Chapter Text
2:17 p.m.
Sloane stands beside Aaric at the top of the Medaro Pass, her boots firm against the rocky ground. The sky is an endless stretch of blue above them—deceptively perfect, considering the wind up here feels like a personal attack. She squints against it, scanning the path below as more civilians break through the cloud cover.
It’s only been ten minutes since Rhi, Ridoc, and Sawyer left with clear orders: help the stationed infantry get the civilians over the Pass, keep them moving, keep them breathing.
Ten minutes in, and they already have their work cut out for them.
The untrained, the elderly, the kids—everyone trudges forward, driven by fear, sheer will, or maybe just blind hope. Though, many are already past their breaking point. Some stagger, clutching at the rocks with shaking hands. Others retch onto the uneven ground, altitude sickness taking its toll.
At the crest, wagons wait with their wheels locked in place, healers already on standby. Some hold out waterskins, others press food into shaking hands. Lynx kneels beside a woman who has collapsed, fingers pressed to the pulse point on her neck. He shakes his head at a waiting soldier, his lips a thin line. Another casualty of the climb.
Further down the path, Avalynn wields her fire signet, flames flickering at her fingertips as she lights the way through the mist. Baylor stands just beyond her, calling out distances with steady certainty, telling them exactly how much farther they have to go—how close they are to safety.
Above them, the first-years’ dragons carve slow, deliberate arcs through the sky. Sloane watches as Thoirt veers east, scanning past the Pass, toward Draithus—toward the unknown.
She wonders what Violet and the others will find when they finally reach Mira. The deadline is closing in, every second tightening like a noose, and they’re still about fifteen agonising minutes out.
The wind howls around her, but it can’t drown out the thought clawing at her chest—that they might already be too late.
“Gods, I hope they get to Mira in time,” she says, more to herself than to Aaric.
Silence.
No quiet agreement, no steady reassurance.
Which is… weird. Aaric isn’t the type to fill empty space with words, but he’s also not the type to ignore them.
She frowns and turns toward him, expecting to find him watching the sky like she is.
But he isn’t.
He’s still, too still—like he’s frozen mid-thought. His green eyes are locked straight ahead, unblinking, shoulders tight beneath his flight leathers.
Something is wrong.
“Aaric?” she tries, unease curling in her stomach.
Nothing. No flicker of recognition, no sign he even heard her.
For a second, she wonders if he’s talking to Molvic, locked in some silent conversation with his dragon. But then—without warning—Molvic dives. His massive body tucks in, slicing through the air just above them before pulling up sharply. Not a reaction to a command—something else.
Sloane’s pulse kicks up.
Dragons don’t just do that. Not without a reason.
“Aaric.” Her voice is sharper now as she steps in front of him, grabbing his forearms. His leathers are warm beneath her fingers, solid. Real.
But he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“Hey.” She gives him a sharp shake. “Aaric.”
Nothing.
“Thoirt—can you please ask Molvic what the hell is going on.” Her voice is low, sharp.
Thoirt is silent for a beat, then murmurs, “Molvic isn’t answering.”
Sloane’s chest tightens.
Molvic always answers.
Panic claws up her chest. “Aaric, come on. Snap out of it.” Her voice wavers, barely cutting through the wind.
Still nothing.
She tightens her grip on him, fingers digging in. “Aaric, I swear to Amari—”
He doesn’t move.
So she slaps him. Hard.
The crack echoes in the cold air. Aaric’s head jerks sideways, his breath hitching. Then, finally, his eyes snap back into focus.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his gaze lands on Sloane. “…Ow.”
Relief crashes into her so fast she nearly sags. “What the hell was that?”
Aaric blinks rapidly, like he’s shaking off a fog. Then his hand drifts up, fingers brushing the red mark blooming on his cheek. “Did you just—”
“Yes, I slapped you. You weren’t moving.” She cuts him off before he can protest. “Why weren’t you moving?”
Instead of answering, something flickers in his gaze—something unreadable. A sliver of urgency. Maybe even fear.
Then suddenly, he moves.
Not sluggish, not unfocused—quick, deliberate. His hands dig into his jacket, fingers closing around something as he steps forward—too close, too fast.
“Do you trust me?”
She frowns. “Of course I do. Why are you asking me that?”
Aaric doesn’t answer right away. He exhales sharply, jaw tightening as he pulls a small cylindrical parcel from his jacket. The wax seal is deep blue, unbroken, stamped with the unmistakable insignia of Dunne.
Her stomach drops.
Just above the seal, in neat, precise lettering, is a name.
Aaric Graycastle
“And what exactly do you want me to do with this?” Sloane asks, her fingers already curling into fists.
Aaric meets her gaze, dead serious. “You have to deliver it to Violet.”
She stares at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “Violet.” A beat. “Violet—who’s fifteen minutes ahead of us, near Draithus. The place we were explicitly told not to go. Because there’s an army of venin and wyvern waiting to kill them.”
“Yes.” Aaric’s voice is steady, but there’s a tension beneath it, a barely restrained urgency like he’s already out of time. “She’s going to need this.”
