Chapter Text
Mike,
I hate to leave you with a note, but I didn’t know how else to say goodbye. You
know I’m not good at those, anyway.
I left. I can’t do it anymore. I need something more than this, and I’m tired of
talking instead of doing. I might die trying, but I’d rather do that than serve
another pint of ale to another sorry son of a bitch.
Please take care of yourself. Try to put the bottle down.
Thank you for taking me off the streets. I’m in your debt.
Logan
⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
On Conscription Day, Logan Denera thought she was going to die.
The strange part was that she had already made peace with it– not because she was brave, or because she believed in destiny or Gods or any of the other comforting lies people told themselves when faced with their own mortality.
For her, the truth was much simpler. It had boiled down to two choices: she could die trying, or she could die without ever having tried.
Logan could have stayed in Drathius. She could have remained in the cramped apartment perched above the tavern, listening to the distant sound of the sea battering itself against the cliffs every night until the sound became as familiar as her own heartbeat. She could have spent her evenings serving stale ale to sailors and fishermen and greedy merchants who never bothered to tip her.
She had a roof over her head and enough coin to buy the necessities; she absolutely could have stayed where she was, with the comfort that she would live to live the same day for the next fifty years of her life. But she knew that she would have spent every one of those years wondering whether or not she could have become something more if she’d only been brave enough to leave.
For Logan, that realization arrived on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, when she woke up to a rhythmic tapping that she knew all too well.
The roof was leaking again.
Rainwater dripped steadily into a rusty bucket she had borrowed from the cleaning closet at the tavern that she had placed underneath the damaged spot a few months ago. She recoiled her nose as she rose, rubbing her eyes as she took in the familiar scent of mildew, salt, and rust.
Nothing had changed, and nothing ever would change.
She threw the covers off her bed and looked out the small, singular window she owned, realizing that dusk was quickly approaching, and that Mike was likely expecting her soon.
Yet as she rolled her eyes and began to turn away from the window, flaps of wings caught her eye.
Logan turned, slowly, back to the window. Birds weren’t uncommon in Drathuis. Gulls and pelicans crossed the skies often, but this was unlike anything she had ever seen. They were flying in perfect formation, and they were the largest birds she had ever seen.
No…Not birds. Dragons.
Logan crossed the room so quickly she nearly stumbled over the bucket collecting rainwater. She pressed both hands against the windowsill and leaned forward, as if she could somehow pull herself closer.
There were five of them. Six. Maybe more.
The fading sunlight caught against scales she couldn't quite make out from this distance. Massive wings beat steadily against the wind, carrying them across the orange-streaked horizon.
For a moment, she forgot about all her responsibilities. She was eight years old again, skimming through books and tales about dragons and their riders, and here she was, yet again imagining what it would be like to ride one.
A smile tugged at her lips as she watched until the last dragon disappeared beyond the cliffs.
She allowed herself a singular dreamy sigh, closing her eyes to picture it for just a moment, before reality settled back in with the sound of scraping chairs and Mike yelling for her from downstairs.
She yelled a rather nasty “I’m coming!” back to him in response, letting one hand linger on the windowsill again, before she hastily pulled her dirty bar clothes off the edge of her bed.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. As if a few dragons flying overhead were going to change anything. It wasn’t like any of them were coming to save her from her miserable fucking life.
By the time she descended the narrow staircase leading to the tavern below, the familiar sounds and smells of the evening had already begun. Mike was cooking some sort of… pork.
He glanced up at her the moment she stepped behind the counter, setting down one of the large glass mugs he was drying.
“Nice of you to join us.”
Logan rolled her eyes, side-stepping him to pick up a crate of more mugs waiting to be dried before the early-evening crowd crashed in.
“I overslept.”
Mike snorted. “I could tell.”
Logan shot him a sharp look. “Shut up.”
Mike only grinned in response.
Mike wasn’t a bad man. Sure, he was loud and irritating, and his breath smelled of harsh liquor, but not bad. Mike took her off the street when she was seventeen, and he’d given her work when nobody else would. He gave her the apartment in exchange for working at the tavern, and that was more kindness than Logan had received from anyone.
“You’re chipper this evening,” he joked, reaching under the counter to stow away the dried glasses. “What’s up with you?”
