Chapter Text
“Hey, Wingleader! Have you been trying to avoid me?”
That voice cuts through the hallway of Basgiath and roots Destri in place.
Of course Xaden would find him.
It’s graduation. Destri’s last night at Basgiath. And he has been avoiding him—ducking into empty corridors, lingering too long in places Xaden never goes, pretending he has somewhere else to be.
Anything to delay this moment.
“I’m not your wingleader anymore, Riorson,” Destri says as he turns slowly.
His white fringe slips over his hazel eyes, longer than he usually allows it. He’d been too busy to cut it, too distracted and now it’s just another thing out of place tonight.
There’s no use in running anymore.
“Yeah, you’re not,” Xaden replies with a smirk. “But I’d still hope you’re a friend. A friend who wouldn’t try to disappear without saying goodbye.”
Destri’s gaze drops instantly.
He can’t look at him. Not tonight.
Not when every line of Xaden’s face feels too familiar, the cocky tilt of his mouth, the sharpness in his eyes. That same face that laughed through pranks and defiance. That same face that held him together when the world shattered and his father died.
Destri exhales slowly.
“You coward,” Bás mutters in his mind. “I thought tonight was it. No regrets. What happened?”
“Shut up, Bás,” he snaps.
“Sorrengail…” Xaden’s expression shifts, the teasing gone in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Destri shrugs, forcing something casual into his voice, even as it comes out thinner than he intends. “Just didn’t expect tonight to feel this… sad.”
Xaden exhales, softer now. Careful.
“Des.”
“Stop.” Destri lifts his hands in surrender, but it’s more defensive than playful. He forces himself to meet Xaden’s gaze anyway, even though it makes everything worse. “Don’t. I don’t want to cry tonight.” His throat tightens. “Can we just pretend nothing is going to change.”
For a second, he thinks Xaden might push.
He almost wants him to.
“I’m going to miss you,” Xaden says quietly. “Like… really miss you.”
The words hit.
A sharp sting behind Destri’s eyes. His chest tightens, breath catching before he can steady it, like something inside him is cracking open whether he wants it to or not.
“Ditto, Riorson,” he manages, voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.
“I should go. Bás is waiting.”
He turns before Xaden can say anything else—before he can feel anything else—needing distance before everything spills over.
“Did you say goodbye to your mom?” Xaden asks, stepping forward, grasping for anything to keep him there.
Destri hesitates.
“No,” he admits after a moment. “I wasn’t planning to.”
He shrugs, but it doesn’t land.
“I figure… if she wanted to say goodbye, she would’ve found me.” A pause. “You did.”
Xaden scoffs.
“Don’t,” Destri says quickly, almost pleading.
“Your mom kind of sucks, Des,” Xaden says bluntly. “Like, really sucks.”
“Okay, we’re not doing this.” Destri turns again, sharper this time. “I told you—my family is off-limits.”
He barely makes it a step before Xaden’s hand closes around his wrist.
The contact is instant. Warm. Grounding.
Too much.
Destri stills.
Heat shoots up his arm, settling low in his chest, his pulse stuttering as his body reacts before his mind can catch up. He doesn’t pull away. He should.
He doesn’t.
“Destri,” Xaden says, voice lower now, closer. “I’m sorry. I don’t want us to fight on your last night.”
Destri turns back slowly, forcing something lighter.
“We fought all year,” he says with a shrug. “What’s one more night?”
“Des.” Xaden’s gaze sharpens. “You’re my friend. Honestly… one of the closest I have.”
For a split second, something lifts—
hope, fragile and dangerous—
Then drops just as fast.
“You’re one of my closest friends too,” Destri says, because that part is true.
“He’s your only friend,” Bás cuts in.
“Shut up, Bás,” Destri mutters, jaw tightening.
“I have a question,” Xaden says, stepping closer.
Too close.
The space between them disappears until Destri can feel the heat of him, the subtle shift of his breath. Xaden leans in, his mouth brushing near Destri’s ear and suddenly the world narrows to this.
Just this.
“If I asked you to fight for me,” Xaden murmurs, voice low, intimate in a way that makes Destri’s pulse spike, “would you?”
Destri freezes.
“What?”
He turns—
and that’s a mistake.
Because now there’s nothing between them.
Not space. Not distance.
Xaden is right there.
