Chapter Text
Violet
625 AU, 12 Years old
“Behave.”
My mother’s voice cuts as sharply as the blade at her hip, and though her eyes never leave the path ahead, I know the warning is meant for me. I nod, biting back the words I want to say. She’d only hear defiance in them anyway.
Colonel Aetos, her aide and shadow, walks in step beside us, posture straight as ever. He doesn’t speak—he rarely does when she’s near—but his presence is a reminder of what I don’t have. His son, Dain, is still at the outpost in Samara, and I wish more than anything that he’d been brought along instead of left behind. At least then, this wouldn’t feel so stifling.
The Riorson estate is nothing like Basgiath. Where that fortress is all hard stone and narrow halls, cold and unyielding, Aretia is alive with color and light. Windows arch wide and tall, spilling sunlight across polished floors, and the jagged peaks beyond still wear crowns of snow even in summer. It is beautiful—breathtaking, even. I want to drink it all in, memorize it, sketch it later in one of my journals. But beauty doesn’t make the negotiations any less boring.
At the far end of the hall, the throne looms—dark stone veined with silver, regal and commanding—but it sits empty. Duke Fen Riorson stands before it instead, sharp and severe, his onyx hair streaked with gray as he speaks in low tones to his advisor. Colonel Aetos joins them, his presence formal, his hands clasped behind his back as though the weight of Navarre itself rests on his shoulders.
Next to the duke stands a boy, not quite as tall as his father but he will be eventually. He can’t be older than fifteen. His hair is the same shade as Fen’s, black as onyx, his features carrying the unmistakable stamp of Riorson blood, though his face is still edged with youth. He looks restless, his gaze drifting lazily over the rows of infantry soldiers lining the walls, until suddenly his dark eyes meet mine.
For a beat, neither of us moves. His stare isn’t challenging or sharp, just… bored, in the same way I feel deep in my bones standing here listening to adults talk. Then his father’s voice thunders across the hall, pulling both our attentions.
“Lieutenant General Sorrengail,” Duke Fen Riorson booms, spreading his arms wide as though he greets a queen instead of a commander. “It honors House Riorson to welcome you into our home.”
The boy beside him rolls his eyes just enough that I catch it. When he notices I’ve seen, a grin tugs at his lips—quick, mischievous, like he knows exactly how absurd his father sounds. My chest tightens with the effort of holding back a laugh, but I can’t help the small smile that slips free in answer.
“Duke Riorson,” my mother says smoothly, her voice calm but edged with steel. “Your hospitality is appreciated. Navarre is grateful for your welcome.”
The words are polite, but I know her well enough to hear the bite beneath them, the unspoken warning threaded through every syllable.
Fen dips his head with the kind of flourish that makes his gray-streaked hair fall forward, a performance for everyone watching. “It is always my greatest honor to host Navarre’s finest.” His eyes slide to the soldiers flanking the walls, then back to my mother. “And who is finer than its Lieutenant General?”
I know that tone—it’s flatter than it sounds, meant to look like praise but carrying the same bite my mother’s reply holds. I want to roll my eyes right along with his son, but I keep my lips pressed shut.
“The king appreciates your loyalty,” Colonel Aetos adds, his voice precise, the same tone Dain sometimes tries to mimic when he wants to sound important.
Fen’s advisor leans in close, murmuring something low, and the duke gives a small, deliberate nod before answering. “Of course. Loyalty to Navarre is the foundation upon which Tyrrendor stands.”
My mother doesn’t smile, though the corner of her mouth tilts upward just enough to be dangerous. “Good. Because without loyalty, foundations crumble.”
And just like that, the game begins—the kind where words are daggers and smiles are armor. Mira would lean forward to catch every twist of it, memorizing how generals and dukes wield power. But me? I want nothing more than to slip out through one of those tall windows and climb until my fingers ache from holding rock instead of patience.
I let my gaze drift, tracing the silver veins in the empty throne, the way the light catches in the glass panes of the windows, the fine stonework carved into the columns… and inevitably, back to him.
The boy still stands just behind his father, his expression carefully schooled to disinterest, but when my eyes find his again, his grin returns—small this time, as if daring me not to laugh.
