The commons hum the way a hive might right before winter—buzzing, alive, chaotic in the way only riders with a temporary lack of supervision can achieve.

First-years cluster tightly at the southern edge of the green. Tension still clings to them like dust from the parapet, though the edges have softened now that no one is trying to kill them. Today, even the violent ones look relaxed. Mostly.

Violet sits cross-legged on the grass, sketchbook open, sunlight catching the streaks in her braid. The breeze flips the page as she tries to draw the curve of Tairn’s massive wing, visible only as a shadow against the clouds. Imogen’s sitting nearby, quietly braiding thin strips of leather together while Garrick lounges behind her, arms behind his head and boots crossed.

“It’s weird seeing them all mixed together,” Rhiannon says, nodding toward where the second-years have spilled into the green like they own the place.

“That’s because they do,” Sawyer snorts. “For now.”

“And we will,” Ridoc adds with a waggle of his eyebrows, “once we survive the gauntlet. Again. Violet, stop drawing death and come talk to us.”

“I’m drawing wings, Ridoc, not death.”

“Same thing,” he fires back cheerfully.

A ripple of noise rolls across the field—half warning, half anticipation. Xaden Riorson appears like a shadow made flesh, all controlled motion and sharp edges. The moment he steps into the commons, second-years straighten up instinctively. Conversations lower in volume. Some freeze. Others pretend not to stare.

Violet stiffens before she can stop herself.

Rhiannon nudges her ankle. “Relax,” she murmurs. “We’re not training today. Even he can’t ruin a day off.”

“You assume he isn’t going to try,” Violet mutters.

Xaden’s gaze sweeps the field, taking inventory just like always—who’s here, who’s whispering, who’s preparing to stab whom. A few third-years nod to him respectfully. He acknowledges none of them, though his jaw ticks as if he’s already calculating the amount of trouble this many bored riders can cause when unsupervised.

Dain strolls in from the opposite direction, his posture painfully straight. Where Xaden moves like a blade, Dain moves like a lecture. His eyes find Violet instantly, softening with concern.

“Violet!” Dain calls, lifting a hand. “I was looking for you. How’s your shoulder?”

“She’s fine,” Rhiannon says before Violet can answer.

Dain ignores her, stepping closer. “You shouldn’t be sitting so long, you know. It stiffens up—”

“It’s a day off, Dain,” Violet says gently, closing her sketchbook. “I promise I’m not going to injure myself by… existing.”

Ridoc whispers loudly, “She might, actually.”

Violet elbows him.

The tension between Dain and Xaden thickens the air as Xaden stops a few paces away, folding his arms, his eyes flicking from Violet to Dain with clear, disdainful amusement.