Logan cast him a sideways glance as she polished a mug.
“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Just tired.”
“Just tired,” Mike mocked her, mimicking the raspy fry of her voice. He stood up, then braced a hand on the edge of the bar to hold him upright. “You’ve got somethin’ on your mind, and you might as well go ahead and tell me. I don’t like when you’re pissy. It’s bad for business.”
Logan scoffed, setting another clean mug to the side.
“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I saw something outside my window when I woke up, and it reminded me of when I was little.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What was it? Another orphaned child digging in the trash?”
Logan bared her teeth at him in warning. Mike knew better than to joke with her about that. And he also knew Logan had no issue with smacking him across the face with her towel.
“No. Mike. It was dragons,” she spat, shaking her head. “I saw them flying over the cliffs.”
Mike was overjoyed. He slapped the bartop with his hand.
“Riders in Drathius?” he said, smiling ear to ear. He reached to grab Logan’s shoulder, but she jerked it away. “Logan, honey, we’re going to be rolling in coin tonight!”
He slapped her on the back and disappeared into the kitchen without another word, the door swinging behind him.
Logan sighed and went back to polishing glasses.
Mike, unfortunately, was right. There were riders in Drathuis, and every single one of them had come to eat, drink, and be merry at the tavern.
It was an unusually busy night. She spent most of her evening taking what felt like endless drink orders, making drinks she had never heard of, and hearing from disgruntled regulars about how frustrated they were with the crowd.
By midnight, her feet hurt, and she was sporting a headache so intense she thought her head would explode. She was ready to start throwing people into the harbor.
The bartop chattered as a fist was slammed into the wood.
“Another,” a slurred voice shouted from the end of the bar.
Logan didn’t look up from her task at hand. The asshole could wait. She was too busy trying to figure out how to make lavender lemonade.
“Are you deaf? Another!”
The fisherman slammed his hand into the bartop again, and Logan finally turned to him, shaker in hand.
“No.”
The fisherman blinked. “No?”
Logan started shaking the bottle and contemplated hitting the old man on the side of the head with it. “Are you deaf? I said no.”
The fisherman threw coins onto the bartop, and they clattered about.
“I’ve got money to spend here.”
Logan furrowed her brow. “I don’t give a fuck. No. You’ve had twelve ales. You won’t be spending any more of your money here. Fuck off.”
The fisherman pushed himself upright, but Logan didn’t move. She stared him down.
He was taller than her, broad-shouldered, but Logan didn’t care. This wasn’t her first time having a face-off with a drunk customer.
“What did you say? Fuck off?” The fisherman leaned across the bar. “You think you’re better than me?”
Logan laughed. “I think you should get the fuck out of my bar.”
Logan barely had a chance to react before the fisherman reached for her scalp and, in one swift motion, slammed her face into the wooden countertop.
Logan heard the creak of the kitchen doors as she lifted her head up, touching her ring and middle finger to the blood spilling from her nose.
“Logan,” Mike warned.
Logan smiled, staring at the blood on her fingers.
“Godsdammit,” Mike whispered under his breath.
Logan launched herself over the bar, and the tavern erupted into chaos as Logan pushed the man into a table.
A mug shattered against the floor as the man fell into it, and, though he tried to grab Logan’s arm, she punched him square in the face. Once, twice, three times. Onlookers cheered, but Logan only heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Then, she was yanked away from him by the back of her shirt, forced away about ten steps, before someone forced her into a chair.
A man dressed head-to-toe in rider black.
Logan’s face paled.
Two other riders were making quick work of throwing out the fisherman, dragging him out by the arms, and tossing him through the front doors into the street.
Logan gulped.
The man was tall and imposing and impossibly muscular. He sported a scar across his lip, and Logan noticed a small chunk of his ear was missing. He stood above her, looking disappointed yet intrigued all at once.
“Are you alright?” the rider asked, though the question did not come off as kind.
Logan nodded. “Yeah…I’m fine.”
The rider nodded, furrowing his brow. “I’m going to assume the asshole deserved it, but I just wanted to make sure you weren’t injured.” He paused. “You threw some crazy punches at him. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty,” Logan said plainly. She wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe she got knocked out during the fight and was hallucinating because she couldn’t believe a rider was standing in front of her, talking to her like a person instead of a barmaid.
