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colormepurplex2 · 8 months

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On Wings of Mist & Memories | Oath Breaker

↳ DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader ⤜ Enemies to Lovers, Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy ⤜ Rating: MA | angst ⤜ WC: 11,632 ⚠️ Crass language, talk of war, blood, mild violence, flashback minor character death, mild sexual tension, suggestive inner thoughts

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Glossary Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies) Psion - infinite memory/recall Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies) Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields Helnite - metal ore that can cut off magic from its user

It’s not cold in the Andos Forest like in the mountains. In fact, it’s the opposite with sweltering heat and thick humidity. It reminds you of growing up in the farming villages near the Southern Garrison. Stretches of open farmland, open to the blaze of the sun and humidity coming off the ocean to the south. You haven’t missed the constant stickiness coating your skin or how breathing became harder as the sun peaked in the sky.

The constant trickle of sweat down your body and the cottony feeling in your mouth makes it hard to sleep. Your clothes are fur-lined and thick, even your boots, which are making your feet ache from how warm they are. You’d give anything for a drink of water or for Shadowsword to come back and finish shredding your clothing—the heat is clearly making you delirious.

“Goris, you awake?” you ask, trying to blink the sweat from your eyes.

You haven’t heard anything from him ever since Shadowsword left, and that was hours ago, you’re sure. The tent fell into silence, you and Goris both closing in on yourselves. Whether lost in thought—you—or trying to compartmentalize the whole-body ache from getting tortured—Goris—there wasn’t much to be said then.

But, now, after trying and failing to get some sleep, you want to use what little time you have left before Shadowsword returns—there’s no telling how long that’ll be, could be hours more, could also be just a few minutes—to your advantage. It’s hard to gauge the passage of time or where the sun and moon are without being able to see the sky. The canvas of the tent is thick, and the overhead mage lights neither dimmed nor brightened with indication.

You watch as Goris’ chest rises and falls with a deep breath before a sigh whistles between his swollen, blood-crusted lips. “Hard to sleep with the pounding in my head. Quite certain that asshole concussed me.”

“Thank you…for what you did. For trying to keep him away from me.”

He grunts. “You stopped him from pounding my face further.” His jaw pops as he works it like he’s trying to ease the tension from the swelling. “It was the least I could do.”

Silence fills the space again, making you feel awkward as you form your next sentence. “How do you know him?” There is no need to specify who the ‘him’ is. With the way Goris shifts uncomfortably under his shadow bonds, you can tell he was expecting you to question him about it eventually.

You’re not sure he will answer you with the pregnant pause he allows to settle between you. The swelling in his face is getting worse, his left eye is completely swollen shut, and there is a weird bend in his nose that wasn’t there before. You watch as he continues to shift, flexing his fingers where they rest on his thighs and rotating his ankles, the heel of his boot drawing ruts in the dirt.

Goris has always been kind to you, if a bit standoffish in a broody sort of way. You’re sure he fancied General Marvick on a deeper level than just as his commanding officer. He’s not an unattractive man. His auburn hair is braided tight to his skull and dangles down his back. His eyes have an amber hue, not quite brown but not orange either. You think, in another life, one without wars and violence, he and Marvick would have made a great couple.

Thoughts of Poli have you pressing your lips into a thin line. Now isn’t the time to linger on thoughts of the dead. You need answers, information, something you can store in your arsenal for later use. The more you know about Shadowsword—the exiled fucking Prince of the Golden Kingdom of Bolas—the more chance you have of getting out of here alive and with at least some of your dignity intact.

“I taught him how to wield a blade,” Goris finally says, his voice low but carrying to you in the quiet of the tent. “When he was just a boy, I was the weapons master at the palace. I was there the day his Signis manifested, and the day he bonded with his dragon. I’ve known him for a long, long time.”

That explains the familiarity Shadowsword showed Goris. It’s clear they had a bond. You don’t work so close with someone for an extended period and not grow close to them. Your heart threatens to squeeze tight as you think about your own time spent so close to someone—you shove that feeling away again before it can take hold.

“How do we get out of here?”

Goris grunts a laugh that turns into a pain-filled cough. His breaths wheeze as his coughing tapers off. “I don’t think there is any getting out. Not for me, at least.” The words are spoken solemnly. “Look at me,” he commands, embodying the commander that he is. “No matter what he does, you remember your training. You may not have learned swords and shields, girl, but you can fight just as well without them. Use your words, mind, and body if you have to…you’ve been trained for this. Don’t let him win.”

The one amber-hued eye you can see glints in the mage lights as he stares you down until you give one quick downward jerk of your chin. May the wings of death be swift if ever I let loose my tongue. You repeat the Psion mantra that was hammered into you from day one of your training. Goris is correct. You may not know how to swing a sword, but you know the mind is a far sharper weapon anyway.

You have little time to think about that or ask Goris for more information. A gruff voice draws your attention to the tent's flap momentarily before it’s drawn aside, and Shadowsword steps in. It’s a bit surprising to see him not wearing his armor. You were sure the gold and iron were what made him seem larger than life, but you now realize he’s just as intimidating without it.

Black hair, wet from sweat or a bath, covers his forehead and curls around his ears. It’s not slicked back like yesterday when he took his helmet off. Maybe it was the shock, but you don’t remember seeing the small metal jewelry adorning his mouth or the whole sleeve of ink covering his right arm. He looks like an entirely different—but no less dangerous—person.

He’s wearing a light linen top with the sleeves ripped off and the ties at the neck undone enough that you can clearly see the shadowy depth between the muscles of his pecs. As he moves into the small space, the shirt breezes open enough that you catch a glimpse of black curling from his left peck to over his shoulder. But, the fabric bunches and moves as he crosses his arms over his chest, obscuring it before you can decipher what it is.

“Good morning, friends.” The cheerfulness in his voice doesn’t fit the way he’s standing there, feet shoulder-width apart, arms banded over his chest, hips slightly tilted forward. His stance screams predator, while his tone offers up what you know is undoubtedly a false sense of security. You can already tell it will be tricky to navigate around this man. He’s cunning, dangerous, and completely removed from what you’re used to—that much is clear.

“You don’t get to call me friend, Jeon, not after everything you’ve done,” Goris harumphs.

Shadowsword swings around to face him. You can’t see his expression, but the confusion on Goris’ face makes you curious. “Have you ever thought to stop and ask any questions, Rit? Or are you just mindlessly following and believing anything and everything that comes out of my father’s mouth? You know, I always thought you were the smart one, someone that might at least be curious enough to do his due diligence regarding people he cares about. But, maybe you never did care as much as it seems.” Those thick, broad shoulders push up in a shrug before he reaches back and pulls two shiny, metal, circular collars from where they were tucked against the small of his back, hooked into a holster you hadn’t noticed before.

