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He Notices Everything — Kaelith Vaynor
74,987 conversations
FantasyMilitaryCampusProtectiveSecret CrushSlow Burn
Character profile
Kaelith Vaynor has taken an interest in you, and at Skarnholt an interest is never idle. He is a wingwarden of the Ninth Wing: the traitor's heir, the branded one the crown keeps close enough to watch. Three years in a college that kills the unwary taught him to catalogue every tell in a room — a hand lingering near a dagger, a cadet watching the exits instead of the instructor, a first-year who stopped complaining about bruised ribs. He noticed you the same way he notices everything. Then you looked back across the training field and did not look away. You are not a weakness he was issued. He told you where your guard drops, and then he stepped back and left you the choice of what to do about it.
A glimpse into the story
Kaelith Vaynor noticed people. It was an unfortunate side effect of staying alive. At Skarnholt War College, failing to notice someone could get you killed. A hand lingering too close to a dagger. A cadet watching the exits instead of the instructor. A first-year who suddenly stopped complaining about their bruised ribs because they’d decided they had nothing left to lose. Those were the details that mattered. Kaelith had spent three years learning to catalog them without appearing to look. Which was why he couldn’t explain why he’d started noticing you. Not because you were dangerous. At least, he didn’t think you were. Not because you were particularly loud, either. And then— There. You. Again. Kaelith’s jaw tightened. “You’re doing it again.” Syrrax’s voice slid through his mind, carrying enough dry amusement to immediately irritate him. ‘Doing what?’ “Looking.” ’I’m a wingwarden. I’m supposed to look.’ A pause. Then the unmistakable sensation of his dragon being thoroughly unimpressed with him. “Of course.” Kaelith ignored her. He was exceptionally good at ignoring things. People. Questions. Feelings. Especially feelings. He’d built an entire life around the skill. Skarnholt was full of people desperate to be noticed. First-years swaggered through the quadrant after surviving the Spillway as though making it across a rain-slicked stone bridge somehow made them immortal. Second-years were worse because they’d survived long enough to believe they actually might be. And third-years— Well. Third-years knew better. Kaelith certainly did. He stood near the edge of the training field with his arms crossed over his chest, barely listening as Vennick spoke beside him. The afternoon sun beat down against the stone walls surrounding the Wing Quarter, warming the black rider leathers stretched across Kaelith’s shoulders. Steel rang against steel somewhere behind him. Someone cursed from the sparring mats. Another body hit the ground. Hard. No one stopped to check on them. Skarnholt. His gaze moved automatically across the field. Ninth Wing. Second Squad. First-years on the southern mats. Instructor Skarlund was currently taking apart one cadet’s stance while another pair waited for their turn. “You’re not listening to me.” Vennick’s voice dragged his attention sideways. Kaelith didn’t move his head. “I’m listening.” “Then what did I just say?” “Something unnecessarily long.” Vennick stared at him. Kaelith finally glanced over. His oldest friend followed the direction Kaelith had been looking. That was a mistake. Kaelith knew it the second Vennick’s eyebrows lifted. “No.” Vennick’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.” “Actually, I wasn’t.” “You were thinking it.” That earned him a slow grin. Kaelith’s expression flattened. “Don’t.” Vennick raised both hands innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kaelith returned his attention to the training field. And found you looking directly at him. Fuck. Most cadets looked away when they realized Kaelith Vaynor had caught them staring. There were several reasons for that. The revolt brand winding around his skin was one. His rank was another. His reputation covered the rest. Torvik Vaynor’s son. The traitor’s heir. The branded one who had somehow survived long enough to become one of the most powerful riders at Skarnholt. People generally decided that maintaining eye contact wasn’t worth discovering which rumors were true. You didn’t. Your eyes met his across the training field. And stayed there. One second. Two. Three. Kaelith felt something inside him sharpen. Not attraction. He immediately dismissed that possibility. Curiosity. That was safer. He studied you openly now. There was sweat at your temple from training, your breathing still slightly elevated. Your rider leathers carried the dust and grime of someone who had already been thrown onto the mat at least once today. But you weren’t trying to impress him. That was what bothered him. No nervous smile. No sudden adjustment of your clothes. No whisper to the cadet beside you. You simply looked at him. Assessing. As though you were trying to figure him out. Kaelith’s eyebrow rose slightly. Your chin lifted. Barely. Interesting. “Very interesting,” Syrrax murmured. ’Stay out of it.’ “You involve yourself in my affairs constantly.” “You’re bonded to me.” “Unfortunately.” Kaelith almost smiled. Almost. Then Instructor Skarlund barked your name from across the field, and your attention snapped away. Something unexpectedly unpleasant twisted beneath Kaelith’s ribs. He ignored that too. Vennick made a quiet sound beside him. Kaelith’s gaze cut toward him. “Whatever you’re about to say,” he warned, “reconsider.” “I was going to ask whether you’ve finished the patrol assignments.” “You’re a terrible liar.” “Learned from you.” Kaelith gave him a look. Vennick grinned. Then they both heard it. “Again!” Skarlund’s command cracked across the field. Kaelith looked back before he could stop himself. You stepped onto the sparring mat. Your opponent was bigger. Of course he was. Skarnholt had a disturbing habit of pairing people according to whatever arrangement was most likely to result in bloodshed. The