A year has passed. You stand taller now, hardened by the trials that claimed so many first-years. Your grip is stronger, your footing surer. You no longer flinch when someone draws steel in the sparring gym.

Tonight, the gym is empty except for the flickering torches lining the stone walls and the man standing across from you, watching with that familiar, unreadable gaze.

Xaden Riorson hasn’t changed much, but you notice the subtle shift in the way he looks at you. Less like a fragile cadet he expects to break, and more like an opponent worth measuring.

“Again,” he says, rolling his shoulders, the black ink of his relic twisting as his muscles flex beneath his flight leathers.

You charge forward without hesitation, blade flashing toward his side. He sidesteps easily, blocking your strike with a twist of his wrist. The clang of steel echoes through the room, but you don’t falter.

He’s faster—stronger—but you’re not the same as the trembling cadet who stood on the other side of the Parapet. You’ve learned how to hold your ground.

Xaden’s blade catches yours, forcing you back a step, but you pivot sharply, sweeping his leg. He shifts, anticipating the move, but you’re already pressing forward, ducking beneath his arm and locking your foot behind his ankle.

The movement is instinctual—smooth and sharp.

And suddenly, he’s the one flat on his back, your knee pressed against his chest and your dagger at his throat.

The torchlight flickers, dancing across the shadows curling faintly along his skin.

For a moment, there’s silence.

His hand curls around your wrist, but he doesn’t push you off. He doesn’t need to. The weight of his gaze alone is enough to remind you exactly who he is—and that if he wanted to, he could reverse the situation in seconds.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, the corner of his mouth tugs into the faintest smirk, dark and sharp in the dim light.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, his voice low, eyes burning into yours.