Chapter Text
Morgana
The sunrise bleeds across the sky like an open wound. Pink, gold, and violet hues contort to form a masterpiece.
Beautiful.
Pointless.
It tries to make Basgiath look soft, like this place hasn’t torn children from their mothers, brothers from sisters. Cadets from their skin. It casts a warm light on cold stone—a lie in the form of the morning. I stand there and let it lie to me anyway.
I savor the last moment of silence before I step into hell. Behind me is a room that was never mine. No decorations. No name was carved in the bunk frame. No books or pressed flowers or soft, foolish things. If someone walked in right now, they’d think the bed had never been slept in. That no one had ever called it home. That’s the trick. You don’t leave pieces of yourself behind when you know you’ll be ordered to leave again. I sling the rucksack over my shoulder and walk out without looking back. I don’t have to. I know what I’m leaving behind.
A childhood of steel-tipped expectations. A brother who disappeared into war and forgot to return. A father who forged me into something useful, not something loved. There’s a difference. Useful things get broken all the time.
—
The halls of Basgiath are empty, the kind of quiet that feels like something died here. In a way, something always has. Later today, thousands of conscripts will flood the courtyard, hugging their families, promising to write, clinging to hope like it’ll save them from what waits across the parapet. They’re all so desperate to be riders. They think dragons will make them powerful. They don’t realize the dragons are just weapons looking for sharper ones.
Let them come.
Let them try.
Let the parapet sort the strong from the stupid. And let me be the first across. That’s the thing about being born to a man like the General. You’re not given the chance to be ordinary. You’re forged for one purpose.
Win. Or be forgotten.
⸻
The courtyard is quiet when I arrive. Only the roll keepers are here. One in the standard black. The other is a scribe in tan robes I’ve seen in the halls since I was six years old. Captain Fitzgibbons. His eyebrows lift when he sees me, not in surprise. In inevitability. “I should have known you’d be first, Morgana,” he says. I offer a tight smile. “The General wouldn’t have it any other way, Captain.”
Fitzgibbons nods once. “I assume you know the way, Cadet?” Not a candidate, cadet. A right usually reserved until after you’ve traversed the summit and survived the parapet. He’s already decided I’ll survive. Smart man. The marked rider beside him—black uniform, rebellion relic winding up his arm—stares at me like I’ve grown horns. He takes in my features, my silvery white hair and golden eyes. The spitting image of my father. Of my brother. Recognition sparks across his face, and anger swirls in his eyes. No doubt he was thinking of all the ways he could kill me once I was inside the quadrant. He won’t be the only one.
Let him try.
Let them all try. Let them come. And let them see what happens. I turn without another word and begin the ascent toward the familiar spiraling stairs.
⸻
Halfway up, I hear the footsteps of others below. Their voices. Their determination. Let them take their time; I’ll be gone before they reach the top.
The tower is bare when I arrive—just waist-high stone and wind that smells like rain. Far below, the ravine waits, ready to catch whatever bodies don’t make the crossing. I don’t pity them. If you can’t cross a bridge, you won’t survive a battlefield. Three riders stand at the edge. One holds a roll. One mutters something about over-eager candidates dying first.
The third?
He’s tall. Dark. Sharp around the edges. A rebellion relic coils from his wrist to his jaw.
Xaden Riorson.
He stiffens when he sees me. Not out of surprise—no, he’s too disciplined for that—but something else. Recognition. Calculation. He’s staring at my hair. My eyes. My face.
And seeing my father’s.
“Name?” he growls, even though he is certain of my identity.
I meet his gaze head-on, my golden eyes locking in on his onyx ones. We both stare into the eyes of our father’s enemies. The only difference is, mine is still alive. My voice doesn’t shake as I cement the growing hostility between us.
“Morgana Melgren.”
His jaw clenches like it physically hurts him to hear it. Good. I turn without waiting for his reaction and launch myself onto the parapet. The wind rips at me, stones slick beneath my boots. But I don’t hesitate. Each step was carefully calculated despite my speed—the wind claws at me. The drop screams—the stone trembles.
But I am Melgren’s daughter—Cain’s sister. And I will not fall.
—
Xaden
The wind howls through the turret, tugging at my jacket and biting at my skin, but I barely feel it. Not with her standing there.
Morgana Melgren.
She says her name like it’s armor. Like she knows exactly what it will do to me. To the shadows twitching beneath my skin. They pull tight, straining toward her as they recognize her, too.
Of course, they do.
My eyes trace the line of her jaw, the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the unmistakable platinum hair braided down her back. The golden hazel eyes that catch the light just like—
Like him.
Augustine Melgren.
I grit my teeth. The last time I saw that face, it was the General sneering down his nose at me and the others as we were marched into the courtyard—marked, humiliated, carved by his dragon-like livestock. He didn’t even flinch as they branded us. Didn’t look away.
Now his daughter stands in front of me, made in the same mold, with the same coloring and the same calculating stare that dares me to throw her off the ledge. I want to. But she doesn’t flinch, either. She looks right through me like I’m a checkpoint, not a threat. Like she already knows how this ends.
And I hate that she’s not wrong.
She’s taller than I expected. Lithe, efficient. Every movement honed like a weapon. She doesn’t carry herself like a legacy. No arrogance. No hesitation. Just cold, controlled confidence. Like she was built for this, and I hate that, too. Because I can already tell—she’s not her father. She’s not her brother.
She’s worse.
She turns from me and leaps onto the parapet, not a single tremor in her stride. She doesn’t test the footing. Don’t look down. Just moves. Fast. Precise. Like she was born on that fucking bridge. And then she’s across. Clean. Effortless. The fastest crossing I’ve seen since—since Cain.
Godsdamn it.
Even the way she moves reminds me of him, like neither of them were ever children. Like they were forged straight into soldiers. But there’s something else. Cain always wanted to be seen. To be adored. To be saluted.
Morgana? She doesn’t care if anyone’s watching. She crosses for herself. And maybe that’s the part that unsettles me the most. She looks back once. Barely. Just enough for her eyes to meet mine across the distance. There’s no smugness in them. No fear, either. Only that same quiet defiance that lived in her brother’s smile twisted into something sharper. Darker. More dangerous.
And I’m going to have to keep my eyes on her.
Even if every part of me wishes she’d fallen.