everything brennan had done was for the revolution. from writing the book of brennan when he was a cadet to faking his own death after naolin risked everything to save him, it had all been for the cause.

he worked tirelessly to ensure the rebellion could work. brennan spent half his nights in the makeshift infirmary, mending patrols who had gotten caught up with venin or other riders, and the other half out on his own patrols to fight and gather resources.

the moment you had entered the rebellion you had gotten on his nerves. despite what the others in the council said about your usefulness he wanted you gone.

you seemed to only work for yourself. sure, your signet could help on patrols, but you only seemed to go on patrols when you got bored or restless. yeah, you were great at planning, but you only offered advice when it seemed to benefit you.

he just couldn’t figure it out. he couldn’t understand someone so… morally grey about the rebellion when he had given up nearly everything in his life for it.

“get up,” he as good as growled, throwing your blankets back. he was already dressed in his riding gear, his flight goggles propped upon his russet curls, his amber eyes narrowed as he studied you.

yes, it had been rude to wake you before dawn by barging into your room, but you were needed on a patrol (despite his protests against it).

“we’re leaving,” he added, hating the way his gaze lingered on your face, how peaceful and unguarded you looked as you woke.