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POV: Sawyer
Riorson wants to speak to me.
I drop the note on my desk, leaning back and furrowing my brow.
Sure, Riorson’s with Violet – has been for a while now. We’ve spent time around each other, but we’re not friends. Hell, I’m not sure he even has any friends outside a handful of riders with rebellion relics. But I know he isn’t a danger to me, despite the fact that it’s very recently come to my attention that he is a venin. I swallow. Shit. Do I really know he isn’t a threat? I sheath a runed dagger discreetly, check the buckle on the newest iteration of my false leg, and head out the door with this damned cane in my hand. Gods, I can’t wait until I feel steady enough to have Sliseag burn it to ash.
I make my way toward the room marked as Professor Riorson’s temporary office. Nestled between other professors’ offices, I can fairly confidently say that this cramped space was at one time a small tome closet. The door sits open and I’m impressed to find he has fit not just a desk, but also a guest chair in the space. I knock on the doorframe, not wanting to spook the dark wielder, even if he is on our side.
Riorson glances up in exasperation from his book, and a small smile flickers across his face before he schools it back into his standard scowl. A smile, at me? What in Amari’s name is going on?
“Sawyer, thank you for coming. Please, come sit. And close the door behind you.”
I do just that, resting my cane against his desk. “I got your note,” I say, feebly, not sure what else to lead with. Not sure what to follow with either, truth be told.
“And I appreciate you coming so quickly.” He folds his hands on the desk and leans forward, his expression relaxing slightly like he’s remembered I’m not an opponent. “How have you been? I saw you the other day in the gym. You looked strong.”
I’m caught off-balance. I can’t recall Xaden Riorson ever asking me about myself. About Violet, sure. Shouting at me as a wingleader, absolutely. But the sincerity in his eyes tells me Violet has really gotten to him, softened some of those harsh edges, and I let my guard down just a bit.
“The leg is starting to feel more…normal.” I’ve had to make so many more modifications to it than I’d expected – endless mechanical adjustments to improve my gait. My metallurgy signet likely manifested because my whole family are blacksmiths back home in Luceras, but it surely does feel like this is the real reason – to find a way to survive this loss, this immense change. To have the ability to create a new leg that will truly function the way I need it to. “If I was stuck in that awful wooden leg that the healers tried to fit me with, I would have probably thrown myself off the center of the parapet…if I could have even gotten that far without accidentally tripping off first.” I stop, wondering if I’ve shared too much. But I can’t keep myself from glaring at the cane and how it makes me feel. Less than. Useless. A failure…again.
His reply is quiet, but firm. “No one would have wanted you to dive off the parapet. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.” I meet his gaze, and he clears his throat. “Anyway, your leg is sort of why I asked you here. You’ve frankly made a rather striking prosthetic.” It’s hidden under my sparring pants, but I know what he means, and I can’t deny that I’m flattered. The first versions were ugly, blocky things. Rough edges caught on the fabric of my pants and bruised my leg stump. Through what felt like endless trial and error, I’d methodically shaped and reshaped every inch of it, molding it from a harsh, ugly reminder of what I’d lost, into a smooth, shining display of who I’ve become. I’d added fine detailing where it would be no hindrance to function, because if I’m going to have a peg leg, it’s going to be a badass peg leg. My rendition of Sliseag’s swordtail curves around it, scales shimmering. Not many people have seen it yet, but once it’s truly perfected I just might have to start strutting around with it in plain sight.
Riorson continues without pause. “Your metallurgy skills have become surprisingly artistic, something most cadets can’t say about their own signets. And I wonder if I could, perhaps, commission something from you.” He drops a small pouch stuffed with several heavy somethings onto the desktop. I glance from the pouch back up to Riorson, who is watching me with a look that just might be apprehension.
“Commission?” I scoff. “I mean, sure, I’ve done something unique with my leg, but I think it’s a bit of a stretch to expect me to make something that anyone else might consider…art.”
“I don’t,” he replies immediately and with total confidence. “And before you say no, I should mention it’s something relatively small that doesn’t require much design. Frankly, it requires more general metal manipulation than anything else. You can see that it pays well,” he gestures to the pouch. He finishes with what I can tell he intends to be the killing blow, “And it’s for Violet.”
Violet. Who is helping me to find my footing, in more ways than one. She offered to help me find my way back to Sliseag, to being a rider. She supported me unconditionally when I lost my confidence. All my friends were there for me. Friends…they were family, really. But in at least one very significant way, Violet understands better than the others. She’s the only rider I can turn to who truly understands what it’s like to have a physical difference, and who will help me overcome it, if I let her.