Close enough that if Destri moved—just slightly—
“Would you betray your family?” Xaden continues, his breath ghosting across Destri’s mouth. “Give up everything you love… and fight for me? Fight for Tyrrendor?”
Destri swallows hard, his throat suddenly too tight.
His eyes drop—just for a second—to Xaden’s lips.
Warm. Close. Right there.
His own lip catches between his teeth, a nervous habit he can’t stop, and his body betrays him, leaning in, just slightly.
“I—”
The word sticks.
Because the answer is already there.
Because it’s always been there.
“Destri,” Xaden prompts, softer now.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything breaks.
“I love you.”
The words fall out—too fast, too raw, too real—before he can stop them.
Xaden flinches.
And just like that, the space between them returns—sharp, sudden, unbearable.
Destri forces himself to keep going, even as his chest caves in around the words.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I would. Because I love you.”
Silence.
Xaden just… stares at him.
Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t say it back.
Destri bites down hard on his lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth as he fights to keep himself together—
to not fall apart right here in front of him.
Say something.
Anything.
Xaden’s mouth opens.
Then closes.
And that’s enough.
“I’m sorry,” Destri says quickly, the words tumbling over each other now. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
He doesn’t finish.
He can’t.
He turns—
and runs.
The hallway blurs, the noise fading into nothing as he pushes through doors and into the open courtyard, the night air hitting him like a shock. The wind is sharp against his face, drying the tears before they can fully fall, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” Bás says quietly this time. “I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you wanted.”
Destri huffs a broken breath.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.
That it went exactly how he expected.
The flight field comes into view, and with it, the familiar silhouette of his red scorpiontail waiting in the dark. Relief flickers—escape, finally.
He climbs up quickly, hands steady out of habit even as everything inside him feels anything but.
“Let’s go, Bás,” he says, gripping the pommel.
“Sgaeyl asks that you stay,” Bás replies. “Her rider would like to speak with you. He’s coming.”
Destri closes his eyes for a brief second.
“Bás,” he says, voice low but firm. “We are leaving. Now.”
A sigh.
“As you wish.”
Wings beat against the air, powerful and steady, lifting them from the ground. The world drops away beneath them as they turn southeast toward Sumerton.
“Destri!”
The shout echoes up from below.
Destri looks down despite himself.
Xaden stands there on the field, a dagger clenched in his hand, his gaze locked upward—locked on him. Even from this distance, Destri can see it in his expression.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Something else he doesn’t let himself name.
For one dangerous second, Destri considers it.
Telling Bás to land.
Going back.
But then Xaden’s expression hardens, and the moment shatters.
Destri looks away.
“Are you certain?” Bás asks.
Destri swallows, forcing the words past the ache in his throat.
“Take us to Sumerton,” he whispers.
And he doesn’t look back again.
──────── ❖ ────────
Destri Sorrengail had always believed there were two certainties in life: death, and the sun rising.
Death reminded him to live—truly live—before it came for him. To take risks. To choose boldly. To leave nothing unsaid.
The sun reminded him of something else entirely.
That the world did not stop for grief.
That no matter how consuming something felt—no matter how much it hollowed him out from the inside—the sun would still rise the next morning as if nothing had changed.
As if he had not changed.
As if leaving Xaden behind hadn’t split something in him that had never quite healed.
“Major Sorrengail!”
The shout cuts through the quiet of the watchtower, pulling him from the spiral of memory before it can take hold too deeply.
Destri exhales and steps toward the edge of the balcony, forcing his expression back into something composed, something his riders expect.
“Lieutenant,” he calls down, voice steady despite the lingering weight in his chest. “What’s going on?”
“A riot of dragons is heading this way, Major!”
Destri’s brow furrows as he leans forward, gaze sweeping across the distant ridges of the Esben Mountains. At first, he sees nothing but shadow and stone but then, faint against the horizon, movement. Too much movement.
“Do you know from where?” he calls, sharper now.
“Samara,” Bás’s voice cuts in, low and certain in the back of his mind. “It’s your sister.”
Destri stills.
“My sister?” The words slip out under his breath before he can stop them. “What the fuck is Mira doing here?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
Destri turns and takes the stairs two at a time, boots striking hard against the stone as he descends, a tight knot forming in his chest. Mira doesn’t leave her post without reason.
Which means something is wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
By the time he reaches the base of the tower, the dragons are already descending, their shadows sweeping over the fortified walls like a storm rolling in. Wind whips through the courtyard as wings beat overhead, and then—
Mira and Teine land.