Sloane lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Right. And that just slipped your mind before she flew into battle?”
Aaric doesn’t even blink. “I didn’t forget.”
Sloane waits, expecting him to explain.
He doesn’t.
The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, pressing against her ribs like a weight.
Her patience snaps. “That’s not an answer, Aaric. That’s a cryptic pile of bullshit.” She throws up her hands, frustration flaring against the unease. “Try again.”
Aaric exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before locking eyes with her. “Something changed.” His voice is lower now, urgent. “I don’t have time to explain, but it’s happening now, and Violet needs this.” He steps closer. “You have to trust me, Sloane.”
She holds his gaze. She knows him—knows how he keeps things to himself, how he never says more than he has to. But right now… something’s different.
He’s different.
And then, it clicks.
Her pulse pounds in her ears as she looks at him, really looks at him—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched tight, like he’s biting back words.
“Oh, fuck.” Her throat is dry. “You’re…”
Aaric goes still.
A second too long. A breath too sharp.
And that’s all the confirmation she needs.
He’s already manifested.
He saw something.
…He’s a fucking precog.
She doesn’t ask if he’s sure. Doesn’t demand proof. Because if Aaric Graycastle, of all people, is looking at her like this—like she’s the only person who can fix this—
Then she has to go.
Now.
She thrusts out her hand. “Give it here, then.”
“Oh, fantastic,” Thoirt sighs from above. “We lasted a whole ten minutes following orders.”
“Not helping,” Sloane snaps, but she’s already staring at Aaric, waiting.
Aaric doesn’t waste another second. He shoves the package into her palm, his fingers briefly tightening around hers before he lets go.
Sloane glances down at it, frowning. It’s heavier than she expected. Not in weight—something else.
Like a choice has already been made, and she’s just catching up to it.
She swallows hard, lifting her gaze back to his. “When this is over, you owe me a damn good explanation.”
For a moment, something in his expression softens, just slightly.
Then, before she can react, he pulls her into a tight hug.
It catches her off guard—not because Aaric isn’t affectionate, but because this time, it feels off.
Quick. Firm.
Too firm.
Like he’s holding on for just a second too long.
His scent—spiced clove, warm and biting— grounds her for just a heartbeat. Then, he pulls away, gaze steady. Certain. “I know you can do this.”
Sloane blinks, momentarily thrown by the weight of his words. “Do what? Deliver your mail?”
But Aaric just shakes his head. “Straight back to the Pass after, Sloane. Promise me.”
There’s an edge in his voice now—something bordering on pleading.
Her jaw tightens, her stomach twisting. But she gives him a small nod.
Thoirt’s voice presses into her mind, uneasy. “I don’t like this, Nettle. He is hiding something from you.”
“I know,” she admits, tightening her grip on the package. “But I trust him anyway.”
Thoirt lets out a displeased snort, but Sloane doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Aaric’s gaze lingers on hers for a fraction longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he exhales sharply.
“I have to go,” he says.
Sloane reaches for his sleeve—“Wait, where—”—but he’s already moving, stepping back.
“Aaric.” Her voice sharpens, but he doesn’t stop.
Then the sky moves.
Sloane barely has time to register the blur of movement overhead before a massive shape drops—blue scales flashing in the afternoon light, talons outstretched.
Molvic.
And he’s coming in way too fucking fast.
Before she can react, the dragon’s claws close around Aaric’s shoulders in one smooth, terrifying motion, lifting him clean off the ground.
“Aaric!” Sloane shouts, heart lurching as she stumbles back, shielding her face against the powerful gust from Molvic’s wings.
But Aaric doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t even look surprised. He just tilts his head down, catching her eyes one last time—calm, unreadable, smiling—before Molvic carries him away.
Sloane’s hands curl into fists.
“Motherfucker,” she growls under her breath before snapping her gaze Thoirt. “Don’t even think about doing that.”
Thoirt huffs, her wings flaring wide as she lands in an open space away from the wagons. The impact shakes the ground beneath Sloane’s feet, and several civilians cry out in alarm. A few stagger back, gripping each other, while others scramble away entirely.
Sloane raises a hand, palm out, a wordless signal that it’s okay. The last thing they need is more panic.
Then she’s on the move, swinging up in a few swift motions, boots finding their place against the ridges of Thoirt’s back, fingers clenching tight along the rise of familiar scales.
She yanks her goggles down over her eyes, the leather strap snapping into place. Then, through gritted teeth—“Let’s go.”
Thoirt launches, tilting hard as she carves through the thinning air. Within seconds, they’re cutting east—straight toward Drathius. The landscape below blurs—ridges and valleys stretching into endless streaks of green and grey, fractured only by the glint of distant rivers.
Lynx would have told Rhi by now that they’d left—of course he would—but if Feirge is demanding answers, Thoirt doesn’t bother relaying them.
“Cath would have also realised the moment we crossed the wards,” Thoirt warns.
Sloane scowls. “Hopefully he’s too busy kissing Wingleader ass to notice.”
Thoirt snorts. “Unlikely.” There’s a brief silence before she adds, in an uncharacteristically casual tone, “Cath is… very perceptive.”
