Chapter Text
TWO WEEKS INTO SLOANE'S FIRST YEAR IN BASGIATH WAR COLLEGE
Sloane had been at Basgiath for two weeks. She’d crossed the parapet against all odds and survived each brutal day since... barely. It was almost laughable now to remember how she’d once looked forward to coming here.
While most of the other marked ones saw Basgiath as another cruel punishment for the children of the Tyrrish rebellion, Sloane had seen it as a way out; a path to freedom from the suffocating walls of her foster home and the iron grip of the family that never wanted her. She’d been full of hope. Full of fire. She’d dreamed of reuniting with her brother. Of being with Liam, Imogen, and Bodhi. Of finally beginning her life.
But she’d been raised like a lamb for slaughter, never trained to fight, never taught to survive. But none of it had mattered, because Liam would be there.
Wouldn’t he?
Now all she had was the memory of a crumpled letter, delivered by Xaden’s hand, read aloud by a foster mother who didn’t even flinch. Liam was gone. Killed. Just like that. And with him, she’d lost more than a brother. She’d lost her reason. Her anchor. Her hope.
She drifted through Basgiath like a ghost, hollowed out by grief and barely present. A shell of a person.
So when she found herself face-down on the sparring mat again, cheek pressed to the cold vinyl, body pinned beneath the weight of the gangly boy straddling her hips. Sloane felt nothing. Not fear. Not shame. Just the numb, familiar rhythm of losing.
“Yield, Sloane. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Tyler hissed, his earlier cockiness dimmed now by unease.
He wasn’t wrong. Everyone knew it. Tyler, one of the weakest fighters in their year, had been paired with her because she was, somehow, worse.
She imagined Dain thought he was doing her a kindness, giving her a “fair” match.
But Sloane didn’t see kindness. She saw pity. She saw disapproval.
She saw the Wingleader who had a hand in her brother’s death, offering crumbs and calling them mercy. Pairing her with the bottom-tier fighter was just another public reminder that she didn’t belong here. That she was useless.
Despite her sharp tongue and vicious glare, Sloane had no bite.
Her body untested, untrained, was no match for cadets who’d spent their lives preparing for this war college. She’d lost every spar. Was predicted to lose every challenge moving forward. They started this week.
She had been raised to be defenseless, while others were raised to survive.
But in her life, she’d learned to take comfort in pain. And over the last two weeks, she welcomed it like an old friend.
The bruises, the blood, they drowned out the aching void Liam had left behind. The only things that pierced her numbness were her anger and the raw, sharp hatred that sometimes rose to the surface. The same fury that made her snap at Violet. The same venom that made her bait Dain.
Like now.
Instead of yielding, she bucked hard beneath Tyler and tried to spit in his face. A reckless move that earned her a fresh onslaught of blows- sharp, merciless, familiar.
Then came the voice. Low. Authoritative. Immediately grating.
“Tyler. Off. Now.”
Of course. Dain.
Tyler leaned back, muttering something, but Dain was already on the mat, his presence towering and sharp.
“This is sparring practice,” Dain said coldly, eyes fixed on Tyler. “Not an excuse to beat your squadmate into the ground. Especially one who isn’t fighting back.”
Sloane scoffed as she sat up, ignoring the coppery taste in her mouth. She didn’t need saving. Especially not from him.
“She spat at me,” Tyler whined. “I gave her the chance to yield.”
Sloane shoved him off with a grunt, swaying as she scrambled to her feet. Dain extended a hand, but she slapped it away, glaring up at him through swollen eyes. Her nose throbbed, bleeding freely down her tunic.
“We were fine, actually,” she snapped. “Before your interfering ass got involved.”
Dain’s brow furrowed. “You call that fine cadet? He was handing your ass to you again. Challenges are in under a week. You need to do better.”
Gods, he always said “Cadet” like it was an insult.
Sloane didn’t respond. Just clenched her jaw as the room blurred. Her nose was probably broken. Again. Great.
“Get to the healers. You’re in a state,” Dain said, already motioning toward the exit with a disapproving shake of his head.
Across the room, Rhi and Violet were watching. So was half the quadrant. Her face flushed with fresh humiliation.
Of course Violet was here.
Violet, who wouldn’t leave her alone. Who was relentless in her efforts to help, help Sloane didn’t want. Not from her.
Sloane suspected that’s why Dain had been so lenient with her. A bid to impress Violet.
“I’m fine,” Sloane muttered. “It’ll heal.”
Even as she said it, blood dripped from her chin. She pinched her nostrils, tilting her head back and nearly screamed from the pain.
