She was hunched over his armor, treating the leather with pyraflora resin anywhere it had thinned or worn off—part of her underwing duties. The smell was pungent, and despite the growing twilight, she worked by the glow of two phoenixes: Xephyra and Rex, nestled on either side of her.
Rex was the first to note Tristan’s approach, shaking out his wings and tilting his head in Tristan’s direction.
Absorbed in her work, Veronyka didn’t look up or notice his presence. “Steady, Rex. You’re making the light dance….”
Something about the way she addressed Tristan’s bondmate, with affection and familiarity, made Tristan’s chest swell.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be working until it’s dark,” Tristan offered after watching her for several silent moments. Veronyka twisted to look up at him.
Her face fell, and she immediately looked away, avoiding his gaze—as she had every day since their last match in the ring. Tristan couldn’t figure out if it was anger or embarrassment or something else entirely, but he was tired of guessing. With a pat on Rex’s rump and a jerk of his chin, Tristan dismissed his bondmate, who ruffled his feathers in haughty indignation, taking to the air only to flutter around Veronyka’s other side and settle next to Xephyra instead. Tristan smiled, knowing Rex’s reaction was mostly a performance, thanks to their bond. He promised candied ginger—Rex’s favorite—tomorrow, and his bondmate perked up considerably.
“So,” Tristan said, easing down onto the ground next to Veronyka. He glanced at her, features cast into profile thanks to Xephyra’s glow. Her hair had grown a bit since she’d first arrived here—well, since Tristan first took her as a captive. The memory made him smile now. He thought of the way she’d constantly challenged him and made him better. She’d been Nyk then, and when he’d discovered that she’d been lying about who she was, he’d feared he’d lost the person he knew. The person he was rapidly growing more-than-friendship feelings for. But Veronyka was Nyk, and Nyk was Veronyka. His feelings hadn’t changed. They continued to grow with each passing day.
Her shoulders shifted slightly—she was aware of his presence but unwilling to face him. “So,” she said in response, head still bowed over her work.
Veronyka’s hair was blacker than night, silken and shiny, often falling into her eyes or whipping in the wind. Tristan loved the wildness of it, and he could picture her in a few years, head heavy with beads and braids commemorating all her achievements. He never doubted that she would get there, knew that it would happen… but maybe she didn’t. Maybe that was why her perceived failure cut so deep. She had been through more to become a Rider than anyone he knew: years of constant fear and poverty, the death of her bondmate—by her sister’s own hand, which Veronyka had only recently revealed to him. He’d disliked Val before, but now just the thought of her was enough to make Tristan’s blood boil. He could only imagine how Veronyka felt about her, having to flee their home and pretend to be a boy, not to mention the reappearance of her phoenix and the battle for the Eyrie. She had come so far, but she still wasn’t there. Tristan understood the feeling, if only marginally, and had wanted to make things easier for her, but since when had Veronyka ever wanted anything easy?
She continued to ignore him, so Tristan reached across her and snatched the leather armor, flinging it unceremoniously to his other side. Her mouth opened, scandalized—she was far more careful and meticulous with his gear than he was—and he grinned. She smiled too, but reluctantly.
Tristan’s face fell, and he sighed. “You’re mad at me,” he said.
“No, I’m not,” she said at once.
He stared expectantly at her, brows raised. She didn’t look at him, but made a sudden lunge for the armor, diving across his lap. He caught her, a laugh rumbling in his chest at her determination, and reached back to knock the leather off the walkway and down into the echoing caverns of the Eyrie a hundred feet below.
“Tristan,” Veronyka scolded, but she was smiling. No damage would come to it, and Tristan could get it tomorrow.
They were still pressed together, Veronyka leaning across his body, Tristan with one arm wrapped around her—at first to pull her back, but now that arm held her close. Her body coiled with tension, as if always ready for action… or prepared for attack. Tristan knew it was Val who had made her this way, and his anger toward the girl flared again, hot and fierce.
Veronyka finally looked up at him, their eyes catching and holding. He felt something, a pull or tug that seemed to reach deep down into the pit of his stomach. Next to them, Xephyra crooned softly, and Veronyka pulled away.
“I’m not mad,” she said, putting the lid back onto the jar of resin and wiping her hands on a rag. “Not at you.”
“At who?” Tristan asked, sitting up and fixing his tunic, which had been pulled askew. He wanted to touch her again, but her demeanor was still distant. She was talking to him, at least. “Not yourself.”
“No. Yes. I…” She blew a puff of air out through her lips, causing pieces of her hair to flutter. “I’m mad at everyone and everything. Aren’t you?”
Tristan was taken back by the question, but before he could answer, Veronyka continued.
“I just want to be able to contribute.”
“But you will—you already do,” Tristan protested.
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Tristan… nothing’s happening. People are missing, the villages are crumbling… and I’m just sitting here. We’re just sitting here. And when something finally does happen, if I’m not a Master Rider… if I can’t even compete with the Master Riders”—she darted a glance at him before continuing—“then what? I don’t want to be left behind.”
Tristan sighed and leaned back, his head resting against the stone wall and his legs stretched out before him. Her concerns were valid. His father was cautious almost to the point of inaction, though Tristan knew in his heart that Commander Cassian was no coward. He did things for a reason, but he rarely let people in on those calculations. They were too limited in number to strike back at the empire—at least in the military sense—but surely there were other things to be done. They could recruit foot soldiers or hire mercenaries, set up a border defense or take residence in one of the remaining outposts from before the war. Their existence now felt like the taut string on a drawn bow, and Tristan wanted to be ready when the arrow was loosed.
But of course, Tristan also knew that when the time came, the commander would be unlikely to allow new recruits to join in the fighting. Unless the circumstances were dire, like the surprise attack on the Eyrie. Ten fully trained Riders were more potent than fifteen untrained, and the more practice and experience the apprentices got before their next battle, the more likely that they would survive beyond it.
“Well, like you said, nothing’s happening, which means there’s still time.”
This didn’t seem to please her. He supposed it was small consolation, the kind of assurance his father had given him over and over again as he strove to rise in the Rider ranks.
The kind of reassurance Tristan had hated too.
“It’s not just that,” Veronyka said, staring down at her hands where they sat in her lap. “Why did you hold back during the last match?”