Destri steps forward instinctively, a grin breaking through before he can stop it, relief flaring sharp and immediate at the sight of her.
“Mira,” he says, breathless despite himself. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
She doesn’t smile back.
She’s already moving, sliding down from Teine with practiced ease but when she lands in front of him, Destri notices it immediately.
Her hands.
They’re shaking.
“You haven’t heard?” she asks, and there’s no humor in her voice. No teasing. Just urgency. Fear.
Destri’s smile fades.
“No,” he says, quieter now, his attention sharpening as he takes her in properly—the rigid set of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes keep flicking toward the sky like she’s expecting something to follow her here. “But I’m certain you’re about to tell me.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“Mira… what’s going on?”
“Wyvern are real,” she says.
The words hit strangely, like something out of a bad story, something too absurd to take seriously.
“Venin are real,” she continues, her voice tightening. “And our sister just joined the revolution. Basgiath just lost half their rides.”
For a second, Destri just… stares at her.
The world tilts, just slightly.
“Slow down,” he says, reaching for her arms without thinking, steadying her even as his own pulse begins to climb. “What do you mean?”
“Dad was right,” Mira says, her voice breaking on the words. “Venin exist. Wyvern are real. They dropped bodies at our outpost, Destri. Wyvern bodies.”
A chill works its way down his spine.
“Who did?” he asks, though part of him already knows he isn’t going to like the answer.
“The revolution!” Mira snaps. “Destri, Xaden Riorson has kept the rebellion alive this whole time. Aretia still stands. That’s where we’re going.”
Destri freezes.
The name hits harder than anything else she’s said.
Xaden.
It’s been years, and still—
Still it feels like that night never ended. Like he’s still standing in that courtyard, heart in his throat, watching Xaden say nothing.
Hearing nothing.
Running.
He had told himself he’d moved on. That time had dulled it. That distance had done what distance is supposed to do.
It hasn’t.
Not even a little.
“...You’re joining them?” Destri asks, but his voice comes out quieter than he expects, like it’s being pulled from somewhere deeper than he can control.
“We have to,” Mira says, stepping closer. “Violet is already fighting with them. Navarre has been lying to us, about everything. Poromiel isn’t the enemy, Destri. They’re the front line. They’ve been dying to keep the venin contained while Navarre sits safe behind its wards.”
Destri’s mouth goes dry.
Every instinct in him—every piece of training, every oath he’s ever sworn—pushes back against what she’s saying.
But Mira isn’t wrong.
Mira doesn’t panic.
And she is terrified.
“Navarre is letting them die,” she presses. “Hundreds. Thousands. Just to protect itself.”
Silence stretches between them.
Destri can feel it, the shift, the moment where everything he thought he understood begins to crack.
He knows what the right choice is.
He knows it with a certainty that settles heavy in his chest.
And he hates it.
Because the right choice means going to Aretia.
It means the revolution.
It means—
Him.
“Please,” Mira says, softer now, her voice breaking through his thoughts. “Join us.”
Destri closes his eyes for a brief second.
He wants to say yes.
He wants to do the right thing, to stand where he should have stood from the beginning.
But all he can see is Xaden standing beneath him, looking up with disappointment in his eyes.
All he can hear is the silence that followed I love you.
All he can feel is how much it still hurts.
“You never got over him,” Bás says quietly.
“...We’ll be traitors,” Destri says instead, the words heavy on his tongue.
Mira doesn’t hesitate.
“We’ll be traitors together.”
He looks at her then, really looks.
At his sister, who is scared but standing anyway.
Who came here knowing exactly what she was asking of him.
Who still believes he’ll do the right thing.
Destri nods.
The decision settles into place, solid and immovable, even as something in his chest twists painfully around it.
“Listen up!” he shouts, turning as riders begin to gather, drawn by the dragons, the tension, the shift in the air.
They look at him expectantly.
Trusting.
Waiting.
Gods.
“Navarre has been lying to all of us,” Destri says, his voice carrying across the courtyard, stronger now despite everything churning beneath it. “The enemy is not Poromiel. It’s something else—something called venin. They can channel from the source. They create wyvern. And they are killing hundreds of people every day while we stand here believing we’re safe.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
He pushes forward anyway.
“Xaden Riorson is leading a revolution against them,” he continues, the name catching slightly in his throat before he forces past it. “And I will be joining him.”
The words feel heavier spoken aloud.
