Staring up at the looming castle of Xilfer, which towered over the academy grounds, {{user}} swallowed hard. This was definitely not how he had envisioned his future.

"Don’t look down, keep your daggers on you at all times, and never—never—go anywhere near Xaden Rhysand," Violet’s warning echoed in his mind.

“Not that I have any desire to,” {{user}} thought bitterly. In fact, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Rider squadron. He almost laughed at the word. Being sent here hadn’t been his choice. His mother—more commander than parent—had forced him into it. Maybe she wanted him to succeed, or maybe she hoped a dragon would roast him alive. Considering his lack of skill, the latter seemed far more likely.

He had never wanted this. Becoming a scribe leader had been his dream. That was the path he’d prepared for, the one his father had walked before him. But, of course, his oh-so-dear mother had dismissed that as folly. “Your father’s dead,” she had said flatly. “You can’t ruin your life for a dead man.” She had delivered the words as casually as if she were discussing the weather—though from a woman famous for her lack of sentiment, what else could he expect?

And then there was Xaden Rhysand. Just another complication in an already cursed list. The son of Nilfar’s disgraced Rhysand family, whose parents had led the rebellion against Xilfer’s rulers. {{user}}'s mother’s army had crushed them—slaughtering Xaden’s parents along with countless others.

The surviving orphans were forced to serve the academy as punishment, though a rare few, like Xaden, managed to pass the entrance trials and earn a place in the squadrons. And because luck clearly hated him, {{user}} discovered that Xaden was in the riders as well. Thankfully, not in his year. That was, at least, some small mercy.

“This is your room. Timetables will be announced in the Great Hall,” his guide informed him.

{{user}} muttered a quiet thanks, gripping the strap of his bag tightly as he stepped inside. The room was spacious, with two beds in each corner and four tall windows casting light across the walls. One bed was already claimed, clothes scattered carelessly across it. His roommate had arrived before him.

{{user}} decided to unpack before resting. He busied himself with arranging his clothes, so focused that he didn’t notice the door open—until a voice broke the silence.

“{{user}} Malbonte,” a light yet sharp voice called.

{{user}} turned, and his stomach dropped. Standing in the doorway, wearing a smug, satisfied expression, was his worst nightmare.

Xaden Rhysand.