Chapter Text
From the shelter of the shadows, I watch—intently—as Violet fixes her gaze on her older brother from across the scarred wooden table that dominates the enormous kitchen of Riorson House.
Violet sits smaller than she should, wrapped in layers that can’t quite disguise how much the last few days have taken from her. Still, there’s a sharpness to her eyes that hasn’t dulled, a stubborn, defiant spark that meets Brennan’s unflinching stare without yielding an inch. She doesn’t look away. She never does. Even now, even wounded and exhausted, she holds her ground with a quiet ferocity that tightens something low in my chest.
Brennan, for his part, leans back in his chair, arms crossed, studying her with the kind of expression that blends brotherly concern with the practiced assessment of a healer who knows exactly how close she came to dying. He says something I can’t quite hear over the crackle of the hearth, and Violet’s mouth quirks in response—half challenge, half reluctant affection.
I catalogue every minute detail without meaning to: the way her shoulders draw just a fraction inward, as if she’s bracing for something that might still be taken from her; the way her eyes never leave Brennan, fixed on him with such intensity it’s as though the rest of the world has blurred at the edges, like if she looks away, even for a second, he might vanish again.
I can see it—the effort it takes for her to simply sit there, to be present, to pretend this is normal, when it isn't.
Inhaling deeply, Violet lifts the honeyed biscuit set on her plate, breaking off a careful bite, as if the sweetness might vanish if she’s too greedy with it.
I don’t miss the way her fingers hesitate before she eats, the brief pause as if she’s weighing whether she’s allowed this small comfort, or how her gaze never fully leaves her brother’s face. Even as she brings the food to her mouth, some part of her remains fixated him, unwilling and unable to look away.
There’s something fragile in the expression that settles over her features—something reverent and quietly aching—and it causes my chest to tighten without warning. It’s a look I know all too well. It’s the look of someone who has already lost once and cannot bear the thought of knowing such loss again.
The table that separates them bears the marks of a centuries worth of war councils and hurried meals, its surface carved and burned and scarred beyond any hope of repair. I can’t help but think it’s fitting that they sit there now, at a thing so marked by the passage of time, while Violet stares across it at a man she once believed forever burned to ash and buried beneath the weight of grief.
I lean back against the wall, letting the cool stone press into my spine as my gaze flicks briefly to Brennan—cataloguing him out of long habit—and then returns to Violet, who is still looking at him as though she’s afraid the world might steal him away if she blinks.
I know, instinctively, that it was Brennan, and not one of the kitchen staff, that placed the biscuit on Violet’s plate. One might normally consider it a small, almost thoughtless act; food pushed toward her in the case that she forgets to eat, but watching her now, nibbling instead of truly eating, I realise Brennan’s act was never about satiating her hunger, it was about giving her something tangible to hold onto while she faces the impossible: her brother, alive, sitting across from her at a table, inside the stronghold that should have burnt to the ground, instead of being a name etched into stone.
The kitchen swells with noise around them, voices and movement pressing in from every side, yet the space between Violet and Brennan remains taut and silent, drawn tight as a bowstring, quivering with all the words neither of them dares to set loose.
I stay where I am, tucked safely into the shadows—watchful, steady, content for once to remain on the periphery. This moment was never meant to belong to me.
All I can do is witness it.
I guard it from the edges of the room, from the places where danger has a habit of slipping in unnoticed, my presence a silent barrier she doesn’t know she has. It’s a role I understand instinctively, one that asks nothing of me except vigilance. I can do vigilance. I can do restraint and quietly hope the sweetness on her tongue is enough to keep her grounded while the past and present collide right in front of her.
My gaze drifts then, unbidden, to Violet's hand as she brings the biscuit to her mouth, the honey glistening faintly in the firelight before she takes a careful bite. I catch it the instant Violet bites down on the biscuit—how something in her expression eases, just a fraction, the tension around her eyes loosening as the honeyed biscuit gives way beneath her teeth. The shift is subtle enough that no one else would notice it, but I do.
I always do, when it comes to her.
Maybe the shift comes about simply because her hunger has been curbed, after all, she hasn’t eaten in three days—not properly—not since a very real, very lethal being drove a poisoned blade into her side. A poisoned blade that was never meant to leave a survivor. A blade that should have killed her.
Should have killed me.
The thought flickers through my mind unbidden, sharp and unwelcome.
The poison wouldn’t have cared which of us it claimed; it would have taken us both, if not for Brennan’s efforts. Brennan, alive and breathing and infuriatingly himself, sitting there now as if defying death is the most natural thing in the world. Brennan, who hasn’t stopped smiling at Violet since the moment she sat down at the table.
My gaze tracks that smile now, measures it.
There’s no deceit in it, no calculation, just pure, unadulterated joy as Violet struggles valiantly to chew and swallow the biscuit she’s now fully committed to devouring, dignity be damned.
A trace amount of crumbs glisten faintly at the corner of Violet's mouth and whilst I figure she’s trying to be composed about it, trying to pretend she’s not ravenous, not exhausted, not still skirting the edge of something far worse—her unravelling—but I know that Brennan sees through her just as easily as I do.
I choose to remain where I am, half-obscured by stone and shadow, unwilling to intrude on a moment that feels almost sacred in its unreality. Because that’s the only way to describe exactly what the situation now finds itself to be: surreal to the point of absurdity. Violet Sorrengail, alive after everything that should have ended her, sitting in a fortress that, according to official records, should not exist, staring across a table at the brother she mourned for six years while she tries—quietly—to discern where reality ends and fairy-tale begins.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this reunion will carve itself into her memory as one of the strangest moments of her life, and that’s saying something, given the last seventy-two hours we’ve both just endured—the panic, the pain, the poison, the terror of knowing, with a clarity that still sears, how close we came to losing one another.