More real.
More dangerous.
“Anyone who wishes to come with us, be ready. We leave in one hour,” Destri says. “Anyone who stays…” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “May the gods have mercy on you. Because I will not have more blood on my hands.”
Silence follows.
Then movement.
Decision.
Mira steps forward, reaching for his hand and squeezing it tightly.
Destri squeezes back without looking at her, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the mountains.
Toward Aretia.
Toward the past he never truly left behind.
“This is exciting,” Bás says, a note of anticipation threading through his voice.
Destri exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, though his chest feels anything but light. “That’s one word for it.”
──────── ❖ ────────
The last thing Destri expected was for most of them to follow him.
Not just a handful of loyal riders. Not just the ones who trusted him blindly.
A majority.
Even some of his superiors had stepped forward, silent but resolute, choosing him—choosing this—over everything they had been taught to believe.
It sits heavy in his chest as they fly.
Responsibility.
Guilt.
Pride.
He doesn’t know which one weighs the most.
“Are you ready?” Bás asks, his voice carrying easily through his mind as the mountains surrounding Aretia begin to rise on the horizon, jagged and imposing.
Destri lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
“Really, Bas?” he mutters, eyes fixed ahead.
“Curiosity,” Bás replies, entirely unbothered. “Dominic came. You could always focus on him when those… pesky feelings start acting up.”
Destri huffs under his breath, though there’s no real amusement in it.
Lieutenant Colonel Dominic Storm.
His direct superior.
A man Destri hadn’t even realized outranked him the first night they met in Sumerton, back when Dominic had just been a stranger at a bar with an easy smile and a body that invited bad decisions.
Destri had taken him upstairs anyway.
Because that’s all it was supposed to be.
That’s all it had ever been since—
Him.
Destri tightens his grip on the pommel.
He had made that decision a long time ago. No attachments. No feelings. No falling.
Not again.
Because the one time he had… it had carved something out of him that had never grown back.
Dominic still hadn’t gotten the message.
Or maybe he had and just didn’t care.
“If Zihnal favors me half as much as my dad swears he does,” Destri says, forcing a lighter tone than he feels, “then maybe—just maybe—Xaden won’t even know I’m there.”
Bás lets out a sharp, amused huff.
“Oh, right. Of course. And pigs fly.”
Destri shakes his head, but the small attempt at humor doesn’t settle the unease coiling tighter in his chest.
Because Aretia is closer now.
The city begins to take shape in the distance, carved into the mountainside, solid and real in a way Destri hadn’t quite prepared for. His pulse starts to climb, steady at first, then faster, harder, until he can feel it in his throat.
It’s been four years.
Almost five.
He shouldn’t feel like this.
He shouldn’t feel like he’s about to walk into the worst mistake of his life.
He had convinced himself, at least a little, that time had dulled it. That distance had done its job. That the version of him who loved Xaden Riorson had been left behind in that courtyard.
But as Aretia rises before him, Destri knows the truth.
Nothing has changed.
Not really.
Not where it matters.
He had spent years becoming something else. Something better. A leader. A Sorrengail worthy of the name, even if he had never quite belonged to it.
Never his mother’s.
Never fully his father’s.
Always something other.
The black sheep.
Especially after the incident.
His jaw tightens.
The one that turned his brown hair white.
The one he still can’t remember, no matter how badly he wants to.
They descend quickly after that.
Mira leads, confident and unyielding, and Destri follows without question, even as the courtyard below fills with movement—dragons, riders, soldiers reacting to their arrival.
A riot, just like the lieutenant had said.
Destri barely has time to take it in before a massive black dragon lands near a small figure he recognizes instantly.
Violet.
Her eyes are wide, scanning the chaos, taking in everything at once.
“She’s okay,” Destri breathes, relief hitting him harder than he expects as he remains mounted on Bás.
For a moment, everything feels almost manageable.
And then it isn’t.
One second, the black dragon is at Violet’s side.
The next, his jaws are wrapped around Teine’s neck.
“Bas!” Destri shouts, already shifting forward.
Bás surges in response, wings snapping open—
“Destri, stop!” Violet’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Dismount peacefully, and Teine lives.”
Destri stills.
His eyes snap to her.
Seven years.
Seven years since he had really seen her, since she had been anything more than a distant presence at their father’s pyre.
Back then, she had been fragile. The one you watched. The one you worried wouldn’t survive this world.
