Every year, hundreds die within the walls of Basgiath War College. It's no surprise that many are those who choose the Riders Quadrant. Dragons do not tolerate much, but neither do the ruthless gryphons on the outside of the wards.
At least...
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"What's it like at Samara?" I pinch my lips down at the bowl in my lap as I sit cross-legged on my bed. "Look at you, asking questions," he teases. I glance up to find just a tiny smirk on his lips. His eyes flicker down to the bowl in my lap pointedly and I sigh a bit. The idea of eating is making me nauseous on its own. That coupled with the butterflies in my stomach that he went to go get me soup, lecturing me about not letting myself get weak by not eating, make it nearly impossible. And then Rhiannon spoke to him while down there, which he was sure to bring up when he came back, because I shouldn't be skipping breakfast, either. Not to even mention how my throat is on fire.
A quick slash rings out as he polishes his daggers on a leather strop from on the chair he's pulled far out from the desk. He ditched the flight leathers while I was in the bath. Unsurprisingly, he looks even better in a stand uniform, with a thin shirt that puckers over ever gap between muscle on his abdomen. Similarly unsurprising is the lack of patches across is, but I suppose it makes sense. I'm not the only one who makes sure to know about him.
"I'm not playing your games tonight. Just answer me," I grumble. Once again, I lift a spoonful of quickly cooling soup out of the bowl, and once again, pause before actually bringing it to my mouth. "Wanting you to ask what you want to know isn't a game," he tells me. Finally, I drag a spoonful of soup into my mouth. "You and me? Not a game." He wags a dagger between us as he stares, then goes back to polishing with just a bit more force. "Samara is... different."
I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut at the pain and ache that follows it all the way down. If I thought it felt like swallowing glass earlier, then this is eating the stars. "How so?" I cough out, then pat my chest with a fist in hopes it'll go down. He looks up from the daggers in his lap to watch me for a moment, then sighs. "I have to prove myself all over again in what's arguably the cruelest outpost they have." I smile a little. "It's... annoying." Now I grin, almost laughing to myself. Leave it to Xaden to be annoyed.
"They treat you different?" I question, then pull in another bite. "Because of this?" He taps the blade to the side of his neck, onto the shimmering rebellion relic that snakes up his arm. I shrug, then swallow. "I think the surname does it more than the relic," he answers with a tilt of his head. "Should've taken a page out of your book and said I didn't have one." "It wouldn't have worked," I resign despite my small smile. "I know."
He sets the strop down, then leans back, long legs dangling far in front of him. "The older riders are easier on Garrick, which I'm thankful for," he tells me with an almost mellow tone as he looks toward the ceiling and crosses his arms. "But it's nothing worse than I expected, and my signet is enough to give most of them pause."
"I'm sorry." He looks down at me sharply, like he suspects I'm holding a knife to his throat suddenly, but I'm only squeezing my eyes shut to swallow another spoonful. "You know what it's like." I stare him for a moment through teary eyes. "That's why I'm saying I'm sorry." Then, I shrug, setting the spoon down in the bowl. "You probably have it worse."