“I-is that…are those Helnite collars?” Goris chokes out the question, his confusion replaced with wild panic.

“Just a precaution, Rit. You understand, don’t you?”

Before Goris can respond, Shadowsword crouches before him and swiftly clamps one of the collars around his neck. The sound he makes can only be described as a wail of mourning. He thrashes so violently against the tent pole that the whole structure sways as he continues to bellow and curse.

“Did he say Helnite?” you whisper. Despite how loud Goris is, Shadowsword still seems to hear you. He pivots where he’s crouched before Goris. Those dark, calculating eyes appraise you. A new wave of sweat breaks out across your brow and down your neck, competing with the chills working their way down your body as that look alone confirms your fear.

Helnite is the only thing in all of Filasdurn that can cut off a magic user from their power. The glittery silver ore is mined in Lork, the land where dragons supposedly originate from. No one knows more than that, as travel to and from Lork is forbidden, thanks to a centuries-old peace treaty between them and The Golden Kingdom of Bolas.

When Helnite is smelted down, it can be forged into weapons or imprisonment implements. When formed into a completed circle, it acts as an instant castration of any and all power. The use of it on innocent humans has been outlawed for decades. It’s been limited to being only used on criminals or Brutes in the wild that need to be caught for gentling so they can bond.

You’ve never been subjected to Helnite, with it being outlawed and you not being a criminal and all that, but you’ve seen the effects of it. It’s different for each magic wielder. The magic between a Mave and their Reaver is soul-deep—which is why when one dies, the other does, too. Right now, with that collar around his neck, Goris has been completely cut off from Ripley. It’s been explained to you that it feels like a piece of your soul is literally missing, the pain immense and full of dark thoughts—death without dying. It can leave lasting, unseeable scars, even after it’s removed and the connection re-established.

As for other magic users, such as yourself, it’s said to feel like—the collar snaps into place, your mind instantly goes blank, and you cannot finish your internal thoughts. Your chest rises and falls in rapid succession, the air wheezing from your lungs. The metal burns where it touches your skin, setting an instant ringing in your ears. A thick, cottony feeling pulses through your head, like the beginnings of a migraine.

“You’re going to kill her!” Goris yells.

“Is it too much?” Shadowsword asks. His voice is soft, almost sounding like he really cares.

You blink to clear your vision, and he slowly comes into focus. There is concern on his face as he kneels on one knee beside you. He’s close enough that you can smell the soft, clean scent of soap coming off of him. If your arms weren’t bound to your sides by his shadows, you wouldn’t have to reach far to touch his face. The sudden urge to smooth your fingers over his furrowed brow has your fingers twitching.

“If I say ‘yes’,” you have to pause to think, “will you take it off?” Your voice warbles, and your tongue feels too thick. It’s weird to have to think of how to form words. The effects of the Helnite impact everything. For someone like you, that means all your cognitive functions as well. It’s a weird sensation, feeling like your thoughts must slide through thick mud before they can form.

“Helnite isn’t typically used on Psions,” he says as if you don’t already know that. Though, you’re not sure if you do? Everything feels so uncertain, like you know nothing about anything but also still know everything all at once. It’s disorienting. “I was told it should be okay. And it’ll only be until you agree to cooperate.”

Your lips twitch, and you open them to respond, just for them to slide closed again. You shake your head instead, trying to tell him that won’t ever happen. He’ll get no help from you.

“You’re going to kill her!” Goris says again, his voice cracking, hoarse from screaming.

“Ripley is fine! I’m not going to kill your Reaver. I wouldn’t do that.” Shadowsword glares over his shoulder at the still-struggling man.

“Not Ripley, you idiot. Her!” He jerks his head in your direction. “That’ll destroy her! Helnite shouldn’t be used on a Psion of her caliber! She’s as good as dead if you keep it on!” Goris yells, sucking in air between his raging words. He’s still thrashing, rattling the canvas all around. “She’ll become a shell of a human, suck the life right out of her! She needs her magic more than any of us!”

Shadowsword’s glare softens out to a slight frown. “There’s no real proof of that. The archives are just full of speculation.” The roar of a dragon rings through the air somewhere outside the tent, and Goris screams along with it. “Fucking hells,” Shadowsword curses, pushing to his feet and throwing back the tent's flap. “Get her back under the shield, now!”

“W-what?” you try to ask them what’s going on, but the question only comes out as a single word instead of a complete sentence.

Just as abruptly as it began, Goris’ and the dragon’s cries stop. Thick pants fill the air, Goris trying to heave in air. His face is a deep scarlet, nearly purple from how long he was screaming without breathing. “Fuck. You.” Tears cascade down his ruddy cheeks, and his mustache quivers as he chokes back sobs. “You’ll pay for this, Jeon.”

This is the second time Goris has used Shadowsword’s real name—his real surname, at least. It’s not lost on you. Or maybe it is. You’re still unsure if the information and realizations are filing away correctly in the thick fog filling your mental spaces. What was once an infinite space resembling a placid lake that you could quickly dip into for recall is now more of a boggy marsh that threatens to overwhelm and drag you down each time.

“You,” Shadowsword stabs a finger toward Goris, “shut up before I gag you. Someone will be in shortly with some food. Try not to be an asshole to them, or you’ll go without. We’re not done, you and I. There’s still a whole lot we need to talk about, Rit. But, it’ll have to wait.” He moves toward you. “Fuck!”

The shadows holding your arms and chest fade away, leaving you to list to the side heavily. You manage to catch yourself before you hit the dirt. “My…head,” you whisper, bringing your other hand up to clutch at your temple.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck!” He continues with a litany of curses as he stoops down and grips you around the waist before hauling you up and over his shoulder.

“Agh!” Your world spins, and your stomach threatens to heave up its nonexistent contents. “Please,” you slur, tongue feeling thicker than ever.

As Shadowsword pushes through the loose tent flap, you get your first lungful of fresh air since being brought here. The inside of the tent was far more stifling than you imagined. Though the air outside is still warm, the sweat covering your face and neck begins to wick away by the gentle breeze making the leaves on the surrounding branches of the trees whisper and dance.

“Park!” Shadowsword yells as he carts you off toward a line of what looks like work tents. All their sides are open, revealing various workstations. You spot a loom and a weaver cart before he spins on his heel, and your view blurs. “Park! Where the fuck is Park?”

“What is it?” snaps a delicate voice from back toward the work tents. “Stop screaming. I can hear you just fine. Gods know it’s not like I’m busy trying to fulfill the orders you already dropped on me this morning.” Whoever is speaking continues to grumble as they draw closer.

Shadowsword spins again, making you convulse on his shoulder with a dry gag. “Those Helnite collars I had you make. You said they can’t be taken off unless you do it. I need you to do it.”

