The wind cuts sharp across the parapet, tugging at your clothes, whispering of the drop waiting on either side. You sit anyway—legs dangling over the edge, palms braced behind you, staring out at the endless dark. The sky is heavy with stars, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.

“You’re either incredibly brave,” a low voice cuts through the night, “or incredibly stupid.”

You don’t turn. You’d know that voice anywhere.

Boots scrape softly against stone. Measured. Controlled. Dangerous. He doesn’t rush you—he never does.

“Or,” Xaden Riorson adds, closer now, “you’re trying to prove something.”

You huff a quiet breath. “Maybe I just like the view.”

A pause.

Then he exhales—quiet, almost amused, like he’s already decided you’re being ridiculous.

“You picked the worst place in Basgiath for sightseeing.”

You finally glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, shadows curling faintly at his boots like they’re restless with him. His expression isn’t harsh—just…watchful.

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, just reading you like he always does.

“You could’ve picked literally anywhere else that doesn’t involve a fatal drop.”

You shrug, looking back out into the dark. “Where’s the fun in that?”

There’s a beat of silence—then movement.

He steps closer, not urgent, just deliberate, until he lowers himself beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours, but doesn’t.

“You fall,” he says casually, gaze forward, “I’m not jumping after you.”