The woman standing in front of him now is something else entirely.
Steady.
Unyielding.
Standing beside a dragon that could end them all without hesitation.
“I come in peace, Sprout,” Destri says carefully as he swings down from Bás, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud.
“We all do,” Mira adds quickly. “It was Riorson who came for us. How else would we have found you? Gods, I thought this place was ash.”
Destri’s gaze flickers to Mira.
She hadn’t told him that part.
“That’s interesting,” Bás murmurs. “Do you think she knows?”
“How would she know?” Destri mutters under his breath.
“Maybe Xaden—”
“There’s no way,” Destri cuts him off sharply.
There can’t be.
The black dragon releases Teine, and Mira moves instantly, running straight for Violet.
Destri follows without thinking.
“I’m sorry,” Mira says the moment she reaches her. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you in Samara.”
Destri steps in behind her, wrapping his arms around both of his sisters before he can stop himself.
They feel real.
Solid.
Alive.
“I needed you,” Violet whispers, her voice breaking just enough to slip past her control. “I needed you, Mira… Des.”
Something twists painfully in his chest.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re here. I’m sorry I wasn’t—” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, we know it wasn’t your choice,” Mira says, pulling back slightly. “Mom gets weird whenever you’re near Violet. But you little sister—” she lets out a breath, almost incredulous, “you stole half of Basgiath’s cadets? And killed the vice commandant?”
Destri blinks.
“You did what?” he asks, pulling away fully now. “Okay, I’ve clearly missed something, and I don’t like it.”
“Dain killed the vice commandant,” Violet says quickly. “I just finished it. Well—Xaden helped. It was more of a team effort.”
Destri feels it before he even fully registers it.
The way her shoulders soften.
The way her eyes shift, brighter and warmer, when she says his name.
Xaden.
It lands like a blow.
“You didn’t know?” Violet asks, her voice softer now, searching his face like she’s trying to piece together what he’s missed—what he should have known.
Destri shakes his head.
He doesn’t trust his voice. Not with everything pressing against his ribs, trying to get out.
“We didn’t know, we swear,” Mira adds quickly, stepping closer like she needs him to understand that. “Not until the wyvern was dropped at the front gates of Samara. Mom showed up ten hours later and told me everything—told all of the riders.”
Destri’s jaw tightens.
Ten hours.
Ten hours and she went to Mira.
“She told you,” he says, quieter than before, but there’s an edge to it now. “Good to know she still cares enough to tell someone.”
“Des,” Mira warns, her tone dropping the way it used to when they were younger, when she knew exactly which line he was about to cross.
But it’s already too late.
“What?” he snaps, the words coming out harsher than he intends. “You expect me to be happy that you got a personal meeting with General Sorrengail while I got a fucking messenger?”
Violet flinches slightly at the name. Mira doesn’t.
“You got your sister,” Mira fires back immediately.
Destri’s gaze snaps to her.
She doesn’t back down.
Doesn’t soften.
Doesn’t let him hide behind anger like she used to when they were kids and he’d lash out just to avoid admitting something hurt.
“And she just let you leave?” Violet asks, stepping out of the hug, her eyes moving between them.
“She gave us an hour to decide,” Mira says. “Half of us left.” She shoves Destri lightly, but there’s no real force behind it. “I went to Sumerton for this buffoon. Though maybe I should’ve left him there if he’d rather see Mother than me.”
Destri flinches.
It lands harder than anything else she’s said.
Because that’s not what he meant.
But it is what it sounds like.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, the words rough, unfamiliar in his mouth.
“What was that?” Mira presses.
Destri exhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to meet her eyes.
“I said I’m sorry,” he repeats, more firmly this time, even as his jaw tightens. “You’re right. I’d choose you. Always.”
Something in Mira’s expression shifts.
“Exactly,” she says, like it was never a question.
And then she stills.
Her focus shifts past him.
Destri notices it immediately, the way her shoulders lock, the way her breath catches just slightly.
He turns.
And everything in him goes cold.
“Brennan?” Mira breathes, the name barely more than a whisper.
“There’s no fucking way,” Destri mutters, already moving.
Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. He steps in front of both of them, arm slightly out like he used to when they were younger—when threats were smaller, simpler, easier to understand.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands.
Because it can’t be.
Because he burned him.
Because he stood there and watched the flames take everything that was left.
The man smiles.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
“Hey, Mira. Hey, Destri.”