And for the first time since arriving in Aretia, I’m not entirely miserable. And though I should be paying attention to the way power shifts like blades between my mother and the duke, all I can think about is the boy still watching me from his father’s side, grinning like we already share a secret.
***
The conference room is stifling.
The windows are narrow slits that let in only thin streaks of light, and the air is thick with the drone of voices talking about grain shipments, trade routes, and the endless balancing act between Tyrrendor and Navarre. My mother sits tall and sharp at the head of the table, her words clipped, her expression like steel hammered into form. Duke Riorson answers with theatrics in his tone, his hands always moving, his voice carrying through the chamber like he’s performing for an audience. His advisor whispers into his ear between sentences, and Colonel Aetos dutifully adds the kind of comments that make my eyes glaze over.
I try to listen. Truly, I do. But after an hour, I’m tracing lines in the wood grain of the table and wishing I could sink through the floor.
Finally, someone calls for a break. The scrape of chairs against stone fills the room as the adults rise, stretching stiff shoulders, speaking in quieter voices now. I stay where I am, still perched on my chair, fingers fiddling with the hem of my sleeve.
Another chair scrapes right beside me.
I glance over, startled, and find the Riorson boy dropping into the seat, his elbows already braced on the table, his dark eyes dancing with mischief.
“Tell me,” he says in a low voice, “have you ever heard anything more boring in your life?”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Not once.”
He grins, triumphant, and extends a hand like we’re conspirators in some grand rebellion. “Xaden Riorson.”
“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer, slipping my hand into his, surprised at how natural it feels.
He leans back in his chair, studying me. “Sorrengail. As in… the general?”
“As in the general,” I confirm, my tone dry, and he smirks like he approves.
We trade a few more barbed comments about the endless talk of trade and borders, and then he tilts his head toward the door. “Do you want to sneak out?”
I raise my brows, fighting a smile. “You don’t have to ask.”
His grin sharpens, and before I know it, we’re slipping quietly from the conference room, ducking through halls and stone archways until the heavy air of politics is behind us.
The estate opens into rolling hills that stretch toward the mountains, green and wild and beautiful. Xaden leads the way up a steep incline, and I follow, breathless and exhilarated, until we crest a rise and the whole of Aretia sprawls before us—sunlight on rooftops, banners snapping in the breeze, the river cutting silver through the valley.
We sit on the hillside, the grass soft beneath us, and for a while we just look. Then the sky darkens, a shadow sweeping across us, and I tilt my head back in time to see a dragon gliding overhead, its scales gleaming like burnished bronze as it disappears over the mountains.
I can’t stop staring. “My mother is a rider,” I whisper, almost to myself.
Xaden’s eyes follow the dragon until it vanishes. “I want to be one. Here, in Aretia. But my father wants me in the infantry.” The bitterness in his voice is clear, but it fades when he glances back at me. “What about you?”
“My brother just graduated from the Riders Quadrant,” I say, pride swelling in my chest. “And my sister just entered.”
“So you’ll be a rider too, then.” He says it like it’s obvious.
I shake my head. “No. I want to be a scribe, like my father.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t argue, just nods like he’s filing the answer away. His eyes linger on me a little longer this time, then flick to my hair. “Does it always do that?”
“What?”
“The silver.” He gestures to the ends of my hair where the light catches, pale as starlight against the darker strands.
“It’s always been like that,” I tell him. “My mother got very sick when she was pregnant with me. I think it did something. My bones break more easily too.”
His brows knit. “And you climbed cliffs to get up here?”
I shrug, my smile small but defiant. “I didn’t want you to treat me like I’m weak.”
Something flickers in his expression—something softer than I expect. “I don’t think that,” he says firmly.
The words warm me in a way I can’t quite explain, and I find myself smiling back at him, really smiling.
We sit there until the sun begins to set, the light painting the sky in streaks of gold and violet, our words spilling easily between us. We talk about Aretia and Navarre, about siblings and futures, about things we’ll never admit to anyone else. And for the first time since arriving here, I feel something warm unfurling in my chest.
Maybe I’ve found a new friend.
Maybe Aretia isn’t so bad after all.