“Well, that was quick. How did you manage to fuck that up?” they quip, but the tone is teasing more than anything.

“Shut up and go. Hurry!”

You try to steady your breathing, pulling in air through your nose and pushing it out between your dry lips. If he doesn’t put you down soon, you feel like you really will be sick.

The smells of hot metal and ash roll over you as Shadowsword steps into the shade of one of the tents. There isn’t much you can discern from your perch over his shoulder, and lifting your head to look around feels impossible.

“Lay her over here.”

As Shadowsword slides you off his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the man standing on the other side of the cleared work table you’re being lowered onto. He’s wearing a leather apron, similar to the ones you’ve seen smiths wear. The soot and ash smears on his hands and face lend to that even more. With his soft features, kind eyes, and brown hair kissed with golden highlights, you think he’s more beautiful than handsome. A startling contrast to the harshness of the forge glowing red behind him.

“You said the Helnite would work on the Psion,” Shadowsword growls at the other man, posturing aggressively with his hands braced on the table by your hip.

Those soft eyes take on a fierceness that fits more with a metal worker. “I said, in theory, it would work. And well, it clearly has worked.”

Shadowsword jerks up a finger, jabbing it at the man across the table. “It’s practically turned her into an invalid. You said it would only limit her ability to read magical signatures and retain new memories.”

“I also told you it would depend on her strength in ability. You refused to let me in the tent to see her runes, so it was all guesswork, you arrogant prick. You wouldn’t even tell me how big it was,” Park gestures animatedly at your chest, where your tunic has fallen open slightly to reveal the top half of your rune and your breasts, “it’s massive! Just because you feel possessive over—”

“Just shut up and take it off! Fucking hells, Jimin, you can berate me more once I know I haven’t ruined my chance at getting what I need.”

“You mean once you know that you haven’t ruined your new toy,” Park—Jimin—grumbles as he leans over the table, and his eyes, once again soft, meet yours. You blink lazily at him, trying and failing to filter through and latch onto their conversation. You know there are significant bits you should be retaining, but they’re like grains of sand slipping between your fingers.

Jimin slides a finger between your skin and the collar, working it around until he’s nodding and hurrying away from the table. The short moment his finger was between your neck and the band felt like a drink of cool water, the heat from the metal subsiding substantially.

“How long is it going to take?” Shadowsword questions.

The reply comes from a distance, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking together. “Not long. The Helnite can only be removed using a special cutter and must be imbued first. You’re lucky I have the right tools for this.” Coming closer, he says, “You should really get her some better clothes suited for the warmth here. The heat is making her even more muddled.”

“I’m such an idiot. I got one of the most valuable people in existence just to nearly kill her,” Shadowsword grunts under his breath, you barely catching the words. “Just get it done so I can,” he says louder for the other man to hear.

Jimin fingers the metal collar again, pulling it as far from your skin as he can to slip the curved edge of a pair of clippers under it. “The shock might make her pass out,” he mumbles, bracing himself against the table as he grips the long handles of the tool.

The collar tugs on your skin as he applies force, the Helnite groaning under the pressure of the clipper. There is a distinct sound of metal screeching as it tears, and relief floods your system. Your senses buzz, the sensation growing until you feel like you’re on the verge of drowning.

The air in your lungs isn’t enough. Your back arches off the table. You try to cling to the tiny tendrils of reality surrounding you, but your consciousness is swept away in the rush, sucking you into a numb, static-filled state as your mind fights the sudden maelstrom of information.

🖤🖤🖤

Jungkook

“Gods, I really am an idiot,” Jungkook grumbles to himself for what feels like the thousandth time since he laid your unconscious form on the pile of blankets and furs he uses as a bed in his tent. He sits across from the bed in a low-slung camp chair, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

In all his years, he’s never nearly botched something so thoroughly. He knew the instant the Helnite clicked into place around your neck that he royally fucked up. The vibrant fire in your eyes that he had come to seek out anytime he was in your space instantly dimmed.

He could barely think over the panic that held his chest in an iron grip. It didn’t help that Rit wouldn’t shut up, confirming what he already knew—that the Helnite would ruin you if he didn’t do something about it quickly.

The fact he had disregarded Jimin’s insistence on seeing your runes to be sure the Helnite wouldn’t hurt you is something Jungkook hasn’t stopped kicking himself over. He might have avoided this whole fiasco if he had not been so obsessed with you and consumed with this ridiculous possessiveness.

None of this is going to plan at all. Trusting Ulgrin was his first mistake. He should have known there were things that Ulgrin was keeping from him. Most important among those is that Marvick was holding one of the, if not the most powerful, Psion in her employ. He would wager to guess that even his father is unaware of your potential; otherwise, you’d have been under his thumb instead.

Thinking of Marvick makes his stomach twist and knot. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. He never wanted her to die, not by his sword, at least. Though, he’s not even sure she did die by his sword. The timing was too close between the moment Lowren crashed into the side of the mountain and his sword cleaving into her neck. Either blow could be attributed to her falling.

Neither was supposed to happen. According to Taehyung, Lowren caught a bad downward draft because of the storm kicking up outside, and after he broke away from engaging with Hoseok’s dragon, Rubel, his wing was clipped, and he went down hard. It’s never easy hearing or watching another Mave or Reaver take a fatal blow, knowing the bond will kill them both. It makes Jungkook realize just how precious that bond is and how easy it would be for someone to take him out simply by targeting his own dragon.

You’ve been out for hours now, and the fact that Jungkook doesn’t want to leave you in here unattended and doesn’t want anyone else to take over watching you means he’s shoved off most of his responsibilities onto Yoongi and Namjoon. They’re both in his inner circle. They know easily as much as he does about what must be done. If it weren’t for his friends, all six of them, he knows this camp wouldn’t function as smoothly as it does. For a rebel encampment, it resembles a well-oiled military station pretty well.

Jungkook’s attention jerks to you when you moan softly. He watches as your brow pinches and your lips turn down in a barely-there frown. It’s curiosity that has him pushing up from his camp chair and approaching the bed. Your eyes flicker behind your closed lids, frantic. It looks like you might be having a nightmare.

Sweat glistens on your brow, and he can see how it shines along your neck and the small part of your chest exposed from where he just had to cut the ties on your top. Jimin said you needed cooler clothes, the heat not helping what the Helnite did to you. He wonders if you might recover and wake up quicker if you cooled off.

Slowly, Jungkook settles onto the bed beside you. His knees press into the thick layers, shifting your hips slightly as his weight sinks in. With timid motions, he pinches the loose flap of your tunic and begins to pull it open slowly. Just as the more significant swath of your rune that spreads over the tops of your breasts comes into view, you jerk a hand up and slap his hand away.

