meisnothere

[meisnothere]

Shattered Wings, Burning Hearts

ao3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62185708/chapters/165526000

Chapter 2 w.c:3.34k

The staircase is narrow, darker than it should be, and cold enough that the stone beneath my boots feels like ice. I adjust my rucksack, my twin katanas shifting slightly across my back, a comforting weight in this chaos. Violet is just ahead of me, her shoulders tense under the weight of her own pack. She's trying to hide it, but I know her tells—the way her fingers twitch on the straps, the slight hitch in her breath.

"Tough to live up to that," a woman ahead of us says, her voice cutting through the silence of the tower.

"It is," I reply, my tone measured. I keep my words brief, polite, but not inviting. Conversations are distractions, and distractions get people killed.

"Sorrengail as in...?" the woman continues, looking over her shoulder as we begin to climb.

"Yep," Violet answers, her voice clipped.

"The general?" A blond guy ahead of us chimes in, his curiosity practically dripping off every word.

"The one and only," I reply smoothly before Violet can. She doesn't need to waste energy indulging every person's curiosity. My voice stays light, casual, but my gaze flicks to the guy's posture, his movements. Harmless. Probably. But I still watch his every move.

"Wow. Nice leathers, too," he says, grinning.

"Thanks. Courtesy of my sister." I nod toward the place Mira went too, deflecting the attention to her. It's a habit—keeping the spotlight away from myself, even when the questions inevitably come back around.

"I wonder how many candidates have fallen off the edge of these steps before even reaching the parapet," the woman muses, peeking nervously over the center void of the staircase.

"Two last year," Violet says, her tone steady despite the weight in her voice. "Three if you count the girl one of the guys landed on."

The woman's brown eyes widen, and she quickly focuses back on the climb. "How many steps are there?" she asks, her voice quieter now.

"Two hundred and fifty," Violet replies, as though she's been reciting the number her whole life.

"Not too bad," the woman says, a bright smile breaking through her nerves. "I'm Rhiannon Matthias, by the way."

"Violet," my sister replies, her smile tentative but genuine. I catch the subtle way her shoulders relax, the tension bleeding out of her stance.

"Dylan," the blond guy says with a wave, his enthusiasm almost irritating.

"Isla," I add simply, keeping my tone polite but detached. Rhiannon glances back at me, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. She's assessing, I realize, the same way I am. A potential ally, then. Good.

"I feel like I've been waiting my entire life for this day," Dylan says, his voice practically buzzing with excitement. "Can you believe we actually get to do this? It's a dream come true."

I glance at Violet, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to—I know exactly what she's thinking. "Some dream," I mutter under my breath.

"I can't fucking wait," Rhiannon adds with a grin. "I mean, who wouldn't want to ride a dragon?"

"Right?" Violet's smile widens slightly, and I can see her beginning to warm to Rhiannon's energy. Good. Violet needs someone like Rhiannon—a connection that isn't weighed down by expectations or history.

"What about your parents?" Dylan asks, turning his attention to Rhiannon. "Mine practically begged me to change my mind. My mom wanted me to join the Healer Quadrant instead."

"Mine have my twin to dote on," Rhiannon replies with a shrug. "Raegan's married and expecting a baby, so I've always been the wildcard. What about you?" She looks at Violet. "With a name like Sorrengail, I bet you were the first to volunteer."

"More like volun-told," Violet replies with a dry laugh.

Rhiannon chuckles, and the sound is genuine. "Gotcha."

The line shifts again, and the guy behind me—already red-faced and sweating—snickers. "You might make it across the parapet," he sneers, his tone dripping with malice. "But her?" He nods toward Violet. "She's one breeze away from the bottom."

I stop mid-step, my head snapping toward him. "Focus on yourself," I say, my voice calm but cold enough to make him pause. I tilt my head slightly, my gaze locking onto his. "Unless you'd like a demonstration of what it's like to lose your footing."

He glares at me but doesn't respond, and I turn back, satisfied.

"Thanks," Violet murmurs quietly, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Don't thank me," I reply, my voice softening slightly as I glance at her. "Just prove him wrong."

As we near the top of the stairs, the doorway spills pale light onto the stones, the murmur of the wind growing louder. The line slows, and my attention flicks to Violet and Rhiannon. Their conversation flows easily—too easily, given what's ahead. Rhiannon's confidence is infectious, and Violet seems a little lighter because of it. But my eyes fall to Rhiannon's boots, the smooth soles barely gripping the stone steps. My jaw tightens, unease coiling in my gut.