The sound of his voice hits like a physical blow.
Everything crashes together inside Destri—memories of training yards and arguments, of Brennan correcting his stance with an annoyed shove, of late nights where they all sat too close together because the world felt safer that way.
Of loss.
Of grief that never really left.
“You’re alive?” Mira demands, already pushing past him like she can’t get there fast enough.
“That’s not possible,” Destri says under his breath, but his feet move anyway, drawn forward despite himself. “There’s no—there’s no way—”
“In the flesh,” Brennan says, opening his arms like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t disappear. Like they didn’t spend years believing he was gone. “Gods, it’s good to see you.”
Mira hits him.
Hard.
Her fist connects with his face with a crack that echoes through the courtyard, snapping his head to the side and sending him stumbling to the ground.
Destri doesn’t stop her.
Doesn’t even try.
Because for a split second—
It’s not enough.
Brennan goes down, and something inside Destri snaps.
Relief surges first, violent and overwhelming.
Then anger, hotter, sharper.
Then something dangerously close to hurt.
He laughs.
It’s not a good sound.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping forward, voice rising as everything spills over. “Yeah, that’s deserved.”
Violet smacks his shoulder, but he barely registers it.
He grabs Brennan by the front of his shirt and hauls him up just enough to look at him, to really see him.
Alive.
Breathing.
Real.
“You absolute piece of shit,” Destri snarls, and this time there’s no humor in it. Just raw, unfiltered anger. “I mourned you.”
The words break out of him, harsher than anything he’s said all night.
His grip tightens.
“You know what that’s like?” he continues, shaking him slightly. “Watching them burn what’s left of you?”
For a second, his voice falters.
Because he remembers.
Too clearly.
He shoves Brennan back down.
Harder this time.
“You don’t get to come back like nothing happened,” Destri snaps, breathing heavier now, his chest tight. “You don’t get to smile at us like we didn’t return you to Malek.”
“Destri!” Violet shouts, rushing forward, grabbing at his arm to pull him back.
But Destri doesn’t look at her.
His gaze stays locked on Brennan.
Because beneath the anger—beneath the relief—
There’s something else.
Something quieter.
Something that sounds a lot like thank gods you’re alive.
And he hates that it’s there at all.
“And to think,” a voice drawls from behind them, smooth and familiar in a way that knocks the breath from Destri’s lungs, “I used to wish I had siblings.”
Destri stills.
Everything in him goes quiet at once.
He doesn’t turn right away.
Because he knows that voice.
He’s known it in too many ways—laughing, taunting, low and soft in the dark. He’s carried it with him for years, tucked into the spaces he never let anyone else touch.
Slowly, too slowly, he turns.
And there he is.
Xaden Riorson.
Leaning in the doorway like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there. Like he didn’t leave Destri behind with nothing but silence and a confession that never got answered.
For a second, Destri forgets how to breathe.
It’s all the same.
The sharp line of his jaw. The weight of his gaze. The way he holds himself like the world bends around him instead of the other way around.
And somehow—
It’s worse.
Because Destri isn’t the same.
Their eyes meet.
And Destri feels it immediately—the pull, the recognition, the stupid, hopeful part of him that flares to life before he can crush it down.
Say something.
React.
Remember me.
But Xaden just looks at him.
No flicker of surprise. No shift in his stance. No crack in that careful control.
Nothing that says you mattered.
And just like that, Destri understands that there are three certainties in this world.
Death.
The sun rising.
And his relentless, unshakable, love for Xaden Riorson.
Violet moves before he can.
Straight into Xaden’s arms.
Destri doesn’t.
He just stands there, rooted in place, watching as Xaden’s attention slides away from him as easily as it always has, like Destri was never something meant to be held onto.
Like letting him go cost nothing at all.
Xaden’s hands settle at Violet’s waist without hesitation.
Familiar.
Certain.
Easy.
Destri’s chest tightens.
“Hi,” Violet says softly.
“Hi,” Xaden replies, just as quiet.
Destri watches her hands move over him, checking for injuries, grounding herself in him in a way that feels intimate without trying to be.
“You’re alright?”
“I am now,” Xaden says.
And then he kisses her.
Destri doesn’t look away.
He should.
Gods, he should.
But he can’t.
Because this—this right here—is the answer he never got.
It’s in the way Xaden leans in without hesitation. The way his hand tightens just slightly at her waist. The way he lets himself have this.
