balance. Varrin blocked it like he'd seen the move five seconds before she made it, twisting his wrist to redirect her blade and tapping her ribs with his own in one fluid motion.
"And predictable."
She grit her teeth.
They went again. And again.
She landed one glancing touch — barely — after six attempts, and even that was mostly because he let her overextend and punish herself for it by nearly toppling sideways.
Finally, Varrin stepped back.
"You rely too much on solo instinct," he said, not unkindly, but without a hint of warmth. "That might have served you in survival scenarios, but here, it gets people killed."
"I'm—" She cut off her own protest and adjusted her stance, jaw tight. "Understood."
He nodded once, then gestured to the center mat. "Drop the blade. Let's see your base stances."
She obeyed, already bracing herself.
The next hour was a slow, grueling breakdown of everything she thought she knew.
Every shift of weight, every bend in her knee, every set of her shoulders — he adjusted it. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with the toe of his boot. Once, with a hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades to force her posture into line.
Aeliana's muscles burned by the end of the second sequence. Her calves trembled. Sweat slicked the back of her neck and rolled down her spine. Her grip faltered more than once, her left forearm growing weaker under strain.
He noticed everything.
"This squad fights in perfect cohesion," Varrin said, circling her slowly. "You don't get to rely on instinct or flair or natural rhythm. You fight the way we fight — or you don't fight at all."
She exhaled, low and sharp. "Got it."
"You have potential," he said after a pause. "But it'll take weeks of correction before you're anything close to where I need you."
She didn't let herself react — not to the word potential, not to the sting of correction.
"I'll do what it takes," she said instead, voice level.
"Good." He tossed her a small towel from the bench. "We'll go again tomorrow. We'll work on these drills — footwork, stance holds, and controlled strikes. No flourishes."
Aeliana caught the towel and nodded once, her breath steady but her limbs trembling.
He turned toward the door but glanced back as he pulled it open. "And don't expect praise, Cadet. That's not how this works."
Then he left, boots echoing down the corridor.
She sank slowly onto the bench, dragging the towel across her face. Her whole body throbbed, her shirt clinging with sweat. Her stomach grumbled faintly — she'd missed breakfast.
Still... she'd made it through. Not gracefully. Not impressively. But she hadn't quit.
Good, she thought, echoing his own words back at herself.
Now all she had to do was survive it again.