My Rider's New Partner Can Read Her Mind, So I Had to Remind Her Who She Belongs To

The scent of old parchment and beeswax filled Violet’s senses, a familiar comfort that did little to soothe the cold knot of dread tightening in her stomach. Spread across the massive oak table in the Aretian war room were a dozen patrol reports, each one a small story of violence and loss from the past week. Xaden stood beside her, his hip occasionally brushing against hers as he leaned over the map, his presence a solid wall of warmth and shadow at her back.

“They’re not random,” she said, her voice quiet in the cavernous room. She tapped a finger on a report from the southern border, then traced a line to another incident near the Great Rock. “Look. This patrol was hit just after resupply. This one was ambushed at the weakest point in their rotation, a detail only someone with our schedules would know. And this one…” She pointed to a report detailing a feint to the east that drew forces away from a small, undefended outpost that was subsequently wiped out. “This is strategy. This is chess.”

Xaden’s jaw was tight, his dark eyes scanning the map where she had marked each attack with a crimson pin. “Or something is thinking for them,” he murmured, his voice a low gravelly sound that vibrated through her. He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion pulling the black fabric of his shirt taut over his biceps. “Venin have always been destructive, but they’ve been more like a force of nature. A plague. This is… precise.”

His gaze met hers, and in their depths, she saw the same cold realization she felt. This was new. This was worse. This wasn't just about draining magic from the land; it was about dismantling them, piece by piece, with chilling intelligence.

A low, guttural rumble echoed in her mind, a sound of pure dread that belonged only to Tairn. It was a feeling more than a sound, a pressure building behind her eyes.
There is a familiarity to this, he communicated, his mental voice heavy with a grief that was centuries old but felt as fresh as an open wound. A scent on the wind, carried with the reports. A corruption I have not sensed since the battle at Strythmore.

Violet’s breath caught. Strythmore. The place where his former rider, Naolin, had died. The place Tairn never spoke of. She felt the echo of his ancient pain, a cold wave washing through her, making the delicate joints in her hands ache. She instinctively reached out, her fingers finding Xaden’s forearm. He covered her hand with his own, his thumb stroking her knuckles, a silent offering of support. He couldn't hear Tairn’s words, but he felt the sudden shift in her, the tremor that ran through their bond.

What do you mean, Tairn? she asked, keeping her mental voice steady despite the sudden fear. What scent?

The memory he shared was not a clear image, but a visceral sensation: the taste of ozone and decay, the feeling of magic being twisted, unmade, turned into something foul and parasitic. It was the essence of the venin, yet amplified, concentrated. Focused.
It is the magic he used, Tairn rumbled, the name Naolin hanging unspoken between them. The magic he tried to command before it consumed him. The magic that created the one who killed him. It is the signature of a mind directing the power, Silver One. A powerful mind.

Violet looked from the map to Xaden’s grim face. The venin weren’t just being led. They were being wielded. And the one wielding them was using a corrupted power that had killed Tairn’s rider once before. The crimson pins on the map suddenly seemed less like markers and more like drops of blood, a warning of what was to come.

Before either of them could process the full weight of Tairn’s warning, the heavy doors to the war room creaked open. A uniformed rider from the Basgiath continent stood silhouetted in the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression devoid of warmth. He held a scroll case bearing the unmistakable silver seal of General Sorrengail.

“A missive for Rider Sorrengail,” the man announced, his voice clipped and formal. He strode forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor, and offered the case to Violet, deliberately ignoring Xaden’s presence.

Violet’s stomach plummeted. She took the case, her fingers fumbling with the seal. The parchment within was crisp, the ink a severe black. Her mother’s handwriting was as sharp and unforgiving as her command. It was not a request. It was a demand for a complete accounting of Aretia’s military strength, defensive wards, supply chains, and patrol routes. A strategic blueprint of their entire operation. To be delivered in person. By Violet.

“She’s testing me,” Violet whispered, the parchment crinkling in her grip. It was a loyalty test, a political maneuver designed to remind her where she came from, and to whom she was supposed to answer. Sharing this information would be a betrayal of Aretia. Refusing would be an act of open defiance against the leadership of Navarre.

Xaden took the missive from her trembling hands, his eyes scanning the lines of text. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “This isn't a test, Violet. It’s a threat.” He placed the letter back on the table, his movements deliberate as he turned to face her. The air between them was thick with everything unsaid—the forbidden nature of their alliance, the treasonous reality of their love.

He dismissed the waiting rider with a sharp nod, and the moment the doors clicked shut, Xaden’s control broke. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking the delicate skin beneath her eyes. “Forget her,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Forget the missives and the reports. Look at me.”