I exhale slowly, letting the sound of it carry some of the tension from my chest. I force myself to focus on the present—on the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, on the warmth of the light glancing off her hair.
The past presses close, relentless, but I push it back, reminding myself that right now, we’re here, we’re alive, that the impossible has already happened and that everything else is just the aftermath.
For now, I decide to allow myself this small victory, a quiet acknowledgment that some semblance of normalcy still exists, even if only fleeting, even as the truth of our situation settles heavily in my chest, a weight I cannot ignore. I know that this is only a battle won and not the war decided. Beyond these walls, the enemy waits—silent, patient, calculating—biding their time until they can strike again. I know, with cold certainty, that the cost of the next encounter will be higher, always higher, and that no measure of vigilance or skill will fully spare those I care for from pain.
I stay where the shadows hold me, half-merged with stone and the quiet hum of the fortress breathing around itself. The darkness clings, protective and patient, giving me the distance I need to watch without intruding, to be present without being seen.
From here, I can see them clearly—Brennan leaning heavily against the edge of the scarred table, the weight in his posture both guard and concession, a silent acknowledgment of how close we came to losing her. Violet is perched in her seat opposite him, biscuit clutched between her fingers as though it were something precious, rather than the commonplace thing it is.
I let the scene settle in my chest, cataloging each small gesture, each shift of expression, knowing that every detail—every tiny, fleeting motion—matters. This is a moment she will remember, whether she realises it or not.
“The biscuits are good, right?” I can hear Brennan ask, snagging one from the platter that sits between them. “Kind of remind me of the ones that cook used to make when we were stationed in Calldyr, remember?”
Violet snorts softly, the sound startlingly normal.
“You’ve barely said a word, you know.” Brennan tilts his head just like does when he is trying to solve a problem. “It’s kind of creepy.”
“Watching me eat is creepy,” Violet counters after she swallows, her voice still a little hoarse from the lack of use its had over the past three days.
“And?” He shrugs shamelessly, a dimple flashing in his cheek when he grins. It’s the only boyish thing left about him. “A few days ago, I was pretty sure I’d never get to watch you do, well, anything, ever again.” He takes a huge bite of his own biscuit. Guess his appetite is still the same, which I find to be oddly comforting. “You’re welcome, by the way, for the mending. Consider it a twenty-first birthday present.”
That lands harder than it should.
“Thank you,” Violet says, her gaze leaving her brother for the first time since he sat to join her.
That’s right. She slept right through her birthday, all while I kept watch over her like a sentinel—cataloguing every breath, every imperceptible shift she made in her sleep.
I watch now, noting the way Brennan’s expression shifts—how his smile softens, becomes gentler, threaded through with a faint, painful guilt. Without thinking, he reaches out, brushing his thumb against Violet’s knuckles as she clutches the biscuit.
“Violet,” Brennan says quietly. “You’re safe here.”
Safe.
The word hangs in the air, hollow and fragile, and it twists something tight inside me.
Before Violet can react or reply, the double door that leads into the kitchen from the main hallway opens, the sounds of boots striking stone with familiar confidence filling the air.
My cousin, Bodhi, strides into the kitchen, dressed in uniform, his arm in a sling and his cloud of black curls freshly trimmed, courtesy of myself. He doesn’t bother scanning the room; his gaze goes straight to Brennan, posture snapping into something more formal the instant he finds him.
“Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh,” Bodhi says, handing a folded missive to Brennan. “This just came in from Basgiath. The rider will be here until tonight if you want to reply.”
I note the scowl forming upon Violet’s brow, knowing that questions are firing off in her head faster than she can find her tongue.
“Wait. You’re a lieutenant colonel? And who is Aisereigh?” she asks.
“I had to change my last name for obvious reasons.” He glances at Violet and unfolds the missive, breaking a blue wax seal. “And you’d be amazed at how fast you get promoted when everyone above you continues to die,” he says, then reads the letter and curses, shoving it into his pocket.
“I have to go meet with the Assembly this evening, so I’m going to disappear for a while, but finish your biscuits and I’ll meet you in the hall in half an hour and take you to your dragons.”
All traces of the dimple, of the laughing older brother are gone, and in their place is a man Violet must barely recognise, an officer she doesn’t know. The Brennan that stands before her now may as well be a stranger.
I exhale slowly.
That’s my cue.
Across the table, Brennan’s attention shifts, his gaze flicking between Violet and Bodhi with clear reluctance, as though leaving her—even for a moment—is an act that costs him something. After a moment, he gives a reluctant nod.
“I’ll walk with you,” he says to Bodhi, though his eyes have already returned to Violet, softening in a way that catches Xaden off guard. “Finish eating, okay? We’ll talk later.”
Violet answers with a small nod of her own, her focus divided—still chewing, still absorbed in the act of eating, as though the sweetness in her mouth is the only thing tethering her to the present. Gaze trailing after Bodhi and Brennan as they exit the kitchen, she doesn’t avert her gaze, doesn’t search the darker edges of the room.
She doesn’t see me shift, doesn’t register the subtle movement as I ease back, melting into the stone and noise and anonymity of the fortress as easily as breathing.
Good.
Her attention belongs where it rests now—on her brother and on the fragile normalcy of a shared meal. There will be time later for explanations, for strategy, for the weight of everything still waiting for us beyond these walls.
Reluctantly, I turn away without a sound, content to remain unseen, satisfied in the knowledge that sometimes the greatest protection I can offer, is my absence.