Destri had given him the same moment once.
Or almost.
Close enough that he can still feel it—the heat of him, the space that didn’t exist between them, the way all it would have taken was the smallest movement—
And instead, he had said I love you.
And Xaden had said nothing.
Destri’s fingers curl slightly at his sides, nails pressing into his palms, grounding himself in the present instead of the memory that threatens to pull him under.
“This is why,” he tells himself. “This is why you ran.”
Because Xaden was never going to choose him.
The kiss breaks, but the damage is already done.
“Seriously?” Brennan mutters. “Right in front of me?”
“Oh, this is tame for them,” Mira says easily. “Wait until they decide to basically climb each other in public. You can’t burn that shit out of your head, trust me.”
She nudges Destri lightly, like this is just another moment—like this doesn’t feel like something is being carved out of his chest in real time.
Destri forces a small smile.
It feels fragile.
Like it might crack if anyone looks too closely.
Eventually, they pull apart.
And Xaden looks up again.
Finds him.
Holds his gaze.
For a second—just a second—Destri lets himself wonder.
If there’s anything there.
Anything left.
Anything he imagined that might be—
“So,” Xaden says, his voice even, controlled in that way Destri knows too well. “What are the Sorrengail siblings going to do now that you’re all reunited?”
The moment snaps.
Whatever that was—if it was anything at all—is gone.
“We’re going to beat the shit out of our brother,” Mira says immediately.
“Survive,” Brennan adds as Destri reaches down automatically to help him up, his body moving on instinct even as his mind lags behind.
“And you, Des?” Xaden asks.
Destri stills again.
He hates that name in his mouth.
Hates how familiar it sounds.
Hates how much he missed hearing it.
All of them turn to look at him.
“You know each other?” Violet asks, her gaze moving between them, something curious and cautious threading through her voice.
Destri opens his mouth—
“Yeah,” Xaden says before he can. “He was my wingleader.”
The words land clean.
Too clean.
Destri feels it settle somewhere deep in his chest, quiet and sharp all at once.
Not a friend.
Not the almost.
Not the night that still lives under his skin.
Just—
Wingleader.
Like that’s all he ever was to him.
Like the rest of it never existed.
Like Destri imagined everything.
For a brief, dangerous second, something in him wants to push back. To correct him. To say that’s not all.
But Violet is standing right there.
Violet—who looks at Xaden like he’s something solid. Something she trusts.
Violet—who had just told her brother she needed him.
Destri swallows it down.
Because this isn’t about him.
It can’t be.
He forces himself to move.
Because if he stays where he is, if he lets himself linger in this moment, something will slip. Something he won’t be able to take back.
Each step toward Xaden feels heavier than it should, deliberate in a way that keeps everything contained—every thought, every memory, every piece of him that still hasn’t let go.
He stops in front of him.
Close enough to see every detail he’s memorized over the years. Close enough to remember exactly what it felt like to almost be chosen and to realize, all over again, that he wasn’t.
Destri shifts his gaze.
Just slightly.
Enough to include Violet.
Enough to remind himself why he’s here.
“I’m going to congratulate you,” Destri says, and his voice holds, barely. “You’re lucky my sister chose you.”
The words are measured, but there’s something underneath them, something quieter, more honest.
His jaw tightens before the thought can surface any further.
“But if you hurt her…” he continues, the edge returning, sharper now, safer. “I will kill you.”
“Des—” Violet protests, stepping forward, her hand brushing his arm like she’s trying to pull him back, soften the moment.
Destri doesn’t look at her.
Not yet.
Because if he does, he might falter.
He keeps his focus on Xaden.
Because that’s easier.
Because anger is easier than everything else pressing beneath it.
Xaden holds his gaze.
Steady.
Unflinching.
Unchanged.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
And Destri searches his face, just for a second, just long enough to regret it.
For anything.
A flicker of recognition.
A crack in that control.
A sign that what happened between them—what almost happened—meant something.
But there’s nothing there he can trust.
Nothing he can take with him.
So Destri nods once, small and final, and steps back.
Not away from Xaden.
But toward Violet.
Toward where he’s supposed to stand.
Because loving Xaden Riorson was never something he could control.
But this—
This is a choice.
And if there’s one thing Destri has learned, it’s that love doesn’t mean anything if you don’t choose the people who need you.
Violet needs him.
Xaden never did.
And Destri—
Still loves him anyway.