Completed The Fool You Need

[Cullen]

The sound of her footsteps faded, swallowed by the cold stone walls that had become his prison. The absence of her presence was suffocating, a void that threatened to pull him under.

Cullen stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where she had been, his body rigid, breath coming in sharp, uneven draws. His ribs ached. His wrists burned where the cuffs had once dug in. But none of it compared to the hollow agony settling in his chest.

She was gone.

Ilir had won.

Nadya had betrayed him.

He had lost everything. Once more.

His vision blurred as he finally lowered his gaze to the floor, to the small golden band that glinted in the dim torchlight. He hadn’t picked it up before—hadn’t dared to while she was still there, afraid that if he did, it would make everything too real. But now, there was nothing left to hold onto except the reminder she had left behind.

Cullen sank to his knees, his movements stiff and heavy, as though the weight of his grief had finally broken him. His fingers trembled as they reached for the ring, hesitating for just a breath before curling around the delicate band. It was small in his palm, warm from where she had worn it, carrying the imprint of her touch.

He turned it over, his vision stinging as he traced the familiar name engraved inside—his name. Cullen Morvane. And beside it, a swirl of his mark she had enjoyed tracing her fingers over, a quiet devotion to him that he had never deserved but had selfishly clung to anyway.

His burning eyes closed. A ragged breath tore from his throat as he gripped it tight, his knuckles paling, his entire hand shaking with the force of it. He clenched his teeth, swallowing down the cry that threatened to break free, but it was no use. The pain surged through him like fire, searing through his veins, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.

Eira had loved him.

And now she was gone.

He bowed his head, his shoulders shaking as he let himself crumble, the grief finally overtaking him in the silence of his cage.

 

[Nadya]

SIXTEEN DAYS LATER
Ōmeyōcān, War Room

​

Nadya drummed her fingers steadily over the fine walnut table that was large enough to house sixteen lucky ones that got to the meeting early enough to secure a seat. She had one last day before flying out on her personal mission, a day meant to be spent on briefing her right hand to step up into the role of Wing Leader for the cleared leave time she was rewarded.

It wasn't as if the higher ups had any say so, nor could they deny the small chance a rare dragon could be found on Thanasis. The chance for Storm Dragons to begin breeding again would be great fortune for the Caliar House, a boon for the City of Dragons that an elder from one of the Great Houses suggested that a worthy Caliar may indeed be granted the name Calaerys. An honour upon the ancestors of Nadya's house, it filled her parents with a hope that she did not want to remember. What if she failed them?

In fact, this mission across the continent was merely an excuse to get away.

She was forbidden to see Cullen after trying to see him that night. The bruises across her neck, thanks to Ilir, had healed to a yellowing stage at her pale flesh, but she covered it up with her flight leathers so that she did not need to hear snickers of how the Wing Leader liked to get rowdy beneath the sheets. She half expected them to call out to her with those words, but noticed many of the Marked Ones were acknowledging her a lot more now.

After that night, Fedyr had check in on her three times in the following week, all to provide her with a salve to help clear up the bruising quicker. She denied it, not wanting his help, or perhaps she felt uneasy given the last words they said to each other. He had stopped seeing her after that week, but Nadya could not remember seeing him around the Wall during her visit to see how things were holding there.

Nadya spoke words that could have gotten her killed for the lightest of treasons. All she could hope was that he did not tell those words to others.

But before she could drift anymore into her scattered thoughts, a rapt banging of a fist upon the table before her snapped her into reality.

"Fuck the jarlax! They have been coming at our borders for centuries!" Growled the aged General. "The wyvern are unpredictable! They have as many species as our dragons! We do not know everything there is to know about them, otherwise the riders that have chosen a wyvern over a dragon would be in here giving this brief."

She shuffled in her seat, trying to keep herself alert and listening.

"What of the scholars? Are they not poring through research to —"

"We do not have the time! We need numbers on the front line! I give it two more days before we fall to their increased numbers. This meeting is to work out the best strategy."

"What of the Marked riders? There is the infantry too, littered with their people." The Commander suggested, bringing the room to a standstill in thought with his words. "They want to prove they are worthy, they are good citizens of Thanasis. It sends a message to those that are speaking out about their rights."

Nadya tried to not react. She knew there was one person speaking out the loudest in favour of the Marked Ones, and that being the Princess Orissa of Thanasis, Jensen's wife. There had been plenty of guards at the Royal Wedding, but she had thought it was due to the number of royals in attendance, not until the day after the wedding, there had been an attempt on the Princess' life. It angered many of the people to know the Princess known for peace had been targeted, but different accounts of what happened swirled around the circles.