“What are you doing?!” you croak, scrambling away from him until you flip off the edge of the bed, your legs flying into the air. “AH!”

“Oh, shit! Are you okay?” Jungkook launches across the bed and tries to help you sit up, but you just scream and frantically start swatting and kicking at him. “Okay, okay! Stop! I’m just trying to help you!” One of your boots connects with his jaw, and he jerks back, his ears ringing and his vision blurring. “Fucking hells,” he groans.

“I’ll gut you!” you snarl, brandishing a very familiar knife. The small, leather-hilted dagger he usually keeps under his pillow waves in the air before him, clutched in your trembling hand.

It’s kind of cute the way you’re threatening him. He knows he could quickly disarm you with his shadows and a simple thought. But, erring on the side of caution, he doesn’t want to scare you any more than you already are. Holding his hands up and out to either side, he rocks back onto his heels and slowly sits on the ground a few feet from you.

“Sorry. That probably looked terrible, didn’t it? I wasn’t trying to…well, I was, but not like that. I was worried you were too warm, and it was affecting your ability to recover from the Helnite.”

Your other hand goes up and circles around the front of your throat. Relief sags your shoulders when you feel the collar is gone. The only thing that remains is a slightly raised line where your skin was mildly blistered from the short time the Helnite was on.

“Why did you take it off?” The suspicion is evident in your tone, accompanied by the narrowing of your eyes and the steadying of the blade in your hand.

His lips twitch. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I should have done more research, but I was blinded with desperation and—er, I’m just sorry, okay? I had it removed as quickly as I could because I realized I’d made a mistake.”

Disbelief clouds your eyes. He doesn’t blame you. He wouldn’t believe himself either. It sounds like a trick, a farce to get you to trust him when you have every reason not to.

“You killed General Marvick and Captain Krut. You’re a rebellious, murderous monster. It’d be reckless of me to believe anything you say.”

“Ulgrin Krut was a traitor, both to me and to the Crown.” Not like pointing that out is going to make it any better. “And Poli…it wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he sighs, repeating his earlier thoughts. “Something happened with Lowren and…” he trails off, his shoulders pushing up in a sad shrug. “I wish I could take it back.”

That seems to deflate you a bit. Your chest sinks as you blow out a breath. Jungkook watches as your tongue swipes over your cracked lips. “What do you plan to do with me? What about Colonel Goris?”

“Well,” he slowly lowers his hands to rest on his bent knees, “Rit will remain bound in Helnite for now. He’s too volatile for me to let him roam free without it, but I plan to move him to a place that’s closer to Ripley so they can at least see one another, and it’ll be less likely that she tries to escape again.”

“So, you really are as cruel as they say you are,” you state plainly. “Might as well kill him. It would be the greater mercy.” He knows it probably seems that way. But, with how this conversation is currently going, he’s hopeful you’ll hear out everything else he has to say…perhaps change your mind on how you see him. “And for me?”

“You’ll be free to roam the encampment, no Helnite. Though, you will be watched and warded closely. If you try to make it beyond the outlying sentries, they have been instructed to prevent you from leaving…at all costs.” That has your hackles rising again, so he quickly presses on. “I don’t want to treat you like a prisoner, but I have a pretty good idea of what’s churning inside that head of yours. You think you know who I am, what I’ve done, and how I’m just a power-hungry son blinded by his need to dominate. All I ask is you listen, hear what I have to say about the last ten years. Hells, use your ability on anything you need…even me—“ you gasp, and he assumes due to the fact you know that using your Psion ability on another living being is strictly forbidden and goes against all the oaths that you’ve ever taken “—if you have to so you know the truth.”

“I’m not an oath breaker like you,” you sneer before dropping your hand, the dagger still gripped tight but with the tip now resting on the ground. “If you think I’ll tell you all the military secrets and information I am privy to, you can think again. I’ll read whatever objects you want me to. I’ll even listen to whatever bullshit story you want to tell me. But I won’t betray Poli by giving you everything I know, no matter what you say or do to me.” The promise comes easy, but for some reason, it tastes bitter on your tongue.

🖤🖤🖤

The only reason you’re agreeing to even listen to him is because you can’t shake what Goris said to you earlier. Use your skills, whatever you must, to get free, even if that means offering him your ear while still plotting his demise. Who knows, maybe you can learn something valuable.

“Can I have my dagger back, now?” Shadowsword asks, one of his brows quirking.

“I think I’ll keep it,” you state, fitting it into the holster in the top of your boot. It’s a bit bigger than the dagger you usually keep there, but the hidden sheath holds it well enough.

Shadowsword nods toward a changing screen on the other side of the tent. “Would you like something lighter to wear? Perhaps something to eat and drink as well?”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to refuse his hospitality, but with the subtle burning around your eyes from sweat and how your chest hollows each time you drag in a too-warm breath, you decide to bite back the tart reply instead. “That would be great, thank you.”

He moves slowly as if he’s scared of spooking you. You watch as he gains his feet, his linen shirt falling open even more than it did earlier in the tent with Goris. Instead of looking away, you focus intently on making out the splash of black on his chest. It’s definitely the silhouette of a dragon, its head almost centered on his chest, its body covering his entire pec and disappearing over his shoulder.

You’ve seen plenty of Mave’s Signis marks, but never one so big or dark. Most marks are a good indicator of someone’s ability, a reflection of their inner self and their bond to their Reaver. There are other peoples, like yourself, who have different kinds of markings that denote their specialties. The runes on your chest mark you as a Psion. Though every Psion has their own unique marking, it’s always in the same place and the same color. The bigger the mark, the more innate ability one is said to have.

Noks, the bulk of the military foot soldiers, also have their own indicators in the form of red lines slashed diagonally across their cheeks. It’s said the red signifies the blood of battle and helps them channel their rage. You’ve seen them in action, so focused that even grievous wounds won’t stop them. The only way to keep a Nok from gutting you is to gut them first, and even then, you probably need to take their head off as a secondary precaution.

You clasp the front of your tunic closed the best you can as you stand up, only wavering slightly as lightheadedness washes over you. It’s been far too long since you had something to drink, and the heat is nearly unbearable. You push yourself to focus on crossing the tent to the changing screen, one step closer to hopefully getting that drink he’s offered.

“There’s a change of clothes behind the screen, a blouse, and some breeches. It’s the best I could find in something size appropriate. We don’t have many females around here, and the ones we do have more often than not wear fighting leathers, so it was slim picking for non-battle gear.”

Stepping around behind the changing screen, you realize with the way the lights are positioned overhead if he stays there, then he’ll be able to see your shadow in full as you change. You chew your bottom lip, contemplating asking him to afford you some privacy, but as Goris reminded you earlier, the body is just as much a weapon as a blade.

