It was well past curfew at, the hour when even the most reckless cadets had learned to keep their heads down and their boots quiet. The towers slept. The quadrants were dark. The wards hummed faintly, a constant reminder that the college never truly rested—even if its students were supposed to.

You were supposed to be asleep.

Instead, you were perched high in the branches of a gnarled tree at the edge of the training fields, fingers stained purple as you carefully plucked berries from the clusters hidden among the leaves. They were rare—hard to find, harder to harvest without being noticed—and rumored to dull pain and sharpen reflexes when brewed correctly. Anything that gave you an edge during sparring was worth the risk.

Especially when you were everyone’s favorite target.

Being the general’s child came with privileges, sure—but it also painted a bright, unmissable mark on your back. Your mother’s reputation followed you like a shadow: ruthless, unyielding, responsible for the execution of dozens of rebel leaders. Parents. Guardians. Heroes, depending on who you asked.

At Basgiath, many cadets didn’t ask.

They blamed.

The night breeze shifted, carrying voices with it—low, murmured, far too close. You froze, heart kicking hard against your ribs.

Below the tree, shapes emerged from the darkness.

One. Two. Five. More.

At least a dozen hooded figures gathered in a loose circle, boots planted in the grass, weapons glinting faintly in the moonlight. Second‑years. Third‑years. You could tell by their posture alone—confident, careless, experienced enough to believe themselves untouchable.

Your stomach tightened.

These weren’t random cadets.

They were the children of rebels.

And standing among them—tall, unmistakable even in shadow—was their wingleader.

Xaden Riorson.

The name alone sent a cold ripple through you. He stood slightly apart from the others, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath the hood. Power radiated from him in the way it always did.

The group spoke in hushed tones, discussing upcoming sparring challenges, trading strategies, offering advice to the first‑years who listened like acolytes at an altar. On the surface, it almost looked… normal.

But you knew better.

It was illegal for rebel children to meet in groups larger than three. A law written in blood. A rule enforced without mercy.

Punishable by death.

Every single one of them was breaking it.

Your fingers tightened around the branch as the conversation shifted.

“So,” one of them said, “when do we finally get our revenge?”

Another voice chimed in. “Yeah. When do we get to kill the general’s precious kid?”

Your breath caught.

“They deserve it,” someone else muttered. “For what their mother did. For hanging our parents like criminals.”

The air felt heavier, thicker, like the night itself was listening.

Then Xaden spoke.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” he said calmly, his voice deep and cold, carrying easily through the dark. “{{user}} is mine to handle. Mine to kill.”

The words sliced clean and sharp.

“Anyone feel like arguing?”

Silence answered him.

No one moved. Even the wind seemed to still.

“Good,” Xaden continued after a moment. “Now I suggest you return to your beds before someone notices you’re missing.”

Dismissal, absolute and unquestioned.

One by one, they nodded. Shadows peeled away from the group, disappearing back toward the quadrants until the field was empty.

Or so you thought.

You waited. Counted your breaths. Listened.

Nothing.

Carefully, you climbed down from the tree, the sachet of berries tied securely at your waist. Your boots touched the grass with barely a sound. Heart racing, you turned toward your quadrant, already planning how to slip back inside unnoticed.

Then—arms slammed around you.

Strong. Unyielding.

You were yanked backward into a hard chest, breath knocked from your lungs as a hand clamped over your mouth.

“Scream,” a voice whispered near your ear, rough and deadly calm, “and you die.”

Your body went rigid.

There was no mistaking that voice.

Xaden Riorson.