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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"Hasn't anyone told you that a perk of being a second-year is the extra hour of sleep you get to have without chores?" a voice asks me. I look over to find Imogen striding up to my side, slowing just slightly when she meets me on the edge of a sea of scrambling first-years trying to find their places. "It's all anyone will talk about," I laugh. "So what are you doing up?" "I joined your class."
I raise a brow at her as we step onto the slope down to the main college. "If Xaden thinks I need someone watching over me, I'll lose my shit on both of you," I warn. She chuckles. "Relax," she chides. "Xaden doesn't know. I saw you sign up for it, and figured I could learn a thing or two about range if we're..." Her voice trails off before she finally pinches her lips closed. She doesn't need to finish her sentence. Hand-to-hand means nothing when venin can crumble us like a wilted flower in a matter of seconds.
"You guys didn't know?" I ask quietly as we shift down the angled split that leads straight to the flight field's staircase. "No. He'd told us once, I think, but everyone thought he was a lunatic." My grandfather. I nod. I thought he was, too, for a long time. Until a week and a half ago, really. "Why'd you sign up?" "Can't earn a bow at challenges." She chuckles a bit, but it's obviously forced. "I should've known you're a shooter."
I can't help the smile that worms its way onto my face. Imogen looks at me like I'm as crazy as my grandfather, and I don't blame her. I feel like I am. My whole body has felt light since Xaden left. He wrote me a letter. Xaden Riorson wrote me a fucking letter. Gods, I'm elated. I read it at least ten times in the past three days. Half of isn't new information, and the other half I probably could've inferred, but that's not the point. He volunteered all of it. He just gave it to me, a piece of him. No government conspiracies or war secrets, just things about him and his life. And I never realized how much I love his handwriting.
"Okay, seriously, what has gotten into you?" I look over as Imogen almost scoffs by my side, with a snagged lip she wants to sneer. "You've been grinning like you're drunk the past few days, but I know you're sober." She turns to follow a dip in the wall, ensuring no one's there. My eyes jumped to it, too. We're all paranoid. "Better question: why don't you just take him back already?"
I sigh as we step outside onto the staircase. It's blissfully empty in the early morning. The air is cool and humid, letting dew settle on my skin, which helps the headache that tries to spawn as we begin bouncing down the stairs. "He doesn't trust me," I explain simply as we reach the first landing and go straight over it. "I literally could not imagine why, either, which is what's really pissing me off, because he won't tell me. Why do you care?" "It's annoying," she tells me. "Annoying?" I offer with a translation that's a bit more direct. She glances over sharply, clearly surprised I spoke in Tyrrish. I try not to here, knowing what it could mean for me, but it's absolutely deserted out here. It felt so nice to just talk in Aretia. There's a hint of a smile on her face, and I know she misses it, too. "Yeah."
