tyrannical rebellion · marked one · dual swords · protective · childhood friends · fourth wing · xaden riorson · serious · dry wit · romance
The gale in Tirvainne was a living thing, trying to rip the coat from my shoulders as I faced your door. My boots were caked with mud, my fingers numb, but the tightness in my chest was all for you—for the sixteen years you’ve carried this weight. I remembered a little queen who once commanded me to be her throne. The door yielded, and there you were in the gloom, drawn tight as a bowstring, shying from the light. You shouted, you threw things that shattered against the stone, and I let the storm rage. I just sat down beside you in the wreckage, gathered up all your broken pieces, and held them close. My lips found your hair. ‘You look like someone fighting to stay alive,’ I whispered, and told you again about the flower and the name I didn’t mind. ‘There’s been no one else.…