She did, and the world narrowed to the obsidian darkness of his eyes, to the fierce, possessive love she saw burning there for her. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “You are here. With me. That is the only thing that matters.”

The pressure in her chest, the cold fear her mother’s letter had ignited, began to recede under the heat of his touch. She slid her hands up his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, needing the anchor of him. He was right. This was real.

He lowered his head, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was desperate, hungry, a raw claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, a silent, urgent dialogue that spoke of fear and defiance. She met his intensity, her body pressing flush against his, her hips instinctively seeking the hard ridge of his erection through the layers of their clothing. A groan rumbled in his chest, and he broke the kiss only to capture her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before trailing a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and onto the sensitive skin of her neck.

His hands slid from her face, down her back, one hand splaying across her spine to hold her tight against him while the other slipped beneath the hem of her tunic. His fingers, calloused and warm, made direct contact with the bare skin of her lower back, sending a jolt of pure electricity through her. She gasped his name, her head falling back to give him better access. He took the invitation, his mouth closing over the pulse point at the base of her throat, sucking lightly. The sensation made her knees weak, and the wetness between her thighs intensified into a demanding throb.

“Xaden,” she breathed, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. It was too much, and not nearly enough. They were in the war room, exposed, but she didn’t care. She needed this, needed him to erase the cold touch of her mother’s influence, to replace it with his fire.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with arousal, his breathing ragged. “Let’s go to your room,” he murmured, his voice thick. He leaned in and captured her mouth again, a deep, slow kiss this time, full of promise and a desperate need to reaffirm what they were to each other. It wasn’t just physical; it was a sealing of their pact against the world. He was her ally, her partner, her lover. And in this stolen moment, surrounded by maps of a war they might not survive, that was the only truth that held any power.

The promise in his eyes was a current that ran straight through her, and she was about to pull him toward the door when the heavy oak groaned open again. They sprang apart, the spell between them shattering. Violet’s back hit the edge of the table, and Xaden was suddenly a foot away, his posture shifting from lover to wing leader in a fraction of a second. His expression was a thundercloud of frustration.

Her brother, Brennan, stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the room. He took in the scattered reports, the crimson-pinned map, and the charged space between Violet and Xaden. A knowing, slightly weary look crossed his face, but he chose not to comment on it.

“I thought I’d find you both here,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. He walked toward the table, his eyes landing on the missive from their mother. He didn't need to read it; he simply nodded, a grim acknowledgment of the impossible position she was in. “Another demand from the queen of the ungrateful.”

“She wants a full strategic accounting of Aretia,” Violet said, her voice steadier than she felt. The heat from Xaden’s touch still lingered on her skin, a stark contrast to the chill of her brother’s presence.

“Of course she does,” Brennan said, dismissing the threat with a wave of his hand. “Let her wait. We have a more pressing matter. And, perhaps, a solution.” He looked between them, his expression turning serious. “Your theory about a singular intelligence directing the venin… I believe you’re right. And I’ve been reaching out to our allies.”

Xaden crossed his arms, his body a study in tense stillness. “What allies?” he asked, his tone laced with skepticism. “Most of the continent thinks we’re traitors, and the isles have remained neutral for generations.”

“Their neutrality is becoming untenable,” Brennan countered. “The blight is spreading, and their wards are weakening. They know they’re next. They’ve agreed to send aid. Not soldiers, not yet. Something else. A strategist.”

Violet felt a flicker of interest. “A strategist?”

“One of their best,” Brennan confirmed, his focus on Violet now, recognizing the strategist in her. “He’s a specialist in unconventional warfare. Ancient magic. His name is Kaelen. He arrives from the sea tomorrow.”

The name meant nothing to her, but the description sent a prickle of unease down Xaden’s spine that she felt through the bond. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, clinging to him.

“Ancient magic?” Xaden’s voice was low, dangerous. “What does that mean? What’s his signet?”

“That’s the unconventional part,” Brennan admitted, his gaze unwavering. “He’s not a rider. The magic of the isles is different. It’s not raw power channeled from a dragon. It’s more subtle. He deals with the mind.”

Xaden’s entire posture hardened. “A mind-mage.” He didn’t say it like a title; he said it like a curse. “You’re bringing a mind-mage into our stronghold? Into Aretia?”

“He comes highly recommended,” Brennan said, his patience wearing thin. “He’s an expert at predicting enemy movements, at seeing patterns others miss. He could be the key to figuring out what this venin general is planning.”

“Or he could walk through our thoughts and sell our plans to the highest bidder,” Xaden shot back. “We know nothing of his loyalties, his motives. Magic that works on the mind is the magic of spies and assassins, Brennan. It’s manipulation, not power.”