Violet notices too. "Let me see your boots," she says suddenly, her voice steady but with a thread of concern.

Rhiannon hesitates before lifting her foot, revealing what I already know—her soles are completely smooth. It's a detail most people wouldn't think about, but one that could cost her everything. My stomach twists as I imagine the worst-case scenario.

"I'm a size seven," Violet offers, already shrugging off her rucksack. "We can switch—"

"No." My voice cuts through her words, sharp and resolute. Violet stops mid-motion, her brows knitting together in confusion.

"She needs them," Violet protests, her tone firm. "If she falls—"

"She won't fall," I say, stepping closer, keeping my voice even but leaving no room for argument. "But if you give her your boots, you might. And I'm not risking you, Violet. Not for this."

"I'd still have one shoe!" Violet counters, frustration flickering in her hazel eyes. "I can make it."

I exhale slowly, forcing my voice to remain calm. "You could survive with one shoe, sure. But the parapet isn't just about survival—it's about control. Balance. One slip, one hesitation, and that's all it takes. I'm not taking that chance—not with you."

She opens her mouth to argue again, but I raise a hand to stop her. "Vi, I know you mean well. Your heart's in the right place. But think. You can't help her if you're the one who falls."

For a moment, she stares at me, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Fine," she mutters, though I can see her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

I crouch, pulling the dagger from my boot. The weight of it in my hand is grounding, a reminder of years spent honing instincts that don't allow for mistakes. Dad's voice echoes in my mind: Control the variables, Isla. Always.

Rhiannon watches with wide eyes as I grab her left boot, scoring the sole with quick, precise cuts. Then I move to the other, carving a crisscross pattern into the leather.

"There," I say, sliding the blade back into its sheath and straightening. "It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing."

Rhiannon stares at the marks, then back at me. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I reply, my tone clipped. "Just focus on getting across."

The line starts moving again, and Violet falls into step beside me. She's quiet at first, but I can feel her gaze on me, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, she exhales sharply. "You didn't have to be so harsh."

"Harsh?" I glance at her, arching a brow. "Violet, I was honest. There's a difference."

Her lips press together. "I wasn't being reckless."

"No," I admit, softening slightly. "You weren't. You were being you. And that's why I stepped in—so you can keep being you without ending up at the bottom of a ravine."

Her expression shifts, a flicker of frustration giving way to something quieter. "You know I'm capable, right?" Her voice is soft, almost hesitant.

"Of course I do," I say, my voice lowering. "But capability isn't invincibility. And I've already lost too much to take risks with you."

She glances at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. "Lost too much?" she asks, though her tone is careful as if she's testing the waters.

I don't answer right away. The memories press in, sharp and unwelcome: Damian's laugh cut short, Mom's whispered reassurances in the chaos, Dad's unrelenting resolve until the very end. Jason's body... My jaw tightens, and I force the thoughts away.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally, keeping my tone neutral. "What matters is keeping you alive."

She doesn't press, but I catch the way her gaze lingers on me, the wheels in her mind undoubtedly turning. She's too sharp not to notice the weight of my words, even if she doesn't understand their full meaning.

After a moment, she sighs and adjusts her pack. "Fine. But next time, maybe don't shut me down so fast."

"Deal," I say, my lips twitching into a small smirk. "As long as you think before you act."

Rhiannon clears her throat, glancing between us with a faint smile. "Are you two always like this?"

"Pretty much," Violet says with a laugh, her earlier tension easing.

"Always," I agree, though my voice carries a quieter weight. Because I'll always step in for her, whether she wants me to or not. I just hope I don't lose her trying.

Good call on the braid, Mira, Isla thought as they reached the top of the turret. The crenelations of stone rose and fell along the circular structure, the height doing nothing to obscure the view of the ravine far below.

Isla's sharp gaze swept downward, landing on the wagons parked by the ravine's edge. Five, maybe six wagons. It was just enough for the bodies they'd collect today. Her mind churned through the familiar statistics: the parapet claimed roughly fifteen percent of the rider candidates. The wagons below weren't just for this trial. They were a grim reminder that every moment in Basgiath was a battle for survival, designed to push cadets past their limits and break the weakest links.

Four months. She'd been here for only four months, but it was long enough to learn the truth: Basgiath was brutal, but it wasn't the League of Assassins. The League had been worse—far worse. The League stripped you of choice and individuality, shaping you into a weapon, reducing your value to how well you could kill. Basgiath at least offered a purpose, even if it required sacrifice. Still, both were equally disgusting in their exploitation of life, and Isla had seen enough of death to hate this kind of cruelty in all its forms.

