Hair stands in all directions on Xaden’s head as he slides off Sgaeyl, his cheeks burnt from the wind. Purple and blue paint the skin around his eye, a result of winning the weekend pass. His feet move with purpose, unable to stop as cadets give him sidelong passing glances.

He misses the halls of Basgiath. The smell of fear and adrenaline fills his nostrils. He misses the classes, the training, the simplicity of it all. He even misses Battle Brief and the parapet that he would walk on like he could do it in his sleep. Samara pales in comparison to the war college he never thought he would miss.

But deep down he knows, as his eyes skim the small groups of people walking by for any sign of familiarity, that it’s not the brick walls that he misses. Not really.

It’s the little beam of sunlight, his one and only kryptonite, that is housed within it.