“Twenty, huh?” the rider repeated with a smile. He offered her his hand to help her to her feet.
“You ever think about conscripting?” he asked as Logan stood.
Logan quirked a brow. “Conscripting?”
The rider barked a laugh. “Yeah. Like, y’know. Joining the Rider’s Quadrant. Conscription day is coming up in a few weeks.”
Logan looked at the man like he’d grown a second head.
“I’m a tavern worker.”
“So? Anyone can be a rider if they’ve got the strength and survival skills. I wasn’t much of anything before I got to Basgaith.”
Logan smiled and shook her head.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but…” she glanced over her shoulder at the bar, “...I don’t quite think I have either of those.”
“Sure you do. I just saw it with my own two eyes,” he said. He stepped forward to clap her on her back. “It beats being a barmaid for the rest of your life.”
Logan wasn’t sure what to say, so she just smiled awkwardly.
The rider took a few steps back, then glanced at some other riders who were waiting for him at the front door.
“If I were you, kid, I’d think about it.”
And then he was gone, leaving Logan staring after him.
The next day, Logan hitched a ride on a merchant cart and set off for Basgaith.
⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
“Name?”
“Logan Denera.”
Logan watched as the rolekeeper, a rider with a shimmering tattoo that crawled up his forearm, scribbled her name onto a sheet of parchment already crowded with hundreds of others.
Another name among hundreds.
Another candidate who would either cross the parapet or fall from it.
A gray-haired officer with thin white eyebrows and deep lines around his eyes pointed toward an open doorway leading into the southern turret.
“You’ll join the end of the line through there.”
Logan swallowed.
This was it.
There was no backing out now.
Whatever fear remained inside her would have to stay behind with the rest of her old life.
It was impossibly loud and crowded in the citadel. When Logan took the entrance exam (and somehow passed), it was extremely empty. She figured she was in a different part of the building, or maybe it was because of how many candidates supposedly die on the parapet. Either way, it didn’t matter now. She had signed her fate and would either live or join the candidates who wouldn’t make it today.
Logan passed through the doorway and began her descent up the stairs, counting them one by one to distract herself from the thought of her imminent death. Then, after five minutes of climbing, she stopped behind a small cluster of candidates who were engaged in friendly conversation.
One of them was a tall, blonde man who carried a rucksack that seemed full to the brim.
The other two were women: one with braids that fell to her shoulders and smooth, dark skin, and the other pale and frail, with the most astonishing hair Logan had ever seen.
It was braided into a coronet braid, yet Logan realized her hair faded from chocolate brown to silver. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. And Logan was equally astonished when the same girl leaned over so she could see Logan behind the man’s shoulder.
Logan adjusted the strap of her pack and stepped through the doorway.
It took her about five minutes to reach the end of the line. She stopped behind a small cluster of candidates who were engaged in polite conversation.
A tall blonde man stood at the center of his group, a massive pack hanging from his shoulders. It was so full it looked as though it weighed thrice as much as Logan’s, though Logan’s pack didn’t have much in it.
Beside him stood a dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length braids. She smiled with an easy confidence as she spoke to the man about something Logan wasn’t paying attention to.
The third candidate was… very different from the two of them. Logan wondered if she might have wandered into the wrong quadrant.
She was about Logan’s height, yet small and thin, and her complexion was one of someone who spent a lot of time indoors. The most interesting thing about her, though, was her hair. It had been braided into a coronet around her head, yet the strands faded from rich brown to brilliant silver at the ends. Logan had even seen anything like it.
And while Logan was wondering if she dyed it, the girl leaned sideways to peer around the blond man’s shoulder, directly at Logan.
“What about you?”
The question came from the dark-skinned woman.
“Did you always plan on joining the Riders Quadrant?”
Logan blinked a few times, realizing the question was directed at her.
“Oh.” She let out a nervous laugh. “No. Not really.”
To her horror, her voice shook slightly.
“Actually, I kind of decided to do this at the last minute.”
The blond man whipped around so quickly that Logan thought he might strain his neck.