She exhaled, scanning the crowd ahead. Violet stood at the edge of the turret, her posture rigid but composed, brushing her fingers against the stone. Isla could see the tension in her sister's shoulders, the way her eyes darted across the structure, calculating and planning. Violet wasn't reckless, but she wasn't indestructible either. Not yet. Isla tightened her grip on her rucksack. She wouldn't lose Violet—not here, not like this.

As they approached the parapet entrance, three riders stood waiting. One, a scruffy figure in ripped-off sleeves, scribbled names as candidates stepped onto the bridge. The second, his hair shaved into a strip down the center, gestured for Dylan to move forward. Isla watched him tug the ring around his neck, his grin wide as he stepped onto the parapet with arms spread wide.

Too confident, Isla thought grimly. Confidence was one thing; arrogance was a death sentence. Her instincts prickled as she watched Dylan wobble slightly, the wind catching at his tunic. He corrected himself quickly, but Isla's gut told her the parapet wouldn't be kind to him.

Her attention shifted to the third rider. He turned fully toward them, and for a moment, everything else faded. He was tall, his windblown black hair framing piercing gold-flecked onyx eyes that seemed to burn through her. His jawline was sharp, his stubble emphasizing the harsh structure of his face. He was beautiful in a way that knotted Isla's stomach—not for his looks, but for the danger that radiated from him.

The rebellion relics snaking up his wrist and neck caught her attention, intricate and deliberate. She didn't flinch. Symbols meant nothing to her. The League had taught her to read people, not appearances. A kind smile could hide a killer just as easily as scars could mark a protector. He wasn't a threat—not yet—but she'd keep him in her sights. People like him never faded into the background.

"See you three on the other side!" Dylan's voice cut through her thoughts, his cheerful tone almost jarring as he stepped further onto the parapet.

"Vi, Rhiannon." Isla's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and commanding. She didn't need to raise it for them to listen. "Listen closely."

Both turned to her, their gazes locking onto Isla's calm, calculating expression as she motioned toward the parapet.

"Keep your arms out wide, but don't lock your elbows," Isla began. "Bend them slightly. It'll help with balance if the wind shifts suddenly." Her tone was firm, a quiet authority that left no room for debate. Rhiannon nodded quickly, her brow furrowed in thought.

Violet raised a brow at Isla, her expression tinged with reluctant amusement. "You've really thought this through."

"Of course I have," Isla replied flatly. "And you should too. The wind funnels through the ravine—it's not consistent. When you step onto the parapet, move quickly, but not carelessly. Short, deliberate steps. The longer you're out there, the more chances the wind gets to knock you off."

Rhiannon frowned, her nervousness barely hidden behind her usual sharp demeanor. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." Isla's sharp gaze flicked to her. "Focus on the stones ahead of you, not the ones under your feet. If you fixate on every step, you'll psych yourself out. Trust your body. The stones might be uneven, but they're stable enough if you don't freeze."

Violet's lips pressed into a thin line, absorbing Isla's instructions with quiet intensity. "You're really not leaving anything to chance, are you?" she asked, her tone softer this time.

Isla's gaze shifted, briefly locking with her sister's. "No, I'm not," she said quietly. Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a weight of something unspoken. The words hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, Violet's expression changed. Concern flickered across her face before she glanced back at the bridge.

Isla didn't elaborate. Instead, she turned back to the parapet, her jaw tightening.

"Anything else we should know?" Rhiannon asked, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Isla's focus shifted to the stones of the bridge. Her keen eyes scanned every uneven surface, every gust of wind rattling through the ravine. "Don't stop. Not for anything. If you hesitate, the fear will catch you, and that's when people fall."

Silence followed, the weight of her words sinking in.

"Got it," Violet finally said, her voice firm.

Rhiannon exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks."

Isla nodded curtly, already turning her attention to the figure of Dylan ahead of them. His casual confidence grated on her nerves—not because she doubted him, but because she knew better. Basgiath didn't reward confidence; it punished it. His wide, carefree steps on the parapet were almost painful to watch.

"Is he going to be okay?" Violet asked quietly, following Isla's gaze.

Isla's jaw tightened. "No," she said after a moment, her voice low. "He's not steady enough. That wind..."

Violet's eyes widened slightly, but Isla shook her head. "Focus on yourselves. You can't save everyone."

"Isla..." Violet began, her tone uncertain, but Isla didn't let her finish.