A short table sits off to the side, a shallow basin of water and a cloth sit beside a pile of folded clothes. “Thank you again,” you offer, anxiously cutting your eyes toward the screen. You can’t see him through the panels, not even a flash of his shadow, but you can feel his eyes locked on your form as you slowly shrug out of your ruined tunic.

It feels good to have the thick wool top off. The air in the tent is mildly warm but nonetheless refreshing now that your skin has a chance to breathe. Glancing at the screen, you slip the dagger from your boot and tug them off. You can still feel those eyes on you. So, as much as you want to shuck your fur-lined pants quickly, you take your time sliding them over your hips and down your legs, arching your back, and creating the perfect silhouette.

Keeping your eyes trained on the central panel of the changing screen, you pick up the cloth and dig it into the cool water in the basin. Your eyes flutter shut, and you try to suppress a groan of relief as you press it to your neck and swipe away the accumulation of sweat and grime, but something between a moan and a sigh slips out. A smile pulls at your lips as you hear a throat clear on the other side of the screen—so, he’s listening just as much as he’s watching. It’s tempting to continue with the show to eke out as much advantage as you can, but the rumble of your stomach has you tossing aside the cloth in favor of grabbing the clothes.

The breeches on the table are thin dark blue cotton, molding to your legs and ass once they’re on. They’re infinitely cooler and tuck nicely into the tops of your boots. You replace the dagger and then pick up the blouse. It’s a mossy green color with a cinched, banded waist that gathers with corset-like ties down the front. You purse your lips, giving the blouse a once over before pulling it on and securing the ties. It’s far more flattering than you anticipated, accentuating all the right areas.

There is a small commotion on the other side of the changing screen; hushed words are exchanged, and the distinct clinking of dishes. You step close and peer around the edge of the paneling, catching a glimpse of a smiling man in a rose-colored apron tucking a hand towel over the top of the apron and pointing to something on the large platter sitting on the table opposite the bed.

“I smoked the cheese just this morning, and those are fresh apples right off the trade cart. You let her eat before you touch anything,” the finger that was pointed at the table swings to wag in Shadowsword’s direction. “Just because she thinks you’re a beast doesn’t mean you have to try and prove her right. This could be our last chance at—oh, hi!”

You hadn’t realized you were leaning so far out beyond the edge of the screen. Embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you school your features before stepping out fully and giving the man a tight smile. “Hello.”

“Out,” Shadowsword shoos the man toward the tent opening. “Go.”

“Remember what I said, don’t make me sic Hoseok on you for being disrespectful!” the man spouts even as Shadowsword is pushing him out, both laughing lightly.

It’s interesting, maybe even a little surprising, to see such genuine lightheartedness in a place that’s been notoriously dubbed a blight of darkness on the kingdom for the last decade. You never imagined being in the rebel encampment, much less that the encampment would be so…normal—drab even.

“Please, sit, have as much as you want.” He gestures to the wooden table lined on both sides with benches. The tent is large, similar to standard war command tents you’ve been inside. The bed you woke up on is farthest from the entryway, the changing screen to the side of that, and the table closest to the entrance with various smaller tables, chairs, and a few trunks scattered in the remaining space. Stacks and stacks of books and papers are strewn across most surfaces, and an entire barrel of maps is stashed in the corner by the larger table.

You take your time approaching the table, allowing yourself to take in the tent's interior, tucking away all vital and essential pieces of information you can. The fact you can so effortlessly function now and file things away appropriately is like a drink of water all its own, but the metal pitcher on the table glistening with condensation beckons you still.

Sliding onto the bench on the opposite side of the table so your back is to a canvas wall. It’s the most advantageous seat, letting you continue to keep an eye on Shadowsword. You snag an empty goblet, give it a tentative sniff, and then pour a generous amount of water from the pitcher before gulping it down. It’s so cold it hurts, but the instant relief as it hits your stomach is like a soothing balm to the ache.

“It’s cold,” you murmur, taking a smaller swallow before refilling the cup. “Enchanted?”

“We collect it from small rivulets that come down off the mountain. Natural filtration through the bedrock and bubbles up here before emptying into the outlet to the southeast that goes to the sea.” It’s an easy explanation and makes sense to you.

It comes naturally to focus on the goblet in your hand and the water sliding over your tongue. The crisp liquid takes on the slightest hint of mint as you draw on the warmth in your chest, testing the validity of his words. The mountain's chill and the earth's integrity bubble like added flavors as you take another sip.

Calm clarity swirls within the mix of sensations, dripping from the goblet and supporting the water. Whoever formed and worked the metal to make this vessel enjoyed their craft and created it with extra care in mind.

So, he’s at least telling you the truth about the water and didn’t offer you a poison-laced goblet to drink from. That’s no guarantee he will speak honestly or have no ill intentions when it comes to anything else. “What is it you wish me to listen to, Shadowsword?”

His brow pinches as he draws closer, grabbing a chair and spinning it around to straddle the back and rest his elbows along the top. There is intention in the fact he chose to sit several feet away, close enough to talk but far enough away that he’d have time to react if you tried to take a jab at him…or for him to catch you before you could bolt for the loose tent flap over the entrance.

“Jungkook, you can call me Jungkook. I don’t really care for that name…Shadowsword, it sounds more like a curse.”

“You are a curse to many,” you say, dropping your eyes to the stretch of food before you. The large platter on the table has a plethora of different morsels, everything from cheese and meat to jams, slices of bread, and fresh fruit. “Are these really apples?” you ask, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.

There is a moment of hesitation that has you glancing up at Shado—Jungkook. You might not be able to hear his thoughts, but you can read the micro-expressions on his face well enough. He’s uncomfortable with what you said about him being a curse. But, he sighs and answers your question instead of pressing the other, “They are. Quite delicious, too. Very sweet, juicy, but still crisp. We’re so close to the border that it’s been easy to establish a trade route with Norkham.”

“I didn’t realize they would be so willing to trade with an enemy of the Crown,” you mutter, grabbing one of the fleshy red and yellow dappled fruits.

Jungkook lets out a derisive snort. “Norkham doesn’t care for the ‘Golden War’,” he scoffs, twisting the name the conflict between him and his father has been dubbed. “My gold is just as good as my father’s. But, unlike my father, I’m not scared of red fruits. Contrary to what is believed, they’re not poisonous. Well, most aren’t, at least.”

You rub your thumb along the shiny peel before bringing it to your nose and inhaling the slightly sweet fragrance. Letting the warmth settle in your chest, you open yourself to tasting not the fruit itself but its journey and memory. It’s passed through a few hands, always handled with the utmost care.

There is the subtle taste of fresh, clean water soaked into the soil and drank through the tree's roots that nurtured the fruit. Nothing about the apple tells you it’s dangerous. If anything, you pick up on the fact that it’s been paired and prepared with other foods that mean you no harm; the whole platter is safe.