“Last minute?”
Logan nodded, yet grimaced. “As in... two weeks ago.”
The three candidates stared at her in silence for a few moments.
“Two weeks ago?” the blond man repeated.
Logan winced.
“Yeah,” she said with a single, breathy laugh. “It sounded less… insane in my head at the time.”
“It doesn't sound great out loud, either,” the silver-haired girl commented.
Logan narrowed her eyes at that.
The dark-skinned woman shook her head.
“Honestly?” she said. “Good for you. We all have our reasons.”
The blond man looked scandalized.
“Good for her? She decided to risk certain death two weeks ago!”
The woman grinned and bumped her shoulder lightly. “Hey, that takes some guts. I’m Rhiannon.”
She pointed to the blond man.
“That's Dylan.”
Dylan offered a small wave as Rhiannon gestured toward the silver-haired girl.
“And that's Violet Sorrengail.”
Logan offered Violet a small smile, but Violet seemed to be studying her face for some sign of recognition. When she apparently didn't find it, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she returned the smile.
“What's your name?” Violet asked.
“Logan. Denera.”
But Logan quickly realized Violet wasn't actually looking at her.
She was staring at the ground.
More specifically, at her and Rhiannon's boots.
Before Logan could ask why, a voice sneered from somewhere behind them.
“Don't know why any of you are bothering with introductions. This one here is a breeze away from the bottom of the ravine.”
Logan spun around, ready to tell whoever had said it exactly where they could shove their opinion, but then she realized the broad-shouldered candidate behind them wasn't looking at her.
He was pointing at Violet.
Logan snarled.
What an asshole.
“How about you shut the fuck up?” she snapped, shooting him a bird before turning back around.
“What she said,” Rhiannon added. “Focus on yourself.”
The candidate muttered something under his breath, but neither of them bothered listening.
The group continued up the stairs, the conversation fading as they climbed. The higher they went, the quieter the tower became, until even the most confident candidates seemed lost in their own thoughts.
As they neared the top, Logan noticed Violet glancing toward the narrow windows cut into the stone walls. Dark clouds had gathered overhead, and the scent of rain hung heavy in the air.
Not exactly ideal weather for crossing the parapet.
The line lurched forward and then stopped again. They were close now. Close enough that Logan could see the opening ahead.
“Let me see your boots,” Violet said suddenly. “Both of yours.”
Rhiannon frowned but lifted one foot without argument.
Logan did the same, still trying to figure out why Violet cared so much about their footwear.
The moment Violet saw the soles, her eyes widened.
The line moved forward another few feet.
“Rhiannon,” Violet said, her voice suddenly urgent. “What size are your feet?”
Rhiannon blinked.
“What?”
“Your feet,” Violet repeated. “What size are they?”
“Eight,” Rhiannon answered, looking at Violet as if she sprouted a second head.
“I’m a seven,” Violet said quickly. “It will hurt like hell, but I want you to take my left boot. Trade with me.”
“I’m sorry?” Rhiannon barks a laugh.
“Logan, the soles of your boots are so worn. Do you have a second pair?” Violet asked, turning to her as she crouched to unlace her left boot.
Logan shook her head. “No. These are all I have. Why are you so concerned about our boots?”
Violet pulled one of her boots off her foot with a soft grunt, then held it in front of her.
“These are rider boots. They grip the stone better,” she explained. She turned to Rhiannon. “Your toes will be scrunched and generally miserable, but at least you’ll have a shot at not falling off if the rain hits.”
Rhiannon's eyebrows shot upward.
“You're willing to trade a boot?”
“Just until we reach the other side.”
Violet held out the boot, and after a moment's hesitation, Rhiannon began unlacing her own. As the exchange took place, Violet dug through her pack and glanced up at Logan.
“You'll need to be careful in yours,” she advised. “If I were you, I'd go early and try to beat the storm.”
Logan looked down at her boots.
They were old, stained, and fraying around the edges, but they'd never failed her before.
“I think I'll be alright,” she said. “These were made for wet conditions. I've never slipped in them.”
She left out the part where she'd spent the last three years wearing them across ale-soaked tavern floors and slippery docks. Her boots were designed to keep tavern workers from slipping on wet floors or fishermen from slipping on docks or ships. They weren’t rider boots, but they would do.