"Vi, I need you alive on the other side of that bridge. That's all that matters to me," Isla said firmly, her gaze piercing. She glanced at Rhiannon. "You too. Use what I told you."

Rhiannon swallowed hard and nodded. "I will."

Isla's attention flicked back to Dylan, and her stomach twisted. Hope and recklessness—Basgiath devoured both. But she wouldn't let Violet and Rhiannon become part of that statistic. As for the others?

She glanced briefly at the tall, dark-haired rider near the parapet's entrance. He was watching her again, his gaze sharp, almost too sharp. She couldn't read his expression, but she didn't have time to care. Isla turned back to Violet and Rhiannon.

"Stay close," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll get through this."

And with that, Isla straightened, her shoulders squared, her mind already running a dozen calculations. Not everyone makes it. But my sister will.

"Ready for the next one, Riorson?" the rider with the ripped sleeves asks.

Xaden turns. His gaze slices through the crowd like a blade, black eyes sharp, deliberate. It lands on Violet first—only for a breath. Then it slides past her and lands on me.

And stays.

"You're General Sorrengail's youngest," he says to Violet, but his voice lacks conviction. His eyes never leave me.

Violet straightens. "And you're Fen Riorson's son."

His jaw clenches like stone cracking. "Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution."

"And your father killed my older brother," Violet shoots back, voice hard. "Seems like we're even."

He doesn't blink. "Hardly."

That's when he turns to me fully. The smirk unfurls slowly—dangerous, deliberate.

"You're the ghost," he says.

I raise a brow, expression smooth. "Is that what they're calling me now?"

"No," he says. "That's what I'm calling you."

His voice is quiet—gravel over silk. A tone meant to draw blood or a secret. Maybe both.

I smirk, folding my arms. "It's got a ring to it. Better than 'Lost Sorrengail.'"

"I've seen ghosts before." His eyes narrow slightly, tracing the outline of my twin katanas. "They don't usually carry themselves like weapons."

I tilt my head. "You'd be surprised what I carry."

His mouth twitches—like he wants to smile, but won't. "I'm sure I would."

Then, a long, calculated look. "Nice of you to finally join the family. I was starting to think you'd never show up."

I take a single step forward, sliding half in front of Violet. It's subtle. Intentional. My voice is still calm, but it sharpens. "You've got a lot of opinions for someone who doesn't know what he's talking about."

One of his brows lifts. There's a flicker of amusement there. "I know enough. You carry those blades like you know how to use them, but this isn't the kind of place that rewards skill without loyalty."

"Loyalty isn't your strong suit, is it?" I reply, tilting my head. "Funny thing, considering where you come from."

The muscle in his jaw flexes. But he doesn't rise to it.

Instead, he says, "You going to cross, or are you waiting for applause?"

I offer a slow, saccharine smile. "You planning to throw us off the parapet? Seems a bit dramatic, even for you."

He leans in slightly, just enough to make it feel like a secret. "Why waste the effort," he murmurs, "when the parapet will do it for me?"

Rhiannon stiffens behind me.

I just smile wider. "You're charming."

"And you're dangerous," he says, voice quieter now.

My smirk deepens. "You have no idea."

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just studies me like I'm something he hasn't decided how to handle yet.

"Good luck, Ghost," he says at last.

"I don't need luck," I reply.

But then Violet grabs my hand. Just a heartbeat. A tether.

"Just in case," she whispers.

I squeeze back once.

"Stay focused, Vi," I murmur, stepping in close. "Short, deliberate steps. Don't look down. Don't stop."

She nods.

And then she's gone—stepping out into the storm.

Rhiannon follows.

The wind howls. The world narrows.

I draw one breath.

And step into the storm behind them.

[meisnothere]

Shattered Wings, Burning Hearts

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62185708/chapters/165526537#workskin

Chapter 1:

w.c: 2.85k

The twin katanas strapped across my back shift slightly as I adjust the straps, their weight grounding me. Damian's weight.

My twin, my equal—not just by birth, but by choice.

We weren't just siblings. We were forged side by side in the League of Assassins, molded into weapons. We knew pain before we knew love, and silence before we knew peace. The League taught us how to fight, to kill, to endure—but not how to live.

Bruce and Selina gave that back to us.

Bruce Wayne—my father in every way that mattered—taught me that strength wasn't about dominance; it was about protection. And Selina, with her untamed grace and sharp-edged warmth, taught me that trust wasn't weakness—it was the foundation we built our family on.

Damian and I believed in that family.