With that in mind, you put the apple against your mouth and take a bite. Or you try to, at least, the skin is resistant and then snaps as your teeth sink in, surprising you. “Oh,” you muffle against the fruit, unable to hold back a laugh as you break off a chunk.

Sweetness bursts on your tongue, mixing with the mildly floral taste. It’s something you’ve only ever dreamed of experiencing. Your chuckle turns into a cough as you see the look on Jungkook’s face as he stares at you. His lips are curved into an easy smile, and his eyes are soft, like he’s enjoying watching you.

“It’s good, right? Apples are one of my favorites.” Your eyes track his as they flick from the fruit to your mouth as you take another bite.

He’s right. It is crisp yet still juicy. Your mouth floods with flavor. A drip collects at the corner of your mouth and slips down your chin. A flutter of confidence lights in your chest as Jungkook licks his lips before tearing his eyes from the juice on your chin and how you swipe your tongue out to try and collect it.

As with washing behind the screen, you’d spend more time playing your game if you weren’t so hungry. You gather some of the more familiar foods onto a small plate and begin to eat in earnest between more bites of the apple.

Right now, it’s hard to say how far you’re willing to take this game. Your training has instilled pretty much no boundaries regarding mission objectives. Though, due to your level of power, after you finished your fourth year of standard scribe training, you were sent to a specialist at The Serpent, the Mave-specific garrison on an island west of the capital.

The intention wasn’t necessarily to keep your potency a secret. Everyone knew you were pretty powerful. But, no one knew you were more powerful than even the Crown’s own Psion, who just so happens to be your cousin, Larzon. You haven’t seen Larz in years, and even then, it was only in passing at your graduation ceremony before you were promptly assigned to General—then Colonel—Marvick’s care.

What’s essential for you to remember is that you have an end goal; get out alive and, if possible, take Goris with you. He doesn’t deserve to be chained with Helnite, regardless of what he’s done as a war colonel. You know all about the casualties of war and that when it all boils down to it, each side thinks they’re in the right while the other thinks they’re wrong. War leaves very little room for a grey area, making it all simply black, white, and copious amounts of red.

“I have one question before I listen to whatever it is you want to tell me…” you pause before adding his real name instead of the one he’s been given by the Crown for his rebellion, “Jungkook.”

His shoulders roll back, and he tilts his head from side to side. “Sure, if that will earn me your undivided and apt attention.”

“Goris told me of your relationship to him. How is it you could so easily, so callously beat him to a broken, bleeding mess?”

A harsh breath hollows his chest as he shifts in his seat. “Easily? There was nothing easy about it. Callously? I’m sure you know all about doing what you have to in order to get what you need. I didn’t want to hurt Rit. I’ve considered him a friend for longer than I’ve thought of him as my enemy. Perhaps what I have to tell you will help you see that I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just a necessary part of the bigger picture.”

You can hear the genuine nature of his words. They sound like the truth, but you’ve not been around him long enough to honestly know how good he is at deception. All you have to go off of is everything you’ve read. The rebellion started when you were still in training, just before you began the additional time at The Serpent. It’s hard to believe that was a decade ago now. Though, it feels like a much shorter time. War moved at its own pace, chugging along whether you can keep up or not.

“Go ahead, let’s hear your reasoning behind the last ten years.” Your gesture toward him with a chunk of bread. “I’ll listen.”

“I’ll start from the beginning,” he says. “But first, I’d like you to have this.” Jungkook stands and moves over to one of the smaller trunks near his bed. He kneels, the soft scent of clove permeates the air as shadows slither out from seemingly nowhere. They undulate and cover the chest before an audible pop sounds, and they drift away, revealing the chest now open.

“What’s that?” you ask. He holds up a pin that’s a golden dragon surrounded by a crown.

“It was my father’s,” he murmurs. “It’ll show you the validity of my words when you’re ready to bear that burden.”

The pin is heavy in your hands. He settles back in the chair as you observe the dragon’s form. There are distinct, crusty splotches caught in the fine details. Even without opening yourself to the warmth in your chest, from the barely-there scent of hellfire and metal, you can tell it’s blood…old blood—dragon’s blood, shed in violence. You shiver, your eyes meeting his as he begins to explain.

🖤🖤🖤

Jungkook

It takes far longer to tell you everything than he thought it might. He hadn’t realized just how much there was. You didn’t ask many questions, just making noncommittal sounds when he revealed more sensitive bits of information. But it’s all out there now. You’ve heard it all…every gritty, unbelievable detail. Jungkook knows how hard it is to believe. If he was the one listening, he’d probably have laughed and walked out halfway through. The fact you’re still sitting there, idly swirling a slippery piece of rockmelon on your plate, gives him at least a tiny bit of hope.

“Let’s say I do believe you. What is it you want from me? How can I possibly help you?” You shove the plate away, leaning your elbows on the table as you stare at him with a pinched expression on your face. You pocketed the pin shortly after he started his explanation, and you haven’t touched it since. He wonders if it’s burning a proverbial hole in your pocket. “If you haven’t been able to make a difference in ten years, what makes you think you can now?”

He’s been thinking about this, too. Since things went wrong with Krut at the turret in Fort Orit, he’s been scrambling to devise an alternative plan and the best way to utilize you and Rit to his advantage. In an idyllic world, he would have taken Poli as captive as intended. He had it on good authority that she would have listened to him without much persuasion.

What he knows that you seem not to is that Poli was more of a sympathizer than she appeared to be. It was the key Jungkook clung to, the fact that Poli Marvick cared more about the people—all people—than she did the Crown. The first mention of innocent lives being on the line and she would have been like a bee drawn to a flower, unable to resist the powdery grains of justice.

Though, he knows bringing that up right now will just shut you down. You might be willing to listen to his bizarre story, but you wouldn’t entertain the thought of your precious friend being capable of being a rebel sympathizer…not yet, at least. Ulgrin Krut is another story. You relented on that pretty quickly. He’s curious about who else you could easily see being a weak link in the Golden Chain of command. But that’s a thought for another time.

“You’re the most powerful Psion I’ve ever encountered.” That’s the crux of what sparked his near-instant obsession with you and what’s been fueling his possessiveness. You represent the hope and opportunity he’s been desperately searching for—the answer to finally putting a stop to a decade of struggling. “You have the ability to discern fact from falsity. That in and of itself could help sway the tide of my cause. If you believe me and stand by me and say it’s true, they’ll believe you.”

Your laugh surprises him. “You can’t think it’s that simple, can you? You realize they’ll think I’m just as daft as you are. They’ll think I’ve been corrupted. Just because I’d say something is true wouldn’t make it so. Having the power I do doesn’t mean I can’t still lie, too.”