Dain’s look made it clear that arguing wasn’t an option.
She weighed her choices. Defy him and get kitchen duty. Or comply and salvage whatever was left of her dignity.
“Fine,” she spat, turning sharply and storming toward the exit.
She didn’t hear him follow until his voice cut through the corridor.
“Cadet Mairi. That’s not the way to the infirmary.”
She froze. Spun on her heel. “Are you seriously following me?”
Dain was right behind her, arms crossed, the picture of composed disapproval.
Gods, he was infuriating. And worse, infuriatingly attractive.
Sloane wasn’t blind. Dain was her type. Tall. Lean. Yet broad and muscular. Tanned skin. Short brown curls that made her angry because she wanted to touch them.
Warm brown eyes. Intelligent, soft, at odds with his uptight demeanor. A strong, straight nose. Full lips wasted on frowns. A jaw scarred just enough to make him look dangerous.
And that voice. Measured. Scolding. Authoritative.
She hated all of it. Hated that he looked like someone who could be trusted.
Because she knew better.
“As your wingleader, I’m responsible for your wellbeing,” he said. “You were given a direct order to report to the infirmary, and-”
“Oh, spare me the codex crap,” Sloane snapped. “You don’t follow anyone else to make sure they go to the healers. Just me. Is it because of your guilt about Liam?”
She couldn’t stop the words.
“You and Violet think pretending to care makes up for what you did to Liam. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t fix anything.”
Silence.
Dain’s expression faltered. Something shifted. Regret? Guilt? Confusion?
No. Sloane refused to see him as anything but a two-faced coward. Easier that way.
“I’m not trying to absolve any guilt,” he said eventually, quiet. “But if you’re determined to die before Threshing, that’s your choice. Just know that if you don’t get your nose fixed, it’s kitchen duty for the next month.”
She glared, but didn’t argue.
She turned and stomped toward the infirmary.
He followed in silence.
After a while, his voice came again. Low. Careful.
“Is that what you’re trying to do, Mairi? Get yourself killed?”
She didn’t stop walking. “I don’t see why that’s such an issue for you. Isn’t that what you all want? Get rid of the marked ones?”
“No,” Dain said, sharp. “That’s not what I want. But it is what will happen if you don’t start training. Imogen’s offered to work with you privately. She helped Violet last year. You should take her up on it.”
“If you wanted to help me, you’d leave me alone, Aetos,” she snapped. “I’m not Violet. I don’t need special attention. Unlike her, I can do it on my own.”
He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair.
“Look, I get that you’re angry. Good. Be angry. But use it. You’re like a rag doll out there. No claws. No teeth. Put that anger to use.”
She was still crafting a response when he added, softer:
“Sometimes, when I’m watching you fight… it looks like you want it. Like you want them to hurt you. Is that what you want?”
They’d reached the infirmary.
She stopped, hand on the doorknob. The question struck something deep and raw.
“I was raised to be defenseless, Aetos. Forgive a girl for living up to Navarre’s expectations.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
She stepped inside and let the door shut behind her.
He didn’t follow.
The infirmary was quiet. Too quiet.
Sloane sat stiffly on the edge of a narrow cot, the heels of her boots tapping against the metal frame while a healer fussed over her face. Her tunic was streaked with dried blood, and her head ached like it had been split open and stitched back together with tension.
“She’s concussed,” the healer muttered to their assistant, pressing cool fingers to her temple. “We’ll monitor her for a few hours. Nose is fractured. Again.”
Sloane didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. She wasn’t here to feel better. She was here because Dain had ordered it. Because if she hadn’t come, she’d be scrubbing kitchen floors until graduation.
Eventually, the healer stepped back and pulled the curtain shut with a faint snap. Sloane exhaled and leaned into the wall, her shoulders slumping slightly for the first time all day.
She hated this.
Hated the stillness. Hated that there were no voices to drown out the thoughts creeping in. No mat to get slammed into. No one to yell at.
Silence was dangerous. It made the numbness louder.
So of course, just as she began to drift into that aching quiet, the curtain pulled back.
Aaric.
She blinked, momentarily thrown by the concern on his face. He stepped inside, alone for once. No Imogen. No Violet. No noise.
They’d become quick friends, she and Aaric. Kindred spirits. Birds of a feather.
Sloane had fancied him, if she was honest... but so did every other woman at Basgiath, by the sound of it. And the more time she spent with him, the more she liked him... but the less she considered taking him to bed.
She couldn’t bear the thought of anything ever being awkward between them.
“You look like shit,” he said gently, sliding onto the foot of her cot.