Jason's fire.

Tim's intellect.

Dick's hope.

Stephanie's laughter.

Cass's strength.

Duke's loyalty.

Jon's light.

Even through blood, chaos, and masks—we were happy.

Until eighteen months ago.

The last war took everything.

We fought together in a battle that was supposed to be the last.

And it was.

Bruce. Selina. Damian. Jason. Tim. Dick. Steph. Cass. Duke. Jon. Even the League.

All gone.

We won the war.

But the price was paid for by blood.

I was there when the sky broke open.

I fought beside them until the end, watching my family fall one by one—resolute, brilliant, fearless.

And I lived.

That was the hardest part.

10 months later, I crossed the Veil.

The barrier between the modern world and places like Navarre, Poromiel, and the provinces beyond. A hidden boundary, created to protect these lands from the technological and supernatural chaos of our world. It succeeded in containing what it feared.

But not in keeping its own demons out.

I didn't cross it to heal.

I crossed it because I had nowhere left to go.

I followed whispers and bloodlines until I found what was left of me.

Lilith Sorrengail. General. Mother. Stranger.

She didn't welcome me. She didn't even blink.

She took one look at me and said:

"You'll report to Basgiath War College with your sister. Prepare."

No conversation. No questions. No attempt to know the girl she lost to the shadows.

Just another soldier to place on the board.

They knew I was taken as a baby. A maid who longed for a child.

But they don't know the truth.

She didn't raise me.

She sold me.

To the League of Assassins.

I was trained in shadows. I was shaped by fear. I was designed to kill. And I never told them that part.

Because the girl they think I am and the weapon I became—those are two very different people.

The katanas on my back belonged to Damian—my reflection.

Jason's guns are hidden at my waist. No one here knows what they are.

Bruce's batarangs, Tim's gadgets, Stephanie's keepsakes—all stored in a rucksack powered by Wayne nanotech.

Everything I have left—condensed into tech this world has never seen.

Everything I carry—memories, ghosts, tools for survival.

Basgiath is not Gotham.

It never will be.

But Mira and Violet—they're why I stay.

Mira's fire reminds me of Jason.

Violet's quiet strength echoes Tim's.

We're not close. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I feel something when I look at them.

Violet and I are twins, though you wouldn't know it. She's the older one—five minutes older. She's small, soft, and breakable in ways that make this world cruel to her.

But she keeps going.

I've spent months helping her train. Pushing her body. Sharpening her will.

She's stronger now.

Still fragile, still fighting—but stronger.

Mira doesn't need my protection. But I'll protect her anyway.

Because I couldn't save the family I loved.

But maybe I can protect the one I have left.

The katanas shift again as I sling the rucksack over my shoulder. The weight feels familiar. Reassuring.

I glance out the window as I step into the light. Below, Violet waits—her own bag already heavy on her back.

We walk side by side toward Conscription Day.

She doesn't speak. Neither do I.

We don't know each other well enough for casual conversation. But we move in sync anyway.

By the time we reach the top of the stairs outside our mother's office, Violet is visibly struggling. Her hands tremble. Her breathing is shallow. Her body shakes under the weight she was never built to carry.

I don't reach for her. Not this time.

Because pain is the price of surviving here.

And she has to pay it if she wants to live.

Muffled voices drift through the thick wooden door.

"You're sending them to die!"

Mira.

Only one person on the continent shouts at General Sorrengail without flinching.

Violet glances at me.

We push the door open together.

Mira spins toward us like a blade unsheathed.

"While Isla might survive," she says sharply, "Violet doesn't stand a chance!"

Violet flinches. Her rucksack shifts, almost toppling her.

I step forward and steady her silently.

She pulls herself upright, shoulders rigid.

Mira doesn't wait. She storms forward and yanks the bag off Violet's back like it's poison.

"She can't even carry her gear!"

"I'm fine!" Violet says, breathless, red-faced, but stubborn as hell.

Mira glances at me. There's expectation in her eyes—like I owe her something.

Loyalty, maybe. Support. Blood.

I don't give her either.

I look at Violet instead.

She's pale. Trembling. But her chin is lifted.

She's choosing this.

I turn back to Mira.

"She's tougher than you think," I say, voice low and calm. "If she wasn't, she wouldn't still be standing."

It's not comfort. It's truth.

Mira narrows her eyes. "You think that's enough?"

"No," I say. "But it's a start."

Lilith—General Sorrengail—finally speaks.

"You're not here to make evaluations."

I meet her gaze.

