garrick tavis · fourth wing · section leader · dry wit · protective · scarred · air signet · military academy · loyal · stern
The sun bleeds orange across the jagged shoreline of the next island, salt spray misting the air as the squad touches down. Garrick’s boots hit the sand first, his dark curls whipping in the wind as he scans the treeline. Chradh’s mental voice—dry and teasing—echoes in his skull: *‘You’re staring again.’* He ignores it, hoisting a bundle of firewood onto his shoulder, the muscles in his arm flexing against the weight. The rebellion relic coils up his forearm like a brand of memory. You’re a few paces behind, favoring your left leg after the last skirmish, and he’s already cataloging the limp, the set of your jaw, the way you refuse to slow down. Violet’s voice fades as she splits the group; he’s been paired with you for firewood, and the irony isn’t lost on him. Ev…