Violet didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded and continued searching through her belongings.
A moment later, she pulled a dagger from her pack.
Then she offered it to Logan, hilt first.
“You'll need this.”
Logan blinked.
“For what?”
“Candidates can attack you on the parapet.” Violet gave her a pointed look. “And I noticed you aren't carrying any weapons.”
Logan hesitated.
She didn't like owing people.
Didn't like accepting handouts, either.
For a moment, she considered refusing.
Then Violet practically shoved the dagger into her hand.
“You can keep it.”
Logan stared at the weapon for a second before sliding it into the top of her boot. Hopefully, she wouldn't need it.
“Thanks.”
As Violet and Rhiannon finished exchanging boots, the line lurched forward.
The candidate behind them—the asshole—immediately shoved past, clipping Violet's shoulder hard enough to nearly knock her off balance.
“Let's go,” he snarled. “Some of us have places to be.”
Logan's head snapped in his direction, and she was halfway ready to put Violet’s dagger to use when Violet caught her shoulder.
“He’s not worth it,” Violet whispered to her. “Come on.”
Logan glared at the man for another second, but reluctantly allowed Violet to guide her forward. Maybe Violet was right. The more important thing was crossing the parapet, which was now in plain sight.
Logan had never seen it before, and she swallowed hard as her eyes followed the thin line of stone that led to the other side. The ravine was so deep that you couldn’t see the bottom. Her stomach did a flip, and she dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from quivering with anxiety.
She had nothing to fear. She had to try, at least. If she were too focused on dying, she wouldn’t make it.
A violent gust of wind ripped through the opening, tearing her ponytail loose and whipping dark strands across her face.
Swearing under her breath, Logan pulled a spare leather tie from her pocket and twisted her hair into a tight bun. It pulled uncomfortably at her scalp, but at least it wouldn't blind her halfway across. She made a note to ask Violet how she braided her hair when they made it across.
If they made it across.
Logan heard rumors about how the parapet weeded out most of the candidates. It was wide enough for her to spread her feet shoulder-width apart, but nothing more. She debated kneeling and crawling across, maybe lying completely on her belly and sliding across it inch by inch like a seal, but as the image of her doing that flashed in her mind, she immediately squashed it. That would only be a worst-case scenario.
Violet is as pale as a ghost as they approach closer, where three riders stand around the gaping hole in the wall that leads out of the turret and across the parapet. One of them has ripped-off sleeves (which Logan found quite stupid and arrogant), recording names on a scroll as cadets ready themselves to cross.
The other is a rider with hair shaven into a rectangular strip on his head. He leads Dylan to position at the exit, murmuring instructions to him as Dylan taps his chest with his hand. Logan quirks a brow at that.
Logan casts a glance at Violet to distract herself from looking out into the ravine and notices that she is gazing dreamily at the third rider.
He’s tall, with golden skin that speaks of long days spent in the sun. His hair is dark, almost the same shade as Logan’s– the color of raven feathers. And he is perhaps the most muscular man she had ever seen.
Violet looked ready to risk it all.
Logan gripped her shoulder in a subtle reminder to focus.
Maybe it wasn't her place to worry about someone she'd met less than an hour ago, but she did anyway.
Violet had handed over one of her boots without hesitation. Given away a dagger she could have kept for herself. She'd spent the last ten minutes warning strangers about rain, footwear, and every other danger she could think of while everyone else was focused on their own survival.
That counted for something. At least to Logan. The world already had enough selfish people in it.
“See you three on the other side!” Dylan called over his shoulder. He flashed them an excited grin and stepped onto the parapet, spreading his arms slightly for balance as he started across.
Logan watched him take three careful steps before forcing herself to look away. Watching people cross wasn't helping her nerves.
“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with the ripped sleeves called.
The change in Violet was instantaneous.
One second, she had been gazing at the dark-haired rider with an expression, spellbound by him. But the next, every trace of color drained from her face.
Violet's eyes widened as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head, and she immediately straightened, her attention snapping away from the rider and back to the parapet.
Logan blinked. That was certainly a reaction.