"And yet, here I am."

Something flickers in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Not maternal. Tactical.

She nods once. Subtle. Cold. Approval dressed as authority.

Of course she approves.

I'm everything she values—obedient, efficient, lethal.

But she doesn't know me. And she doesn't want to.

I don't care anymore.

"You can't do this," Mira says, her voice strained now, closer to breaking than before.

"It's already done," Lilith replies, unbothered.

She leans back against her desk, perfectly composed.

"You were built for this," she tells Mira. "Violet is not."

"She's not weak," I say before I can stop myself.

Lilith's eyes flick to me again.

"No," she agrees. "She's resilient. She deals with more pain before breakfast than most riders see in a week."

Mira's disbelief sharpens into something else. "You think she can survive this?"

"She has to," Lilith says. "Because if she doesn't, she dies."

Her voice is steel. Final. A sentence, not a strategy.

The room goes quiet.

Violet doesn't speak. But her eyes burn.

Mira doesn't speak. But her fists are clenched.

And me?

I've seen people walk into death before.

I've seen people I loved do it.

But this time, I'm still breathing.

And that means I still have a choice.

I couldn't save Bruce.

I couldn't save Damian.

I couldn't save any of them.

But this time, I'm here.

This time, I'll do whatever it takes.

Because they won't die.

Not this time.

---

After a few clipped words from our mother—mostly directed at Violet—we're dismissed. No hugs. No good lucks. Just another line in the strategy.

Classic General Sorrengail. Motherhood reduced to a checklist.

Mira leads us toward Violet's old room. It's already stripped clean—efficient, impersonal, like Violet never existed here at all.

"She's nothing if not efficient," Mira mutters as she surveys the emptiness.

"Efficiently unbothered," I say, crossing my arms. "If you're looking for warmth, you're in the wrong war quadrant."

Mira doesn't laugh, but her lips twitch. I'll take that as a win.

The room smells of stale air and old paper, stripped of identity like everything else in this fortress. Just four stone walls and the ghost of who Violet was supposed to be.

I glance around, bare as bone. Just like them. Gone, every one of them—Bruce, Selina, Damian, the rest of my family. Their faces come to me in flashes. The way Cass used to tilt her head when she didn't understand something. The way Tim hummed when he worked. I carry them all like armor—and like chains.

"I thought maybe I could talk her out of it," Mira says, casting a glance at Violet. "You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant."

"You've mentioned," Violet says dryly. "More than once."

"Sorry," Mira replies, quieter. Then she looks at me. "And Isla... I don't know what you expected coming here, but—"

"A warm embrace? A nice dinner? Maybe a long walk through family trauma?" I quip. "Nah. This tracks."

I flick a glance at Violet and add, softer, "But if I'm jumping into the fire, I'd rather burn beside her."

Violet smiles, just barely.

It's strange, caring for someone who shares your face but not your memories. Violet feels like something half-remembered from a dream. A life I should have lived but didn't. Still, I want her to live. Maybe that's enough.

But it's not easy to care again. Not after watching everyone I loved be buried beneath fire and smoke.

I can still smell the ash sometimes, in quiet moments. Still feel the heat against my skin. The silence after everything burned.

Mira drops her pack to the ground and crouches, rummaging.

"What are you doing?" Violet asks.

"What Brennan did for me," Mira says quietly, pulling out a worn leather sheath. Her fingers linger on it for just a second longer than necessary. "I wish I'd had more time with both of you."

Then, straightening, she asks, "Can either of you use a sword?"

I tap the twin katanas strapped across my back. "Gifted. And deadly."

Mira raises a brow. "Those are definitely not standard issue."

"They're not just for looks," I say, grinning. "Though the intimidation bonus is a nice touch."

They were Damian's. My twin in more ways than one. Every fight I carry them into feels like dragging a ghost beside me. These blades have drawn blood, ended battles, and saved my life more times than I can count. Their weight grounds me—just like the others.

Jason's pistols rest against my hips, hidden beneath my jacket. Bruce's batarangs sit tucked in a sheath sewn inside my rucksack, beside Tim's tools and a few of Cass's knives. Stephanie's charm is in the front pocket, next to a note I never finished writing.

Fifteen daggers are hidden across my body—ankles, sleeves, back, boots. I'm a walking arsenal. But no one here needs to know that. They see a girl with katanas. Let them underestimate the rest.

I adjust the strap on my rucksack out of habit. The nanotech shell shifts lightly across my shoulder. It's impossibly light, storing more than any bag should, but today it feels heavier than ever.