I sigh, knowing he has me.
“Alright, tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see if I can manage it.”
Riorson lays a short, bejeweled blade on the desk. I pull it close to examine it, and from my time helping at my family’s forge I can tell that this is no ordinary dagger. It’s a lovely blade, well-balanced, sharply honed, and polished to perfection. The silver hilt holds several large emeralds faceted in a style that attests to the antiquity of the piece. It seems to be hundreds of years old, and it’s certainly not native to my home province. I’m sure the look on my face is something close to reverence at the magnificence of the piece.
“This blade is special to me…to Aretia. And before you ask, no, I don’t need you to make anything like this. Actually, I need you to pull one of the emeralds from this –“ a scoff escapes my lips and my jaw drops, “and put it into this.” He slides a small drawing across the desk, measurements scribbled in the margin. “I don’t really know what it should look like – nothing too intricate, certainly not delicate. You know the trouble she gets into. It needs it to survive her everyday life.”
“You want me to make her a ring?” It’s absolutely clear what he’s asking, yet it surprises me nearly as much as that damned wyvern when it took my leg.
He wants to marry her. I mean, he’d be a fool not to. As far as I’d seen over the past year and a half, she was undeniably the best thing that had ever happened to him. Hell, she was probably the only person on either the Continent or the isles that could stand as his equal on any level and not be utterly terrified of him, his power, and his dragon. Especially now, considering what he’s become.
And knowing Violet, there’s no way she turns him down. It’s plain to the squad that she’s been in love with him in a frankly unhealthy way for far longer than she’s cared to admit. I’m sure none of us has ever really thought the match is the best thing for her, but we all love and support our friend. We’ll support her in this, too, so long as it feels like she can keep herself safe from what he has become. Even if it does sound completely insane to marry a dark wielder. It’s not like we could do anything to stop her, anyway, so we may as well be there to help if shit hits the fan. Gods. Is it if? Or when?
Yet despite the clear insanity of the very concept, this is Riorson. He may not quite be himself, but over the time I’ve been around him he’s always been a rational, strategic thinker. He has always seemed to put Violet’s well-being above everything else. He’s always done everything he could to protect her, and to teach her to protect herself. When she told us about Riorson channeling, she also said that he’s been training her how to defeat him, even if none of us believes she’d ever truly harm him in any way.
He’s putting plans in place. If he fully turns, she’ll be prepared with a way to stop him from joining the enemy and destroying the Continent. If he doesn’t turn, they’ll be side-by-side, leading the revolution. And either way, while he’s still him, he’s preparing something for her to hold onto, no matter which way Zihnal wills the situation. It’s actually really sweet.
And Riorson is confiding in me. He’s asking for my help to craft a permanent token of his undying love for my dear friend. I inhale deeply as the weight of that hits me. I look up again to find him anxiously fidgeting with his hands. I’ve never seen Xaden Riorson nervous before.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He stares into me, through me, and a chill runs up my spine. His eyes narrow and the scrutiny there feels a bit like a threat. There’s the wingleader that I remember. “Are you…morally opposed to it?” His tone is harsh, like he’s forgotten he wants my help.
“No, trust me, there is nothing I could do to convince Violet to walk away from you, even if I wanted to, which I promise you I don’t. But a ring? I’ve never made one. And these emeralds are massive. The stone you choose would need to be nearly encased on every side so it isn’t yanked out when she’s fighting or climbing into the saddle.” Ideas suddenly whirl through my mind – functionality at the forefront, but maybe I could decoratively inlay another metal in a contrasting shade or use shallow etching to embellish the piece. My mind spins in a dozen directions, and the words spill from my lips before I realize I’ve spoken. “When would you want it?”
His face softens and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Would two weeks be enough time? I’ll get you access to the Basgiath forge. I’m guessing you’ll want to design, try some prototypes, that sort of thing?”
Fourteen days. Maybe? Maybe I could do this. I mean, I guess I’m committed now anyway. “Two weeks,” I agree with a nod.
“Great. I’ll see to it that Colonel Chester at the forge has the blade in his hands by the end of the day, as well as the raw materials and any supplies you’ll need. The back of that sheet has directions to reach the forge – the guards there will be expecting you. Please let me know if you decide you can’t meet the deadline, so I can find someone else.” He pushes the coin pouch in my direction and returns to reading his tome, A Study on Signets, settling in as a clear sign of silent dismissal. I rise, cane in hand, and turn to take the two steps to the door.
“Sawyer?” I turn back to see him looking at me once more. “She’s going to fucking love that you’re making it. Thank you.” He returns to his reading as though he hadn’t said a thing at all.