“That’s certainly one word for him.”
Thoirt hums, thoughtful. “Just because you hate his rider doesn’t mean you cannot appreciate his strengths.”
“I appreciate the strength of his breath…”
Thoirt huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating beneath Sloane’s legs. Then, with a powerful tilt of her wings, she adjusts, cutting through the wind with more speed.
But even as the world blurs past her, her thoughts won’t let go.
Aaric.
When did he manifest?
What did he see?
What could possibly be in this package?
And most importantly—where the hell is he going now?
The questions churn, each one building on the next, threatening to drag her under. But she forces them back—forces herself to focus on the present, on the crisp sting of the wind against her skin, the solid warmth of scales beneath her.
Because if she lets herself start picking at it now, she won’t stop.
And right now, stopping isn’t an option.
“We’re about five minutes out,” Thoirt says.
Sloane nods, adjusting her grip. Almost there. Almost to Violet.
For a brief, fleeting moment, she lets herself believe they might just make it.
Then, a roar tears through the sky.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Ah,” Thoirt sighs, sounding far too resigned for Sloane’s liking. “There he is.”
A flash of red streaks through the air beside them, closing in fast.
Cath.
He cuts effortlessly across the sky, his crimson wings glowing where the sun catches them. His growl rolls through the air, sending an unmistakable warning straight through Sloane’s chest.
“He says the Wingleader is ordering us to turn back,” Thoirt informs her dryly.
Sloane exhales sharply through her nose. “I don’t speak dragon, but shockingly, I got that order loud and clear.”
Then before she can react, Cath banks hard, sweeping in front of them in a controlled but forceful manoeuvre.
Thoirt snarls in irritation, forced to pull up short to avoid colliding. The abrupt stop yanks Sloane forward, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She grunts, scrambling to steady herself before muttering, “Asshole.”
She adjusts her grip, then, even though she can’t see it, throws a pointed look at Thoirt. “Still appreciating his strengths?”
Thoirt lets out a huff but doesn’t answer.
Sloane snorts, but the humour is short-lived. Her scowl returns as she focuses on the pair in front of them.
Dain pushes his goggles to his forehead, movements clipped, controlled—too controlled.
Sloane rips off her own, shoving them into place above her brow as her gaze locks onto his.
His expression is pissed. Not just irritated—full-on, barely-contained frustration.
He looks just like his asshole dad—same rigid posture, same self-righteous glare, like the universe personally appointed him to keep everyone in line. It makes her want to dig her heels in out of pure spite.
A tense silence settles over the four of them, broken only by the rush of wind.
Finally, Thoirt relays, “He wants to know what the hell you think you’re doing.”
Sloane lifts her chin, meeting Dain’s glare. “Tell him Violet needs something we have.”
Thoirt relays the message. Cath growls. Dain’s expression doesn’t shift—not even a flicker of surprise or hesitation.
“And what exactly do we have?”
Sloane considers their options.
They could tell him the truth—that a cryptic prince shoved his own mail into her hands and told her to deliver it in the middle of a battle. But that sounds exactly as insane as it is, and she doubts Dain’s in the mood for blind faith.
So instead, she says, “Tell him it’s from Dunne’s temple.”
Thoirt tilts her head, listening as the message is relayed back and forth.
“He asks what Dunne has to do with Violet.”
Sloane exhales sharply, her patience fraying. Fucking typical.
“Tell him he can keep wasting time asking questions, or he can let us save Violet.” Her voice is sharp, edged with frustration. “But he can’t have both.”
Thoirt relays the words, and Cath’s growl cuts off.
For a second, Sloane dares to hope.
Maybe he’ll let them go. Maybe, just this once, he’ll trust that she isn’t being reckless for the sake of it.
But then Dain’s eyes snap back to hers—cold, sharp as a blade.
“Give it to me, Mairi.” His voice cuts through the wind—sharp, unwavering. Commanding. “I’ll get it to Violet. You fall back behind the wards. Now. Do I make myself clear?”
There’s no question in his tone—just an order. One he expects to be followed.
Fuck that.
“Crystal,” she calls back—right before tightening her grip on Thoirt’s scales.
Dain barely has time to react.
Thoirt shifts her weight, muscles coiling like a spring before her wings snap inward. In a single, fluid motion, she twists—and drops.
The wind screams past Sloane’s ears as they plunge, slicing through the gap beneath Cath in a razor-sharp dive. A blur of scales and speed, so fast he doesn’t even have time to shift before they’re already through.
Sloane grins, the rush of it electric. “Nice one.”
Behind them, a furious snarl splits the air.
Sloane throws a glance over her shoulder, her breath catching.
Cath is already adjusting—fast. His massive red wings tilt hard, banking into an aggressive turn, his form shifting like a predator locking onto prey.
“Gods,” she mutters, slipping her goggles back on. “He’s persistent, isn’t he?”
Thoirt snorts, the sound amused despite the intensity of their flight. “Which one?”
“Both of them.”
Thoirt’s wings shift, catching the wind just right, her muscles bunching in anticipation. Then she rumbles, her voice rich with challenge—“So let’s make them work for it.”