It ranged from a paid assassin to an ex-lover, but that story had been already told from Yurelia. The Prince Kaveh made sure that individual burned for his attempt of trapping the Princess.

Nadya hadn't even asked her friend Jensen for the real news, for the poor sod had been fully thrust into the world of being a Prince.

The General made a sound as he went into thought. "How many do we have of them bastards?" Nadya heard the real question.

How many we got to sacrifice?

 

[Cullen]

Cullen dragged the crude edge of stone across the damp wall, carving another line into the tally. Sixteen. Sixteen long days rotting in this cell, waiting for the inevitable. When would they come for him? When would they finally end this?

The pile of stale, untouched bread in the corner had begun to grow mold. The water, left to stagnate, carried the bitter taste of metal. He had no appetite, no thirst—only the gnawing weight of exhaustion pressing down on his bones. Even when he had begged for an end, the guards had refused him, urging him to eat, to drink, to endure.

They watched Eira for him. He knew that much. But he had denied their reports, unable to bear the truth of her life without him. He only needed to know that she was safe. That was all that mattered.

Meala had come and gone. He had felt her presence, heard her grief in her lament. She would survive this. He was certain of it. But he was sorry for her pain.

Curled in the corner of his cell, Cullen turned the small gold band between his fingers. He had traced the engraving so many times he could feel the shape of his name, the curve of the mark Eira had chosen to etch there. He pressed it into his palm, closing his fist around it, as if it could keep him tethered to something—anything, whilst he waited for death.

Boots scuffed against the floor—several pairs. Heavy, deliberate steps, the sound of armor shifting, swords clinking at their belts. Not the usual guards. The lock clicked, and Cullen didn’t move. He barely lifted his head from where it rested against the cold, damp stone, his body too weak, too hollow to summon the energy to care.

A breath rattled from his chest, dry and shallow, as his fingers instinctively curled around the ring still clutched in his palm. If they were here to drag him to the executioner’s block, he almost welcomed it. One of the men knelt beside him, and a rough hand gripped his shoulder. “Morvane,” the voice said, unfamiliar and sharp. “You’re coming with us.”

Cullen let out a low, humorless laugh, but it was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. “Finally,” he muttered. His lips cracked with the effort, but he didn’t care. A second hand grasped his arm, hauling him up, and his legs buckled beneath him. His body protested, a sharp wave of pain rolling through him as his weight shifted. The men didn’t let him fall.

"To the noose, boys." he grinned, as though his heart wasn't threatening to pound straight out of his chest.

"Not today lad."

 

[Nadya]

Nadya stared at Fedyr like he was the single most idiotic soul in all the lands. He looked at her sheepishly, unsure of what else to say or do under her disapproving stare. "You said much more incendiary words that day, of course I was a fool to say anything just as much."

"Ilir is toying with me by pretending not to hear what I said. But you? All because you helped me that day, he thinks we are friends. Can't believe you said the Marked Ones had friends in high places. Not the sort of thing those in high places like Ilir want to hear."

She sighed, running a hand over her face and turning away from the blond Marked One that had been there the night Cullen was imprisoned. He, himself, was behind bars now, all at the behest of Ilir Malennis.

"Not to be negative still, but I think you just fucked every Marked One that is on the Wall and in the cells."

Of course, the machinations behind this decision to utilise the Marked infantry and riders was not something thought of in that War Room. Ilir was heavily involved with the Thunder, not as a rider, but as someone that fed the pockets of those in power with wealth the Malennis name could afford.

Fedyr looked remorseful.

"I know why you're angry."

"Fuck off."

"It's him, isn't it? Always has been and always will be, even if he hates you to the marrow of your bones."

Nadya looked away, exhaling heavily. "None of that matters anymore."

Fedyr heard the words hidden in her emotions. "He'll be on the front lines with me. I'll take care of him, keep him alive as much as I can."

The Wing Leader stalked towards the wall, leaning back against it and slipping to sit on the cold stone floor. Her grey eyes flicked up to see the blond seated opposite her, leaning against the iron of his bars. "You don't have a dragon."

He surprised her with his smile. "No, but I might soon."

 

[Cullen]

Cullen barely registered the journey, his mind a haze of memories, of regrets, of the life that had been stripped from him piece by piece. Each step he took felt like another towards an inevitable end. His legs dragged beneath him, his body too weak to resist, but in truth, he didn’t want to. The thought of fighting back seemed futile now—everything had already been lost.

He thought of his childhood—of the warmth of his parents' voices, the smell of their home, the comfort of their dragons. A life full of hope that had been shattered the moment they died and the mark was placed on his skin. He had carried the burden of it ever since. The scorn. The rejection. The constant reminder that he was no longer the person he once was, no longer a son or a man with a future. Just a failure, a traitor in the eyes of those who once called him kin.

