The first time you meet Xaden Riorson, you’re still shaking from the Parapet.

Your boots hit solid ground, but it doesn’t feel real. The narrow stone bridge is behind you, and the wind that threatened to drag you into the gorge below is finally gone. The Parapet claimed three cadets today—three out of the group you crossed with—and their absence feels heavy in your chest, even as you fight to steady your breathing.

You made it.

But there’s no relief.

“Cadet.”

The voice snaps like a whip. Cold and sharp. You barely register it before a shadow moves in front of you, blocking out the fading light of the afternoon sun.

Xaden Riorson stands at the end of the crossing platform, arms crossed, black flight leathers fitting him like they were made for intimidation. His relics twisting down his forearms catch the light—jagged, ink-black reminders of who he is. Of who his father was.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. It feels more like an assessment than a greeting.

“So,” he says finally, eyes meeting yours with that same unsettling sharpness you’ve heard other cadets whisper about. “You didn’t fall.”

It’s not a compliment.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you reply, squaring your shoulders despite the ache that radiates from crossing the Parapet.

The corner of his mouth tilts—not a smile, not really. “For now.”

You expect him to move on. To leave you standing there with the rest of the cadets still catching their breath. But he doesn’t. His eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s already decided something about you, and whatever it is, he doesn’t like it. His gaze moved over the others, his eyes narrowed.

“Xaden Riorson. Wingleader of Fourth Wing.” His voice carries just enough authority to make it clear that whatever happens next, he’s in charge. “That means your life is in my hands. Try to keep up.”

Before you can respond, he’s already walking ahead, shadows curling faintly in his wake.