"Who taught you?" Violet asks, eyeing the hilts.

I smile faintly. "Let's just say I had mentors who valued survival over bedtime stories."

And a father who taught me control wasn't about silence—it was about choice. That power meant nothing without restraint.

Mira watches me closely but doesn't press. Wise choice.

"And you?" she asks Violet.

"Daggers. Swords are too heavy."

"I like it," I say. "Fast, quiet, efficient. Remind me never to stand too close when you're bored."

Mira tosses Violet a uniform and boots. "You'll need these."

She turns to me, holding out a pair.

I raise my foot, showing the textured soles of my boots. "Already got mine. Custom-crafted. Good grip. Comfortable in the chaos."

Built using tech from the only home I ever truly knew. Wayne nanotech lines the soles and seams—adaptive traction, sound-dampening, resistance to cold. Every step I take is laced with the ingenuity of the people who raised me.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she lets it go.

The bell tolls overhead.

Violet's shoulders tense. Her hands tighten around her rucksack straps.

"We're not dying today," I say, voice low and steady.

She glances at me. Then nods.

"You have more strength than you think, Vi."

And she does. I see it in the way she keeps going, even when her body screams otherwise. In another world, I would've protected her as a sister. In this one, I still will.

I've trained Violet every day for months—helped her build muscle, endurance, speed. Her balance is better. Her grip is steadier. She won't die because she's weak. Not on my watch.

But even as I say it, something aches. Not just in my chest, but deep in my bones. A kind of weariness that doesn't sleep or fade. I haven't let myself rest—not since the war ended, not since the ash settled and silence replaced voices I loved.

There's no space for weakness in me. But gods, I am tired.

Tired of surviving. Tired of pretending it doesn't hurt. Tired of waiting for someone to come back when I already know no one will.

We join the line for the Riders Quadrant. The parapet looms above like a dare carved from the bones of the mountain. Narrow. Wind-battered. Ancient. The kind of thing that tests what you're made of.

I've already been tested. Basgiath just doesn't know it yet.

The stone underfoot is slick with mist. Wind claws at my clothes, sneaking through the seams. I shift my stance out of instinct, adjusting for the uneven slope.

Violet stares at it, pale.

"Eyes forward," I murmur. "Not down. The stone doesn't care how scared you are—so don't give it a reason to test you."

"If the pack shifts?" she whispers.

"Shift with it. Like dancing. Or dodging knives."

"I can't dance."

"You can dodge, though."

That earns a breathy laugh. Barely there, but real.

The second bell chimes.

"Don't waste time making friends," Mira calls over her shoulder. "Forge alliances. That's what keeps you alive."

I arch a brow. "Says the girl who's clearly never had a real friend."

No one survives alone. I learned that from a family of fighters who bled for each other—who would've burned the world down if it meant saving one of us.

Then Mira says, "Stay away from Xaden Riorson."

That makes Violet go still.

"That Xaden?" I ask. "The Wingleader?"

Mira nods. "Son of the Great Betrayer. He's dangerous."

"And yet... still here." My voice is quiet. "Interesting."

"He was conscripted with the rest of the rebellion leaders' children. No one thought he'd survive. But once his dragon bonded..."

"Suddenly killing him became inconvenient," I finish.

She nods grimly.

I exhale slowly. "Why blame children for their parents' mistakes?"

Mira turns slightly, surprised.

"I was raised by someone who believed your legacy doesn't define you," I say softly. "But punishing someone for blood they didn't spill? That's not justice. That's fear dressed as honor."

She doesn't reply. But I see the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"Find Dain once you cross," she adds. "He'll help you."

Violet's face shifts at the name. There's warmth there. Hope.

Then, a voice from behind.

"If she survives the parapet."

We both turn.

Blonde. Smirking. Loud enough for attention, not brave enough to meet my eyes.

I raise an eyebrow. "You rehearse that line, or are you just naturally unpleasant?"

He falters.

"She'll survive," I say, gaze sharp but voice still easy. "Though your odds are rapidly declining—mostly due to personality."

Violet stifles a laugh. Mira hides a smirk. The boy flushes and looks away.

I hope he falls. But I won't say it. Not today.

"Next!"

Captain Fitzgibbons glances down the line.

"Violet Sorrengail?"

Violet steps forward, signs her name.

"I thought you were meant for the Scribes," he says, not unkindly.

"She was," Mira says flatly. "Then General Sorrengail changed that."

"She had promise."

"She still does," I say, meeting his eyes.

