Chapter Text
Rivalries between Wings at Basgiath War College are an expected occurrence.
It is well known that Second Year cadets often clash fiercely with their First Year classmates. For over ten years, the First Wing and the Fourth Wing have been at odds, a conflict that has persisted through generations of graduate riders. These rivalries, while intense, are generally harmless, existing within the realm of competition over shared responsibilities and tasks. Such rivalries tighten when the cadets are within their own squads but typically loosen when they meet over drinks in Chantara's local tavern. On the battlefield, they may be fierce enemies, but in other circumstances, they are often respected friends.
However, nothing compares to the deep-seated animosity between Xaden Riorson, the Wing Leader of the Fourth Wing's Flame Section, and the academy's infamous new cadet, Violet Sorrengail. This particular feud is as genuine as any enmity can be, and its intensity is well-known throughout the entirety of Basgiath War College. The bitter conflict has been raging for several tense months, and its origins remain a mystery to everyone except for Xaden, Violet, and their closest confidants.
To mitigate the friction, a strict rule has been established among the Second Squad's First and Third Year members of the Fourth Wing's Flame Section: Violet and Xaden must never be in the same room, and especially not upon the same training mat. A rule that, without much forewarning, Violet is about to break, and make her already bad day all the worse.
“Shit, it’s freezing,” Violet mutters to herself as she trudges toward the training gym, her boots crunching on the carpet of decaying leaves lining the path.
The sky is already darkening to a deep navy, with only the faintest hints of daylight clinging to the horizon in shades of indigo still visible. Violet longs for the warm, summery evenings when sweat clings to her marked shoulder blades and the sky blazes with vivid tangerine hues.
It sounds ironic for a rider. But that is when Violet is at her peak condition, as there is nothing quite like exiting the dry, stagnant air of mid-July that sears layers from the insides of your lungs to enter a the training gym of cool. It is the equivalent of pouring cold water on a burn, though infinitely better in its magnitude of satisfaction.
On the other hand, winter makes it thrice as difficult to gather the motivation to train; Violet’s joints hurting so much that she often finds them seizing up, leaving her living with a near constant dull ache in every ligament.
Riders go from sub-zero temperatures on the flight field to a climate that is marginally warmer; only by a degree or two. Then, they must strip down to the bare minimum of training pants and a thin shirt and if they’re feeling less than cocky, which is rarely, throw a set of bulky, uncomfortable protective armour over the top.
Violet’s complaints about being a rider might seem unjust. Perhaps she might have once been unhappy with the set of circumstances she found herself foisted into, but that is now certainly not the case; to say so would be an unfair contradiction to her skill in soon becoming considered the best rider of her generation.
Simply put, she despises the cold. For the incessant chill of a winter breeze, which finds its way beneath layers of dragon scale and woven sheep wool, always manages to uproot sensations from her bones that she would much rather keep repressed. Bad memories are buried in the snow. They are trapped beneath the frozen surface of a lake, and Violet waits with her lip tucked between her teeth for the sunshine to return—to melt her anxiety away.
As Violet approaches the training gym, the scattered leaves begin to swirl in the autumn breeze. She breaks into a jog, her focus fixed on the glowing light of the gym ahead. Her pack thumps rhythmically against her curved hip, and she clenches her jaw, ignoring the sting of late autumn’s chill on her face and the glacial fingers that card through her loose silvery hair. She pulls her jacket tighter around her, a futile attempt at protection against the cold that, after years of practice, almost works.
Only when Violet bursts through the training gym doors does she become aware that she’s been holding her breath. Her lungs cry out for release, and her chest feels as though it’s ablaze with a heat that isn’t her own. At the entrance, she doubles over, her hands propped against her aching knees as she gulps down breaths of fresh air—an immediate balm for the fiery sensation spreading up her throat. It is in this hunched position that she first hears the faint strains of an unfamiliar song, muffled by the closed double doors leading to the training mats.
Violet silently prays that the occupant of the gym is anyone but Xaden Riorson. The thought of facing him alone in such a confined space seems like the height of karmic misfortune.
She cautiously approaches the entrance, the sounds growing louder as the left-hand door creaks open under her touch. Violet’s heart sinks as she sees him: Xaden Riorson, the embodiment of her misfortune. He moves with flawless precision on the mat, his left leg held at an angle, arms executing quick, sharp jabs at the training dummies. His form is impeccable, demonstrating the remarkable dexterity that earned him his elite leadership position. The flow of his regime is mesmerising, even in his simple outfit of black sweatpants and nothing else.
But it is clear that he is holding back. He knows that he is no longer alone. An audience has gathered and eyes are watching, though he has no clue from where, or whom they belong to.
Determined to assert her presence, Violet walks to the edge of the mat. The intensity of Xaden’s exertion becomes almost deafening as she positions herself right at the step leading up and onto the mat. She struggles to pull up her sleeve to check her watch, noting that Xaden is two minutes into her reserved time slot and shows no sign of finishing.
“Riorson!” she shouts over the noise of his grunts, pulling her sleeve back into place and straightening her posture. Her eyes narrow as he makes no move to acknowledge her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
In all of his graceful decorum, he completely ignores her, refining another of his moves with ease and following through with a deceptively quick jab to the training dummies neck. When he pulls his hand back, his knuckles tremble, his still clenched fists coming to land awkwardly against his sides, throwing his focus to the point that he stops his regime entirely.