Curious, Logan glanced back toward the rider. Riorson…Riorson, Riorson…
The name tugged at something in the back of her mind. She had heard it before, but she couldn’t remember where. Maybe at the tavern or in passing. Whatever the reason, his name certainly spooked Violet.
The Riorson man lifted his head at the sound of his name, then stared directly at Violet. She was frozen in place, her eyes tracing the glimmering tattoo very similar to the one Logan had seen earlier, that wound up his forearm and disappeared under his uniform, only to reappear on his neck.
He was certainly intimidating.
“You ready for this Sorrengail?” Rhiannon asked over her shoulder.
Violet shut her eyes tight when Rhiannon said her last name, like that was the last thing Violet wanted her to say.
“Oh shit,” Violet mumbled under her breath.
Logan turned to Violet.
“What’s wrong?” Logan asked, quiet enough for only Violet to hear.
Before Violet could answer, Riorson stepped toward them and the two girls had to crook their necks up to meet his gaze.
Logan’s mouth dried. Logan wasn't used to looking up at people. At five foot three, most men had a few inches on her, but this was ridiculous. He could easily have picked them both up, one by one, and flung them into the ravine.
The thought was not comforting.
He looked at Violet, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, he shifted his gaze to Logan.
For a brief second, he narrowed his eyes. As if he recognized her.
The look vanished so quickly Logan wondered if she'd imagined it.
Logan forced herself to look indifferent, but Violet looked anything but. The minute Riorson pulled his gaze away from Logan, Violet and Riorson were locked in a silent battle of mutual hatred.
If looks could kill, Logan was fairly certain she'd be standing between two corpses.
What the fuck?
“Violet?” Rhiannon took two steps forward, as confused as Logan.
“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.”
“You’re Fen Riorson’s son.”
Violet lifted her chin, an attempt to make herself look fearless and bigger than she was. Logan realized that they knew eachother, or…at least knew of eachother.
Riorson drew in a slow breath, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”
Oh.
“Your father killed my older brother,” Violet shot back. “Seems like we're even.”
Oh.
Logan sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. She knew enough about the Tyrrish rebellion to understand what was happening, and why the name Riorson sounded so familiar to her.
Whatever was happening between Riorson and Violet wasn’t some petty grudge, it was rooted in history.
“Hardly,” Riorson growled.
His gaze swept over Violet, assessing her with the cold precision of a predator sizing up prey.
“Your sister's a rider.” His gestured to Violet's borrowed leathers. “Guess that explains the uniform.”
“Guess so,” Violet shot back, refusing to look away.
Rhiannon steps forward.
“You all right?” she asks Violet, her gaze jumping between her and Riorson, before giving Logan a brief wide-eyed look. Logan only responded with a tense shrug. She had no fucking clue what was going on.
He glanced at Rhiannon. “You’re friends?”
He pointed to the three girls collectively.
Logan furrowed her brow. “We met on the stairs.”
He raised his eyebrows at Logan, then looked down toward Rhiannon and Violet’s mismatched boots. His smirk grew wider, as if he found it amusing. “Interesting.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Violet asked outright.
Before Riorson could answer, the sky opens up, immediately soaking all four of them. The wind picks up, the gusts so violent that Logan feels like she’s being pushed.
A scream erupts, and the four of them whip their heads around– just in time to see Dylan slip.
Logan’s eyes widened. “Holy fuck.”
Violet gasped, her hand flying to her chest as if her heart was in her throat.
Dylan caught himself, hooking his arms over the stone bridge, trying to find a grip. He fights and grabs and reaches, but he slips with each effort.
“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” Rhiannon shouts.
“Oh gods!” Violet sounds as if she’s on the brink of tears. Her hand covers her mouth.
Logan can only watch, frozen in place as Dylan finally loses his grip on the stone completely, and he falls.
Logan snaps her eyes shut and looks away, her teeth snap together shut so fast they make a sound.
Logan’s eyes are still shut when Riorson takes a step forward.
“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?”
Logan opened her eyes just in time to see a wicked smile curve across Riorson’s face.
“Your turn.”
Thunder claps overhead, and Violet turned away from Riorson, her eyes distant and glossed. Logan wiped her wetflyaways off her forehead and dared to glare at him.