Sloane smirked. “Glad to know I’ve still got that glow about me.”
He didn’t laugh immediately. Just studied her face; taking in the swelling, the bruises, the sheer exhaustion radiating off her.
“Tyler handed it to you today,” he said, almost apologetically.
She shrugged. “Eh. You’re giving Tyler too much credit. I was just lulling him into a false sense of superiority before I took him out. Classic me.”
He snorted, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was tension in his shoulders, relief, maybe, or worry that hadn’t faded yet.
“You know,” he started carefully, “Imogen’s still offering to train with you. Challenges are this week. It might help to be more prepared-”
“Not this again.”
“She helped Violet a lot last year-"
“So I’ve heard,” Sloane cut in, sharper than she meant. “I’m not Violet. I don’t need to be trained like some lost cause.”
“I didn’t say you were a lost cause,” Aaric said, calm as ever. “I said you could use help. And she wants to help.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want her help. Or yours. Or Dain’s. Or anyone’s.”
The words came out too fast. Too defensive. She regretted them immediately, but didn’t take them back.
Instead, she said, “I’m not trying to die, Aaric. I just... can’t fight. Not the way they want. Not the way Liam did. And if I let Imogen train me, if I try... then people will start thinking I have a shot. And that’s just cruel.”
“To who?”
“To them. To you. To me.”
Silence stretched between them. Sloane let her head fall back against the wall.
“I liked you better before you started trying to save me, you know.”
Aaric huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I liked you better before you started letting Tyler break your nose.”
That drew a genuine, if painful, grin, the first in days.
They sat in silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just... still.
Eventually, Sloane glanced sideways. “You done lecturing me?”
“For now,” he said, leaning back with a small smile. “But don’t get used to it.”
She huffed a laugh and looked down at the bandage wrapped around her knuckles.
Aaric stood and stretched. “You’ll be out of here in a few hours?”
“Apparently. Unless my brain liquefies from the concussion. In which case, you won’t have the pleasure of my company at battle brief tomorrow.”
He laughed softly.
“I think you actually taking yourself to the healers is a sign of growth. Character building, even.”
Sloane scoffed. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. Aetos ordered me out of the gym. Then followed me down the hall to make sure I actually went. Didn’t you see?”
Aaric blinked. “He followed you?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure just so he could lecture me. Captive audience.”
“You know,” Aaric said, hesitating, “I grew up with Dain. He wasn’t always like this. All dogmatic and judgmental. He used to be kind. Gentle...”
Sloane raised an unimpressed brow. “Gentle? He stole Violet’s memories, then sold her out to his father. Which got Liam killed. That’s not gentle, Aaric. That’s calculated. That’s malicious.”
Aaric was one of her only confidants. She’d learned the truth about Liam from Imogen and Bodhi, but they treated her like a child, like Liam's baby sister, like their little sister. It infuriated her.
Aaric treated her like an equal.
He looked at her, really looked at her taking in the bruises, the bleakness she didn’t bother hiding.
“Maybe he’s trying to fix things,” he said softly.
Sloane’s stomach soured at the thought.
“Then he’s worse than I imagined.”
Because trying meant he thought it could be fixed. That there was anything left to fix.
A moment later, Aaric gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and murmured, “Get some rest, Loany.”
She didn’t respond. Just closed her eyes.
And let the quiet swallow her whole.
Sloane had been given the all-clear by the healer, along with a list of things not to do; rest, no sparring, no head injuries... as if she had any control over what happened to her in this place.
She crumpled the list and shoved it in her pocket as she stepped into the corridor, squinting against the dim mage lights.
The hallway was mercifully empty. It was late now, well past curfew. She exhaled slowly, dragging her fingers through her hair, and turned the corner-
And walked straight into Bork Clifford.
Of course.
Bork was a fellow first-year in her section. Being squadmates hadn’t earned her any favor. Where things had clicked naturally with Aaric, she and Bork had hated each other on sight. She figured it had everything to do with the rebellion relic that marked her arm, the same one that branded all the children of traitors.
Bork was stocky. Thick-necked. And, in her private opinion, had a head too big for his body, something he liked to weaponise during challenges with his signature headbutt.
“Bork,” she muttered, attempting to step around him.
He blocked her path.
Of course.
She wondered briefly why he was out so late- shouldn’t he be in the dorms? But she didn’t care enough to ask. She had her secrets. She stayed out of other people’s when she could help it.
His gaze raked over her; the bruises, the gauze on her nose, the blood-stained tunic. His lip curled.
“I heard you got dropped in sparring. Again. By Tyler, of all people.”