Violet waits patiently at the step, expecting him to come to his senses and call it a night after the mistake. She surveys the way he stares at the marks he’d left upon the matted straw surface while slowly wrapping his knuckles, tracing his fingers upon angles and curves that his very own fluidity has carved into the training dummies faux flesh. Then, he lifts his head and rolls back his wide shoulders.
Violet’s jaw nearly hits the floor when Riorson suddenly starts working his calves with greater intensity, deep lunges driving him across the mat. Building speed, as though nothing had ever occurred. And, above all, still utterly ignoring Violet’s existence.
“What the– I requested private use of the training gym from seven to eight, you asshole! Look here–” Violet yanks open the flap of her pack, rummaging around for the time slip that is conveniently nowhere to be seen– “Where. The. Fuck.“
While Violet is caught up in her outraged distraction, Riorson steps right up to the edge of the mat and pants heavily. Droplets of sweat from his semi-naked form land in a puddled mess at his feet. Violet barks a startled yelp and leaps back at his sudden nearness, reacting as one would if the real Devil had just burst out of Hell and directly through the Earth’s surface.
Riorson’s scrutinising eyes blaze with smouldering rage, cheekbones shimmering with cooling sweat. His sweat laded onyx hair falls in mussed tangles upon his chiselled face; flyaway strands dance with every rise and fall of his chest, his exhaled breath playing with the few strands not sticking to the nape of his neck. There is always an aura of natural confidence about his presence, which moulds into palpable cockiness whenever Violet is within proximity. Despite this, he currently exudes nothing but irritation at the abrupt interruption.
He digs through the pocket of his sweats and retrieves a towel that he takes to wiping down his sweat slicked abdominals. A piercing ring echoes in Violet’s ears at the sudden silence of the training gym and she gulps at the dryness in her throat, her eyes trailing over Xaden's ribbed chest and abs.
“Show me your reservation slip.”
Violet scrambles through her pack, searching frantically through a jumble of papers and assessments. “I had it with me,” she insists, her voice tinged with desperation. “I swear, I had it this afternoon.”
“Violence, stop. See my hands?” He holds them up between their bodies, empty palms facing the skies with his long fingers fanned out. Violet ceases her hopeless search and stares at the thin lines that map little labyrinths across his warm toned skin. She has to smother the thought of how she longs to touch them, especially once he continues his line of conversation. “They’re holding all of the fucks that I give about your time slot. Go to bed.”
Violet bites down on the inside of her cheek to resist the urge to scream directly in Xaden’s face. Her fists continuously clench and release, tampering down the exceptional vexation that is tying knots around her throat. When Xaden glances down and notices her method of anger management with a vicious smirk, she stops it altogether.
“Where’s your time slip, then?” Violet seethes, leaning in as close as she can get without stepping onto the mat. The proximity is still considerable. With exhaustion squeezing Xaden’s lungs, forcing out short, panting exhalations from his body, Violet can almost feel his warm breath dancing across her lips. The overwhelming desire she feels to close the distance between them and plant her lips upon his forces her to take a step back, asking him, “Did you book the mat at all?”
“Nope, I’m Wing Leader, I don’t need a timeslip,” he says, popping the ‘p’ and following it with a grin that is nothing but wicked evil.
Violet, now thoroughly exasperated, throws her hands up in frustration.
“Then what the actual fuck, Riorson? This is free time here! Get off the mat ‘cos I need to train and we’re already five minutes into my slot. I reserved this shit.”
“Then show me the damn slip,” Xaden repeats, his tone dripping with impatience.
Violet’s frustration mounts as she rummages through her pack again, finding everything except the crucial slip. “I don’t have it on me right now,” she admits, her voice strained. “But you don’t even need to train!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Violence? I may not always pull rank, but I am your Wing Leader and as such, I am allowed certain privileges. Need I remind you that there are consequences for arguing with me.”
He is winning and he knows it.
Violet realizes too late that she’s dug her own grave. The metaphorical shovel is in her hands, and she’s buried herself in frustration. Xaden stands firm, a smug smile on his face as he prepares to outlast her.
“So, Violence, I’m not going anywhere until you or somebody else arrives with a booking slip for the mat.”
The atmosphere becomes charged with tension as they lock eyes, both maintaining a stoic façade. Xaden scrutinises Violet’s expression, searching for any signs of weakness. Despite his cold demeanour, there’s a hesitant pull in his chest that he struggles to suppress.
“I have to practice,” Violet weakly protests, sacrificing her final shred of dignity in a vague reach of hope for Xaden’s surrender. But that remarkably dim light of optimism is smothered by the ice of his heart when he moves away, stalking backwards to the centre of the mat.
His lips tilt into a gentle smile. If he were not the son of Satan himself, it would almost be breathtaking.
Almost.
“We all have to practice, Violence. Cry to somebody who cares.”
Dumbfounded, Violet stares agape when Xaden effortlessly slinks back into his regime as if he were never once disturbed. If anything, his grunts of exertion sound much louder, as if he is hoping to drain out the retaliation that he expects Violet to vociferate.
“I hate you!” Violet screeches on cue, and her voice is drowned out by a particularly guttural grunt. Violet is being childish, she knows. But really, the injustice of the situation is palpable, and she knows that if it were any other rider than her, Xaden would willingly accept their statement—permission slip or not—and step off the mat. Whirling on her heel, she storms out of the gym, still screaming, “I hate you so fucking much!”