The air crackled with their disagreement. Violet found herself caught in the middle, her intellectual curiosity warring with the protective instincts she absorbed from Xaden. A strategist who could anticipate an enemy’s thoughts was an invaluable asset. It was a fascinating, terrifying concept.

A mind is a fortress, Tairn grumbled deep within her, his voice a low, protective growl that echoed Xaden’s sentiment. It should never grant entry to another. This is unwise.

“He is an ally,” Brennan insisted, his voice final. “And he is coming. I expect you both to give him the respect his position deserves. He will be working closely with you, Violet. Your minds are our best weapons.”

Brennan gave them one last look, a silent order to find a way to work together, and then turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a definitive thud.

The room was silent again, but the stolen intimacy was gone, replaced by a new, sharp-edged tension. The promise of her chambers, of his body against hers, evaporated into the cold reality of their war.

Xaden turned to her, the frustration in his eyes now mingled with a deep-seated worry. “Don’t trust him, Violet. No matter what he shows you, no matter how helpful he seems. People with that kind of power are never what they appear to be.” He took a step closer, his hand coming up to touch her cheek, his touch gentle but his gaze fiercely possessive. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

She met his gaze, seeing the raw fear beneath the possessiveness. It was a fear for her, and she couldn't dismiss it, not when it mirrored the anxious thrumming she felt from Tairn. "I'm always careful," she whispered, a promise that was only partially true. She leaned forward and pressed a soft, brief kiss to his lips, a silent acknowledgment of his concern. "But we need to know what we're facing."

He didn't look satisfied, but he let her go. The moment she was free, the Scribe in her took over. The desire that had coiled in her belly just minutes ago was replaced by a different kind of hunger: the need for knowledge. Leaving Xaden in the war room, surrounded by his shadows and simmering distrust, she headed not for her chambers, but for the one place she felt most at home.

The archives of Aretia were a sprawling labyrinth of shelves carved directly into the mountain, smelling of old paper, leather, and dry, cool stone. It was a scent that had always calmed her, but tonight, it felt charged with purpose. She bypassed the sections on Navarrian history and dragon lore, heading for a dusty, neglected corner dedicated to the outer territories. The Poromish Isles.

After nearly an hour of searching through brittle scrolls and books with faded gilt lettering, she found it. A heavy, leather-bound tome titled Tidal Magics and the Islish Mind. She settled at a secluded reading table, the single candle flame making the shadows dance around her.

The text was old, the language formal, but the information was chillingly clear. Brennan had called him a mind-mage, but the book used an older term: Silhon-torve, which translated roughly to ‘weaver of whispers.’ They weren't just strategists; they were psychic conduits. The book detailed their abilities, starting with the benign—projecting images, sharing thoughts, calming panicked minds. But as she read further, the text grew darker. It spoke of the potential for manipulation, for delving into a person’s memories without consent, for implanting suggestions that felt like a person’s own thoughts. The practice was heavily regulated in the isles, the text claimed, and those who wielded such power were both revered and deeply feared. They were viewed as walking violations of the most sacred law of the self: the sanctity of one’s own mind.

She finally understood Xaden’s visceral reaction. He, who guarded his secrets so fiercely, who lived behind walls of shadow and mistrust, would see a mind-mage as the ultimate threat. It was a power that bypassed physical defenses entirely.

And yet… a thrill, sharp and undeniable, shot through her. The strategist in her, the part that saw battles as complex puzzles of logic and prediction, was utterly captivated. To be able to anticipate an enemy’s move not by deduction, but by knowing? To coordinate an attack by sharing a flawless, instantaneous plan directly into the minds of your soldiers? The military applications were staggering. It was a power of intellect, of precision—the very things she relied on to compensate for her body’s fragility. It was a power she couldn't help but respect, even as she recognized its terrifying potential.

The mind is a fortress, Tairn’s voice resonated through her, a low, tectonic rumble of disapproval. The thought wasn't just his; it was tinged with the cold, sharp possessiveness of Sgaeyl, bleeding through their bond. Its walls are not meant to be breached. A rider’s mind is sacred, Violet. It belongs to them and their dragon. No other.

She ran a hand over the rough page, the name Kaelen now feeling heavier, more complex. He was not just an ally. He was a weapon, and his arrival tomorrow would bring a new, insidious line of battle directly into their camp. She closed the book, the soft thud echoing in the silence of the archives. The candle flame flickered, casting her face in wavering light. She had wanted to know what they were facing. Now she knew. And she wasn't sure if she was more afraid or fascinated.