Chapter Text
Traitor.
The word reverberated through her skull, sharp and damning. It was all she could do not to let the world tilt out from under her.
Not that it hadn’t already—yesterday, when she’d been dragged from the theatre and marched back under guard, confined to her chambers like a prisoner.
It had been public. Purposeful. A message.
She was a traitor’s daughter.
Now, seated in the open hall, Leora is ripped from her thoughts by a low, guttural growl. A dragon’s growl.
Every nerve in her body sparks with terror, but she schools her expression.
Don’t look a dragon in the eye. That’s what her father had always told her.
But she doesn’t dare look away as a green dragon locks onto her, its gaze sweeping her from head to toe. She would not show fear today.
Only when the dragon huffs and turns away does she finally exhale, casting a glance toward her father.
He still can’t look at her. Shoulders hunched, eyes hollow. Guilty. Not of cowardice. But conviction. Whatever he did… he believed in it.
“Lieutenant Whitethorn, you are hereby found guilty of treason against the Continent. For conspiring with rebels against the citizens of Navarre.”
Leora’s stomach drops. Around her, the crowd murmurs. Some in disgust, others in agreement. A dragon screeches from above, as if echoing the sentence.
“And your daughter, Leora Whitethorn. She has—”
“She knows nothing!” her father yells. His voice cracks. The first words he’s spoken since they were thrown into the hall. “She’s innocent. She knew nothing of my actions.”
“How can we be certain?” General Sorrengail’s voice cuts like a blade. Her brown dragon looms behind her, neck extended, nostrils flaring near Leora’s face. Ready to strike if she so much as breathes wrong. Leora stills.
If I die today, so be it.
But another general speaks. The shorter, broader man flanked by the green dragon. “The Lieutenant is right. There’s no evidence tying the girl to his rebellion.”
Grumbles rise around the room, some protesting, others uncertain.
“But she’s a liability!” someone shouts from the crowd, and the room explodes into chaos.
“A dancer? A liability? I highly doubt it.”
Dancer. That’s what she was. That’s all she ever wanted to be. Ballet had been her world, her purpose, her only quadrant. While other children had to serve—riders, scribes, healers, infantry—she’d been allowed to remain apart. Privileged. Her father’s position near the crown had seen to that. She’d been gifted enough to justify it.
“She’ll receive the same offer as the Marked Ones,” the green dragon’s rider announces. “She may enter the Riders Quadrant. If she survives, she’s meant to be there. If not…” He shrugs. “The dragons will sort her out.”
Terror floods her veins. Her father meets her eyes for the first time in hours. He nods. Solemn, resigned. And then he looks away.
“I appreciate the mercy,” he says.
What? No! He was agreeing?
“Then so be it,” General Sorrengail declares. “Lieutenant Whitethorn—death by dragon fire. And his daughter, conscripted to Basgiath War College.”
“Wait—no!” Leora shouts. Two guards seize her arms and haul her backward. She thrashes against the cuffs, fighting to reach him.
“Father! Please!”
He turns just once. Eyes full of sorrow. A small smile. I’m sorry, he mouths. And then fire consumes him.
Her scream rips through the chamber as her knees buckle. Something. Someone, blocks her vision. The searing heat brushes her face. Flesh burns. The scent. Oh Malek. The scent.
“Leora! Leora!” The voice pierces the fog. It's familiar. Hands cup her face, grounding her. Blue eyes. Ryan.
“Leora, we need to go. Now.” He grabs her arm, pulling her upright. To her right, the guards who held her lurch back. But Ryan moves fast, cutting them down with a stare of a First Lieutenant. “I’ve got her,” he growls. “Move.”
----
Ryan slams the door shut behind them, bolting it twice before dragging her across the room. Her legs barely move under her. The scent of smoke clings to her skin, to her hair. She doesn’t speak. She can’t.
The world feels like it’s moving without her. Spinning out while she stands still.
Her chambers look the same. Soft and draped in gold, polished floors, the ballet shoes scattered everywhere. But they don’t belong to her anymore. Not after today.