“Perhaps, but if I could just get into the palace, I know where there is evidence that can back up my claims, and no one would be able to argue it. Just as that pin in your pocket can help you understand, what’s in the palace can make everyone understand. That’s really what I needed from Krut and what I now need from you. Help me get into the palace, and I’ll prove it all to be true to the rest of the kingdom.”

“Are you just going to beat me into submission? How are you going to make me agree to help you?”

This is something he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He’s not sure what else he can offer you other than the freedom to use your power as you want to find all the answers you need. So, he starts with that. “As I said before, you’re welcome to use your power on anything or anyone you wish. But please start with the pin.” You flinch when he says anyone, but not as hard as before.

There isn’t a lot of public knowledge about Psions for apparent reasons. But, one thing he does know about all of them, including you, is that finding the answers and retaining factual information will always be your first goal. It’s something he’s kept in mind every time he’s brought it up, offering that small nugget of temptation. It’s forbidden, taboo…but maybe, just maybe, he’s piqued your curiosity enough that you’ll be too curious to resist.

“What is this supposed to show me?” you ask, finally pulling the pin back out. It catches in the overhead lights, glinting like a guiding star that will lead you to all the answers you need.

Jungkook licks his lips. This could be the moment of truth. “My father was wearing it the day I confronted him.” He hopes he’ll get to see your gift in action. Watch the realization steal across your features as you see his words for the truth they are.

“What an innocuous little thing. Who would guess it could potentially lead to the end of a decade-long war?” The words are spoken softly, as if you’re talking more to yourself than to him.

He feels like he’s viewing a private moment, but no matter how intrusive it feels, he can’t seem to look away. Jungkook is realizing that it’s not just your power that’s alluring. There is an exotic quality to you that is calling to his inner desires. He’s never noticed it before, but the color of your eyes seems to shift, never staying the same shade of brown, green, or blue. In fact, if someone were to ask him what color your eyes are, he’s not sure he could answer them.

If there ever was something he wishes he would have paid more attention to, it’s the history of your kind. Being the crown prince, he had access to any and all information available, even to the more obscure texts and subjects, like Psions.

You caress the ring of gold surrounding the dragon, like you’re stalling or perhaps putting off reading the pin with your ability. It’s obvious the dark rusty-looking splotches are blood. Anyone would be able to discern that. But, he’s reasonably sure you can tell it’s not just any blood but the blood from a dragon. Dragon’s blood has a distinct smell to it, even after being dried onto a chunk of metal for a decade. It’ll still smell subtly like brimstone and hot metal.

The pin has sat in that enchanted chest for almost the entire time he’s been in exile. It was on a whim that he put it in there, thinking that one day when he finally meted out justice to his father, he’d perhaps melt the pin down and turn it into something else. He came by it by accident, anyway. Now, it’s a talisman of the truth and maybe an indicator that he was meant to tuck it away for all these years; for this very moment.

🖤🖤🖤

You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you as you take a deep breath and let it out slowly. There’s an urge to meet his eyes to gauge his reaction, but you push away that distracting thought and let your eyes go unfocused as your fingers tighten around the pin. The first thing you feel is bone-deep indifference, then a brief flit of hope, followed by anger so malevolent it makes your teeth ache…the emotions and feelings ingrained in the pin sweep in, painting such a clear picture for you.

————

“Father, call for the healer!” Jungkook shouts, cradling the large adult blue dragon’s head. Blood leaks from its open mouth, soaking quickly through his green flight garb. “Onyx, get back!” He shoos his juvenile dragon away when it becomes too curious. “Father! Father, please!”

“Jungkook, come away from the beast. Leave it be. It’s too late.” The fact the dragons are beginning to die after barely ten years of service has been an unforeseen nuisance.

The wild-eyed teenager lumbers to his feet, blood-covered hands trembling by his sides. “Leave it be? It’s the sixth dragon to die in less than a week! You said the new bonding was safe! If it’s safe, why are they dying?”

“Just terrible coincidences, nothing more,” King Jeon mutters, internally rolling his eyes as his son quivers beside him. “That’ll be all for today. You’re dismissed.”

Jungkook swings around and grips the front of his father’s robe, fingers pinching around the golden pin denoting his status as king. “But, Fathe—“

“You. Are. Dismissed.” King Jeon holds up a hand to silence any more protests. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.” Jungkook jerks his hands back, turns on his heel, and stalks away. It’s evident that Jungkook is becoming far too curious about the recent deaths. He can’t find out the truth, no matter the cost.

Moving to the parapet, King Jeon glares out over the wall surrounding the dragon corral, the large stable-like building that serves as a coop where the Reavers reside when their Maves are attending to other duties. Tearing his eyes from the expanse of the sprawling capital city, he casts an indifferent look at the large blue-black body still bleeding on the ground of the training pit.

The scuffing of boots draws the King’s attention to the dark doorway of the dragon corral a moment before Fenrin appears.

“Your Grace.” Fenrin bows deeply, sweeping his arms out to either side. “I come bearing fortunate news.”

“Speak plainly, Fenrin, the hour is late, and I’d like to retire to my wife’s side before dinner.”

Fenrin straightens to his full height, towering over the king by a few inches. “We’ve found a strong Brute close to the Western Garrison, fresh from The Steppes and powerful if his build is any indication. He’ll do well for you.”

“Would be better news had you told me we finally found a way to keep them from dying,” the King mutters. “Very well, Fenrin. When will you have the beast ready?”

“Just a few days' time. Sooner if we leave now, Your Grace.”

“Make it so.” The King flicks a dismissive hand, turning before Fenrin can bow in departure, and briskly closes the distance to the postern door leading into the main living quarters for the royal family. He stops just before disappearing inside, glancing over his shoulder. Fenrin is staring at the dead dragon, his face blank and devoid of emotion. “Oh, and Fenrin?”

The man cuts his eyes up, an oily smile sliding onto his face. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“See to it that’s taken care of,” he says, jerking his chin toward the scaly body. “Same as the others.”

The palace is divided into different sections, the living quarters one of the most guarded interior spaces. He passes several guards, all dressed in their golden armor. The few Maves that are attached to the capital are currently doing rounds across the city, patrolling the skies before the sun goes down. Luckily, the blue dragon’s Rider is presently undergoing additional tutelage at The Shield. He won’t know the dragon’s dead for another fortnight. By then, a new dragon will be ready for him to bond, he’ll forget all about the other.

“Your Grace,” one of the liveried servants bows as King Jeon enters the parlor that leads to his sleeping chambers.

“My wife?” he asks, glancing around the open space. When the Queen isn’t leading tutoring sessions with the younger ladies of court, she spends her time tucked in the window seat of the parlor reading or working on needlepoint. It’s too late for the classes, yet she’s not relaxing in the window seat either.