Rhiannon inhaled a shuttering breath as she gripped both sides of the opening in the turret. She looked over her shoulder at the two girls, fear swimming in her deep brown eyes. “I’’ll wait for both of you on the other side.”
If we make it, the thought crossed Logan’s mind again, unbidden, and she clenches her jaw as if to chase it away.
Rhiannon stepped out onto the parapet, beginning her journey across the soaked parapet. The rain pelted from above, and every so often, lighting cast the ravine below in a blind flash of white.
Violet stepped up, her eyes clamped shut as if to recompose herself.
“Name?” the rider with the parchment asked, cradling the scroll in his arms as his partner shielded him with a cloak to keep it from getting wet.
“Violet Sorrengial,” she answered. Thunder cracked.
The rider’s eyes widen. “Sorrengail? As in General Sorrengail?”
Oh.
Violet’s mother was a rider.
Logan realized that was why she looked so…funny when Logan didn’t react to her name. Logan didn’t know anything about riders. Names, nothing like that.
“The same,” Violet grumbled, like it was getting old.
Logan stood on her tiptoes to see if she could catch a glimpse of Rhiannon. She was about a fourth of the way across, her figure nearly impossible to see now due to the thick sheets of rain.
“I thought she only had one daughter?” the other rider, the one holding the cloak, asked. Another pelt of wind blew into them, sending rain flying right into Logan’s eyes.
Logan prayed to no God in particular that her legs were strong enough to keep her from slipping on the parapet, that they could withhold the wind.
“I get that a lot,” Violet replied dryly.
Logan watched her take another steadying breath. Then another. Her shoulders rose and fell beneath the borrowed leathers, and despite the rain plastering silver-tipped strands of hair against her face, Violet seemed determined to pull herself together.
A strange prickling sensation crawled across the back of Logan's neck, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was—Riorson. Or maybe his attention was fixed on Violet instead, waiting to see whether she would survive the crossing. What an asshole.
Another gust of wind slammed into the tower, driving rain sideways through the opening and forcing everyone waiting near the parapet to brace themselves against the stone.
Violet stepped forward and gripped the wall beside the entrance.
For a moment, she simply stared out at the narrow strip of stone stretching across the ravine.
Then she looked back at Logan.
“Be careful.”
The words were quiet, nearly swallowed by the storm.
Logan wanted to smile, but she couldn’t, only managing a nod.
The moment stretched between them before Violet turned back toward the parapet.
“And she thinks she’s fit to ride?” the man behind Logan snickered. Logan bared her teeth at him in warning over her shoulder.
“Some Sorrengail, with that kind of balance. I pity whatever wing you’ll end up in.”
Logan whirled around. She didn’t care if he wasn’t worth it anymore.
“How about you shut your fucking mouth like I told you earlier?”
The candidate laughed.
Riorson watched from a few feet away, his dark eyes following the exchange with open interest.
“I don't know who the fuck you think you are,” Logan continued, pointing directly at the man's chest, “but I don't take kindly to assholes, and if you keep talking, I'll throw your ass off the parapet myself.”
The candidate barked another laugh.
“Sure you will.”
Logan responded with a vulgar gesture that earned a snort from one of the riders nearby.
By the time she turned back around, Violet was still standing at the entrance, staring down into the ravine below.
“You better get moving, Sorrengail,” Riorson drawled.
Violet visibly stiffened at the sound of his voice.
“Go, Violet,” Logan called over the rain. “I'll be right behind you.”
Violet nodded once. She adjusted her pack, lifted her arms for balance, and stepped onto the parapet.
The rider with the parchment looked up as Logan took the step onto the platform.
“Name?”
“Logan Denera.”
“Not so fast.”
Before Logan could react, she was spun around and found herself standing face-to-face with Riorson.
Oh fuck.
Rain ran down his face as he looked her over. Logan stiffened, wondering if she was going to even get to cross the parapet. Maybe this was his way of getting back at Violet: killing a new friend.
“Can I help you?” Logan asked.
He scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. “Bit rude, don’t you think?”
Logan frowned. “What is?”
Riorson’s smirk was undeniable and chilling.
“Trying to cross the parapet before saying hello to your brother.”