There’s a satchel already half-packed on the edge of her mattress. Rations, a water canteen, a rolled uniform. One she has only caught glimpses of when she would tour with her father. Rider black.
Ryan is already moving, grabbing boots from the foot of her closet, a blade, a coat. His voice is low, urgent, but it barely registers past the echo in her skull.
The fire. The scream. His eyes. Her father. Gone.
"Leora," Ryan crouches in front of her, stuffing something else into the bag. She can’t tell what.
“You need to drink this.” He presses a flask into her hand. It sloshes. Her fingers don’t close around it.
He huffs out a breath, then gently pulls it back and sets it aside. “You don’t have time to shut down. I know you want to. Gods, I know. But if you don’t pull yourself together, they’re going to throw you off the parapet before you ever get the chance to fall.”
She blinks. The words hit something. Her voice cracks. “Tomorrow?”
He meets her eyes, jaw clenched. “You walk the parapet at dawn.”
Her breath catches.
“Unless you want to die before you even set foot inside the college,” he adds, quieter now. “You need to focus. Right now.”
She finally moves. Only a little, but enough to shake her head, her hands trembling. “I don’t know how to do this, Ryan. I was never meant to...”
“I know. But it doesn’t matter anymore. They made their choice.” He stands and grabs her shoulders, firm but not cruel. “Now you make yours.”
His voice sharpens. “Do you want to live?”
She doesn't reply.
“Because if you do, you’ve got until sunrise to start acting like it.”
Her throat works, but no sound comes out. Instead, she nods. Barely holding together the shattered pieces within her.
He lets her go, turning back to the satchel. “Then listen. Here’s what you need to know about the parapet. It is about six feet wide. Feels like two when you're on it. The wind’s brutal.” HIs voice clipped as he tugs the satchel shut and moves toward the wardrobe. Leora doesn’t respond. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, unmoving.
Ryan steps into her line of sight. “You have to keep your arms out for balance. Like in centre practice. Don’t look down. Ever.”
Her lips part. “The wind…’
“Will try to knock you off. Don’t let it.”
She blinks, barely breathing.
“You’re a ballerina, Leora. You know how to balance. Trust your body.”
Something in her chest clicks. She nods. Slowly. Mechanically. Her voice is hollow. “How do you know this?”
Ryan doesn’t look at her. He’s already pulling open drawers, rifling through her clothes. “I’ve been… I…” He swallows. “I’m in Infantry.”
“Ryan?” she asks, voice sharper than she meant.
He pauses and looks at her. “We don’t have time for that right now.”
“Then what are you looking for?” she asks as he flings aside a silk shawl.
“The corset. The one your father gave you last solstice.”
Leora frowns. “The... what? Why?”
He gestures at the closet. “Dragon-scale, Leora. That corset that was a gift. Your father knew what was coming, even if you didn’t.”
She rises, still stiff, and rummages toward the back of the closet. Her fingers close around stiff, dark leather. She pulls it out. Sleek, deceptively elegant. Laced with thin metal threading. She holds it up, confused. “What is this going to do?”
Ryan takes it from her and turns it over in his hands. “It’s protection. Dragon-scale will deflect a blade. Sometimes even stop lightning. It’ll keep you safe—when you’re sleeping, training, walking across a goddamned death bridge. I don’t care if it’s not comfortable. You wear it. Always.”
“Surely they don’t encourage cadets to kill each other in their sleep…”
“That doesn’t mean they won’t try,” he cuts in. “Especially you. A traitor’s daughter? You’ll be lucky if you make it to breakfast. And always have your daggers with you. Throw it like I taught you."
A loud bang rattles the door. Ryan’s head snaps toward it. “They’re calling me back.”
His eyes soften as they land on her again. “Be smart, Whit. Be strong. Don’t rise to anything. Don’t trust anyone. Not right away.”
Another pound at the door. Urgent.
He moves to it, hands on the latch, then turns back. “The Marked Ones… they might be your best chance at surviving this place. But they’ll be watching you too.”
She swallows. “And everyone else?”
“They’ll hate you.”
Then Ryan opens the door and is gone.