The rider beside him squints. "You're Mira Sorrengail?"

"I am," she says. "This is Violet."

"If she survives," the blonde boy mutters again.

I don't even turn this time. "If you trip over your own shadow, do we have to pretend to care?"

That shuts him up.

Mira gestures to me. "And this is Isla. My other sister. The one who was taken."

The rider blinks. "Everyone thought you were dead."

"Not dead," I say. "Just... misplaced."

We reach the base of the parapet stairs.

Mira turns, her voice lower now. "Don't die, Violet. Isla. I'd hate to be an only child."

I grin. "We're the ones who make the Sorrengail name bearable. You'd miss us."

She snorts and walks away.

Violet looks at me, pale but steady.

"You ready?" she asks.

I adjust the strap on my shoulder. The katanas shift across my back, their weight familiar—like memory, like loss.

"I was born in the shadows, Vi," I say with a soft smile. "Heights don't scare me."

But losing someone again? That terrifies me.

And so we step toward the edge.

[meisnothere]

Shattered Wings, Burning Hearts

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62185708/chapters/165526000

Prologue:

To say life had been anything but pleasant would be an understatement.

Life had been a wheel—spinning forward, relentless, predictable. And then it stopped. Not with grace or warning, but with a crash so violent it shattered everything Isla knew. The worst part? She wasn't sure she could get it turning again.

She wasn't sure she even wanted to.

All she could do now was move forward. Even if that meant stumbling like a chicken with its head cut off, held together by instinct alone.

Isla Sorrengail.

That was her name now—her curse, her truth, her mask. She'd discovered its meaning during one of many sleepless nights, half-researching and half-spiraling: "someone who escaped death."

Fitting, really.

Because Isla had escaped death so many times, she'd stopped counting.

She'd been taken through the Veil when she was just a year old.

No memory of Navarre. No memory of the name "Sorrengail."

She was raised in a world far removed from this one—one of sirens, shadows, towering buildings, and masked vigilantes. A city where survival was earned and weakness didn't last.

And she had been happy there.

She had brothers—Dick, Jason, Damian—and sisters—Stephanie, Cassandra.

And above all of them, there was him.

The man who raised her to be better. Smarter. Stronger.

He never gave her softness, but he gave her something deeper: purpose.

And she had loved him.

She had loved all of them.

Eighteen months ago, a war came—not the political one from history books, but the one that took her family. That reduced her home to ruins and her name to ashes. And when the smoke cleared, there was nothing left to keep her there.

So she looked deeper. Past the veil. Past what she knew.

And she found them.

The Sorrengails.

Her biological mother? General Lilith Sorrengail, one of Navarre's most feared military leaders.

Her father? Asher. Dead—heart failure.

Her brother? Brennan, fallen six years ago in the war with Tyrrendor.

And two sisters: Mira, commanding and poised; and Violet, the older twin by five minutes.

They weren't cruel.

But they weren't hers.

And Lilith?

Lilith had seen her once—once—before issuing orders like she was just another soldier on the chessboard.

"You'll be at Basgiath War College. With your sister. Start preparing."

No welcome. No connection.

No motherhood.

Isla didn't argue. Didn't ask why.

Because after everything, what was left to fight for?

She spent the first four months exploring the provinces of Navarre —Morraine, Tyrrendor, Luceras, Calldyr, De Aconshire, and Elsum. Studying the world she was born into but had never known. Trying to understand the kingdom her blood came from.

And now... now she stood at the base of the cliff, looking up at a college carved from stone and blood.

Basgiath War College.

Where Riders are forged—or killed.

Where dragons choose the worthy and the weak die trying.

Where strength isn't praised—it's expected.

Navarre itself felt like a kingdom frozen in time.

Candles instead of lights. Horses instead of airships.

Tradition wrapped in cold metal and ritual.

But there was her family.

And family made it worth staying.

No matter how left out she might feel.

Mira had been kind. Kind enough. But distant. They hadn't clicked.

Violet had tried harder. Earnest and sharp. Always checking in during her own training, trying to be a sister Isla could reach.

Isla appreciated it. She really did.

But it didn't change the truth.

She didn't feel like a daughter.

Didn't feel like a sister.

Didn't feel like anything, really.

Felt like she didn't know anything. 

Except this:

She knew how to fight.

She didn't belong in the world she came from.

And she didn't belong here, either.

But she could survive here.

Because fighting was the only thing that ever made sense.

And if Basgiath demanded blood to earn her place—

Isla Sorrengail would bleed.