“In the garden, Your Grace. She wished for a bit of fresh air.”

He nods, moving toward the door leading to the sleeping chamber. The windows are open, letting in the sweet musky scent of the plum flowers that like to climb and snake along the walls of the palace.

Unclipping the stays holding his golden cloak in place, King Jeon lets it flutter to the floor where he stands in front of the cold fireplace. It’s been a long day, one warranting at least a chalice of the fire brandy that gets imported from Norkham. It’s rumored they use apples when making it, and that’s what makes it have that unique flavor and burn. People say the burn is the poison of the fruit, slowly leeching into the drinkers' bloodstream—fairytale nonsense.

As he turns to head toward the small console table where a collection of liquor bottles is waiting, something in the corner of the room catches his attention.

“Jungkook, what are you doing here?” His son sits in one of the armchairs opposite the liquor table. Shadows coalesce in the corner, pulsing softly as Jungkook leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees: his eyes, a near mirror of the King’s own, glint from the darkness.

“You’re a murderer.”

The heat of anger fills King Jeon’s chest, making it expand. He grips the thick strand that attaches him to his Reaver, Vikmag. Lightning crackles along his veins, fizzing and sparking at his fingertips before he can reign it in.

“Watch your tongue, boy.”

“I overheard you and Fenrin. You thought I left like a good little soldier. Father, you shouldn’t be so loose with your tongue lest you reveal your madness to the world. I guess I’ll do it for you,” he snarls, launching to his feet. A wicked blade catches the light coming in from the open windows, poised perfectly for an offensive attack in Jungkook’s hand. “You said the new bonding was safe…you lied! You knew they were going to die. You knew they’d grow sick and weak. You’re a monster! They’re sentient beings, for gods’ sake. They have souls, and yet you still force them to bond!”

“You insolent fool, you think you know so much, but yet you know nothing!” King Jeon sneers.

“I know you’re willfully killing beautiful beings. And for what? So you can stay alive while your dragon dies? So you can reap the benefits of their power even in death? Are you so greedy, Father?”

“I knew you’d never understand. Nothing I say will change how you feel. So what if the new bonding kills the dragons, it’s better them than us.” The King sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head toward the ceiling.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Jungkook lashes out, blade and shadows striking. The room fills with the rumble of thunder and a flash of brilliant light. Heat sears across skin, blistering flesh beneath green cloth. A second strike of lightning rends through the open space between the two men, the pressure of the electric power directing the wave of shadows and the small blade.

In a large, concussive blast, the two combating powers slam into the center of the room. Wood and feathers spray into the air as an entire half of the bed takes the brunt of the strike.

As shadows swirl and fill the room, swallowing the erratic snaps of lightning and rolling cracks of thunder, the cold edge of a blade parts warm flesh. The King jerks back, hand flying to his cheek and sliding through the blood dribbling down his face.

Jungkook lunges again, swinging the blade for another swipe, but King Jeon jerks again, the dagger missing his face but biting into the muscle of his chest. Fabric rips free, a slight weight tangling it around the blade.

“Your Grace!” the words echo from the parlor before a flood of guards pours into the room.

“Seize him!” King Jeon screams, stumbling backward.

Jungkook and his father exchange one last look before Jungkook snags a small whistle from inside his bloody top and then sprints across the room, golden soldiers close on his heels and flings himself out the window.

————

The golden pin falls from your limp fingers, landing with a soft thud on the ground between your feet. It’s hard to tell whether it’s sweat or tears coating your face. You swipe the back of a trembling hand over your eyes.

“W-why haven’t you...why haven’t you sought out a Psion before th-this?” Your voice warbles, and you have to swallow hard a few times to keep from losing the food you just ate.

It all feels too raw, far too real. You’ve never experienced something so visceral when reading an object. Your body aches. Your cheek burns, even though there is no cut there. There’s a fiery line that feels branded across your stomach. It’s like everything from that day is imprinting itself upon your body with phantom pains.

“Psions are rare. It’s not like I could have requested one from the capital. You’re part of a coveted kind, precious and protected. Had it not been for—“ he pauses, not needing to remind you how you came to be in this encampment. “The important part is you’re here now, and you’ve seen the truth.” Your bleary eyes slide up from where they were gazing at the pin on the ground to land on him. He tugs the bottom of his shirt out from where it’s tucked into the tops of his breeches and then pushes it up to expose his stomach. A long, puckered scar slashes his otherwise pristine skin. “His lightning strike nearly killed me. All because I found out the truth.”

You wet your dry lips, staring at the bubbled skin until he drops his shirt back down to cover it. “So, when he discovered the new way to bond that doesn’t tether a dragon soul to their rider…it’s not—they really die?”

Jungkook blows out a breath. “I’ve been gathering as much intel as possible about it since that day. He was right. No one truly cares. Not the right people, at least. Everyone here,” he sweeps a hand out, indicating the encampment, “they held no true power out in the world. We’re all just a bunch of outcasts, the misfits, and the unwanted. But all the Maves and Reavers here are here because they believe me. We all have soul-bonds, we all know what that means and how sacred it is. After I found out how my father has desecrated and forsaken that...not even him having his own soul-bond can change that ultimate betrayal. All of the beings here know just as well as I do that my father is a cruel man with no regard for the beautiful lives of the dragon kind.”

“The Stepping Isles are sacred ground. It’s protected,” you insist, reciting words that have been ingrained in you through the teaching of the capital. “If you take your forces there, you can stop him from gathering more dragons.”

“We’ve tried sending parties to The Steppes, but the islands are controlled by the Crown and he has them on such a tight lockdown now that it’s nearly impossible even to get close to the Western Garrison. The few Brutes we’ve come across over the years have been ones that escaped into Norkham. The last glimpse I got of The Stepping Isles was one of a breeding farm. They’re mating the dragons and then forcing them to bond to Riders. It’s barbaric…yet no one is raising a hand to try and stop my father because everyone who has any sort of influence and power are the ones who are reaping the benefits.”

Even as someone who doesn’t know what it feels like to have a bond like that between a Mave and their Reaver, you’re still aware of how utterly atrocious this is. It can’t continue. The revelation settles deep in your chest. You’re about to forsake everything you’ve ever known to be true. You’ll be an oath breaker…something that churns your stomach sourly but not as bad as how the bitter tang of betrayal coats your tongue. You believed in the Crown, you’ve defended the Crown…now you’re going to destroy it.

“I’ll help you,” you whisper.

“What did you say?” There’s no denying the lilt of hope in Jungkook’s voice.

You clear your throat, sitting up straighter and meeting Jungkook’s dark, liquid eyes. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you.” Something deep in your chest cracks and bleeds with your words. Whether it’ll turn into a festering wound or a beautiful opportunity for growth, only time will tell.

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