Sloane shrugged. “I like to keep the healers on their toes. Wouldn’t want them getting bored.”
Bork didn’t smile.
“It’s a shame you two didn’t do the quadrant a favor and finish each other off. You know, rid us of the weak.”
Sloane blinked at him, unimpressed. “A crying shame, really.”
“You think you’re clever? That smart mouth won’t save you in a challenge. Or at Threshing. The dragons will see right through you.”
“No, I’m not clever,” she said, voice even. “But I’m still smarter than you. Which isn’t saying much. Think the dragons will see through that hollow skull of yours? You should be more concerned for yourself, Bork.”
She even tutted, like an afterthought.
That did it.
Bork’s expression twisted with anger. His skin flushed red. He reached for his blade.
Sloane’s heart didn’t race.
She didn’t feel fear. Not even surprise.
Just... acceptance.
This again.
She wondered, distantly, how annoyed the healers would be if she came back bloodier than before. Probably very. She didn’t want to see their faces again tonight.
Maybe this time Bork would actually finish the job. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.
She closed her eyes, bracing for the blow-
But instead of falling, she was yanked backward.
Fabric bunched in her collar as someone hauled her out of the way. She stumbled, landing hard on her ass just in time to see a blur of motion.
Dain.
He had Bork pinned to the wall in seconds, forearm pressing into his chest. His voice was low. Cold. Dangerous.
“Tell me, Bork,” he said. “Do you often wait in dark corridors to attack injured cadets, or is tonight special?”
Bork stammered, wide-eyed. “She started it-”
“I don’t care who started it,” Dain snapped. “You were about to draw a blade on your own squadmate. That’s a codex violation. And a coward’s move.”
Sloane stayed on the floor, blinking. Bork’s blade clattered uselessly a few feet away. Dain hadn’t even drawn his own.
He hadn’t needed to.
“Leave it,” Dain said sharply, as Bork glanced toward the knife. “That’s Cadet Mairi’s now. And congratulations- five weeks of flight field duty for breaking curfew and acting like a creep.”
Bork didn’t argue.
He fled.
The moment he was gone, Dain rounded on her.
“And you,” he said, voice rising. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sloane blinked up at him. “Well, clearly a lot. But if you’d like to make a formal diagnosis, Wingleader, I’m all ears.”
He ignored the sarcasm.
“You just got the shit beaten out of you in training. And now you’re picking fights in dark hallways? What exactly is your plan, Mairi? Die by incompetence or die by Bork?”
“I didn’t pick the fight-”
“Oh, spare me,” he cut in. “You poked the bear, and you know it. You’re reckless.”
She got to her feet, brushing off her pants. “Well, thank the gods you were there to recite the codex and save me. Again. Hero of the marked ones.”
His jaw flexed.
“I’ll walk you back.”
Sloane threw her hands up in mock horror. “Of course you will. Can’t have a cadet walking the halls unchaperoned.”
She stormed ahead. Naturally, he followed, picking up the blade Bork had dropped.
By now, Sloane was utterly convinced that Dain’s life was even sadder than hers. For all the respect he got as a fighter, his fearsome dragon, his academic brilliance—he didn’t seem to have a single friend.
She’d only been here a short time and already had people she could talk to. Aaric. Visia. Avalynn. Lynx. The other first years.
She had Bodhi and Imogen, too- even if they treated her like a child.
But Dain?
He’d been here three years and had no one. No one but Violet. And even she wasn’t speaking to him. Not after his betrayal. Not after what it cost.
Now the best he could do was stalk Sloane around the halls and berate her.
“You’re not helping me,” she said without turning. “You keep interfering. Showing up. Playing protector. People are going to talk.”
Dain sighed behind her. “About what, exactly?”
“If you’re not careful,” she called over her shoulder, “they’ll say I’m sleeping with the Wingleader for protection. That’ll ruin your noble little image. Not to mention your chances of getting back into Violet’s good graces.”
She let the thought linger.
It hit home. She could feel it. His pace faltered, just slightly.
“Anyone who thinks there’s something going on between us is delusional,” he snapped. “You hate me. I’m your Wingleader. This is my job. And your poor performance reflects badly on me.”
She glanced back at him. “So all this hovering is about your reputation?”
“Yes.”
“Wow,” she said. “There really is no depth to you. You’re just the perfect little Basgiath soldier, aren’t you?”
He glared. “The same can’t be said for you... unless you start training.”
She wanted to scream.
The very idea of serving Navarre- after their wilful ignorance, their cruelty, the murder of her family- felt like poison in her veins.
But Dain didn’t know that.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Charged. Bitter. Silence.