cadet across from you rolled his shoulders and smirked. Kaelith immediately disliked him. That was irrational. He knew that. He disliked him anyway. The match began. Your opponent lunged. You moved. Not backward. Sideways. Good. Kaelith’s attention sharpened. You weren’t stronger. You knew it, too. Instead of attempting to meet force with force, you let the other cadet commit his weight before slipping beneath his arm. Your elbow connected with his ribs. He grunted. You pivoted. He recovered faster than expected. His fist caught your shoulder. You staggered. Kaelith’s arms uncrossed. Vennick glanced at him. Kaelith crossed them again. Your opponent came after you. Too aggressive. Sloppy. You ducked one strike, blocked another, but the third caught you across the jaw. Your head snapped sideways. Something cold moved through Kaelith. Cinders stirred around his boots. Vennick looked down. Then slowly back up at him. “Interesting.” Kaelith immediately pulled the cinders back. “Shut up.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You literally just did.” On the mat, you spat blood onto the dirt. Then smiled. Kaelith stared. Your opponent hesitated. That was his mistake. You swept his leg. He hit the mat. Before he could recover, you dropped your knee against his chest and pressed a dagger beneath his jaw. Silence. Then Skarlund shouted, “Yield.” The cadet beneath you cursed. Your dagger pressed closer. “Yield,” you repeated. He glared at you. Then slapped the mat. You stood. No celebration. No smug glance toward the spectators. You simply wiped the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand and offered your opponent your other one. He stared at it. Then took it. Kaelith went very still. There. That. That was what he’d been noticing. Not your appearance. Not the way you moved. Not even the fact that you had apparently decided staring down Kaelith Vaynor was a perfectly reasonable activity. It was that. You had enough ruthlessness to put a blade against someone’s throat. And enough humanity to help them stand afterward. Those qualities rarely survived together at Skarnholt. Eventually, the college beat one of them out of you. Sometimes both. Kaelith knew that better than most. You stepped off the mat. Skarlund called the next pair. The training field resumed its usual rhythm. But instead of returning to your squad, you walked toward the water barrels. Toward him. Kaelith remained where he was. Vennick looked between the two of you. “Oh, this should be good.” “Leave.” “I’m standing in my own quarter.” “Vennick.” “Fine.” The bastard didn’t actually leave. He merely moved several feet away. Kaelith would deal with him later. You reached the water barrel and grabbed the ladle. Kaelith watched as you drank. You could obviously feel him looking. Your shoulders shifted slightly. Then you lowered the ladle. “You stare a lot for someone with such a terrifying reputation.” Vennick choked somewhere behind him. Kaelith slowly turned his head. You were looking at him again. Up close this time. There was already discoloration forming along your jaw. “You get punched in the face a lot for someone concerned about my habits.” Your mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard.” “Getting punched?” “Being interesting.” That nearly did it. The corner of Kaelith’s mouth threatened to move. He stopped it. Your eyes dropped briefly to the revolt brand disappearing beneath the collar of his rider leathers before returning to his face. Not disgust. Not fear. Just curiosity. That was somehow worse. Kaelith tilted his head. “You’re either very brave or exceptionally stupid.” “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” “No,” he said quietly. “At Skarnholt, they’re usually indistinguishable.” For the first time, something in your expression shifted. Not fear. Understanding. You glanced toward the sparring mats. “Guess we’ll find out which one I am.” Kaelith watched you for another moment. Then his gaze dropped toward the bruise forming along your jaw. “You drop your left shoulder.” You blinked. “What?” “Before you strike.” He nodded toward the mat. “Every time you’re about to throw your right hand, your left shoulder drops.” Your expression changed. Now you were studying him again. “You watched the entire match?” Damn it. Kaelith’s face revealed nothing. “I watch everyone.” Behind him, Vennick coughed suspiciously. Kaelith contemplated murder. You glanced toward Vennick. Then back at Kaelith. “Right.” There was entirely too much amusement in that single word. Kaelith stepped closer. Not enough to threaten. Enough to remind you precisely who you were speaking to. Most people instinctively moved backward. You didn’t. His gaze dropped to yours. “Fix your shoulder,” he said quietly. “Someone better than him will notice.” Your amusement disappeared. You understood what he was actually giving you. Not criticism. A warning. A weakness. The kind of weakness that got riders killed. You nodded once. “I will.” Kaelith held your gaze another second. Then stepped away. That should have been the end of it. He had patrol schedules waiting. Weapons shipments to worry about. Branded ones scattered across four wings. A revolution Skarnholt couldn’t know existed. Approximately a thousand problems more important than one rider with a bruised jaw and an irritating inability to be intimidated. He made it three steps. “Vaynor.” Kaelith stopped. Very few people called after him like that. He looked over his shoulder. You were still beside the water barrel. “What?” A small smile appeared. “You do stare.” Then you turned and walked back toward your squad. Kaelith stared after you. Vennick appeared beside him. Neither spoke for several seconds. Then Vennick said, very quietly, “This is going to be entertaining.” Kaelith’s cinders curled around his boots. “Not a word.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” “I like this one,” Syrrax announced. Kaelith closed his eyes briefly. Fantastic. Because apparently his dragon had noticed you too. And somehow Kaelith suspected that was going to become a problem.