Then his friends, the few who had truly stood by him through it all—Jensen, Danika, Faye and… Nadya. His chest tightened at the thought of her, the sting of her betrayal cutting deeper now that he had nothing else left.

And then, Eira. His heart ached at the thought of her. The memory of her face, her smile, the soft laughter they had shared, haunted him now. If only he had been strong enough to protect her, to keep her safe. He had failed her.

He closed his eyes, the bitter weight of guilt sinking deep into his bones, and he whispered a prayer, though he knew it would be unheard. A prayer to any God that might listen—to keep her safe, to give her the life she deserved, one filled with happiness and peace. And above all, to keep her away from the darkness that had consumed him. To let dragons tear apart Leovold Solherre's body if he ever dared lay a finger on her.

The hands on his shoulders were heavy, firm—forcing him to kneel. His body obeyed without protest, his knees hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. He lowered his head, the weight of his impending death settling like a suffocating blanket.

Was it to be the blade, then? Was this where his life would finally end? He had expected to be taken to the pit, to be burned standing and have dragons feast on his flesh. He expected his death to be public, though perhaps he had been granted one small mercy after all.

Cullen exhaled deeply, the bitter taste of regret on his tongue, and waited for the end.

 

[Orissa]

"Please, set him on this chair."
Anxiety had been chewing at her for days, that news of Cullen's imprisonment had been too late to reach the Princess for her to intervene. He was a friend of Jensen's, one of his best, and she had promised her betrothed that she would see him, talk to him. Jensen was stuck at the Wall, and she knew he would want to be here despite her assurances.
Her eyes fell on him, sadness gripping her to see him in such a state.
She shooed away the Guards, kneeling beside the plush chair in which Cullen sat on. Beside them was a table of cheeses, breads, oils, and fruits. Something small but nicer than whatever gruel he would have been served as a prisoner.
"Cullen? It is Orissa. I am to... wed Jensen within the month." Her face was stressed. As a training healer, she did not like the condition in which he was in. When did he last eat? Had he been drinking enough water? She took his hand, then with the other, pressed the back of her hand to his brows to test his temperature.
"You shouldn't touch hi—"

"Stay your distance, soldier, or my personal Guard would not hesitate in ridding you of your offending hand." Orissa cut one of the guards loyal to House Malennis a scathing look. "Leave the room. That was an order."

"Do not forget you are in the presence of the Princess of Thanasis, Orissa Araelor." The Captain of her Gilded Wings gave the reminder.

Orissa frowned at the titles, but turned her attention back to Cullen. "Will you take a drink?"

 

[Cullen]

Cullen barely had time to register what was happening before rough hands hauled him up, forcing his weakened legs to support his weight for just a moment before pressing him down into a chair. He braced for the cold bite of iron, for the sting of stone against his skin—yet neither came. Instead, the chair beneath him was soft, plush, unfamiliar against the bruises lining his back and shoulders.

His fingers twitched, curling into the arms of the chair on instinct, his knuckles paling as his grip tightened. The scent of food, warm and rich, drifted toward him. It should have stirred something in his starved stomach, but all he felt was suspicion.

Then came the voice. Soft, feminine, unfamiliar.

Orissa.

The Princess.

His pulse quickened, though he kept his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in matted strands around his face. He barely flinched as she took his hand—trembling, swollen, bruised from days of neglect and beatings. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. He should have. The guard was right—she shouldn’t touch him. He was a man condemned, marked for death, carrying a grudge so deep against her family that it had poisoned him long before he’d ever set foot in a cell.

And yet… she was gentle.

When she pressed the back of her hand to his brow, testing his temperature like a healer rather than a princess, his breath caught. What was happening? Why was she doing this?

Then she spoke again, offering him a drink. The guards left at her command. His fingers curled tighter against the chair, the ache in his body nothing compared to the wariness in his mind.

Slowly, he exhaled, steadying his breath, though he still did not lift his gaze.

“What’s your purpose with me, Princess?” he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse, low and edged with exhaustion.

 

[Orissa]

Her face softened.

"I made promise to Jensen that I would see to you before you were ordered to the front lines." She frowned, not liking the sound of his voice. "But I am here to insist you are well and taken care of before getting there. I am afraid I cannot get you out of this..." Orissa chewed on her bottom lip, staring at his face that still refused to lift and meet her stare.

From the table, she fiddled around until she found the bowl of soup and the fresh, warm bread. "Please, eat."

Knowing that Cullen was hesitant with her because of her title and role to this city, and because she was of the blood of the very people that supported the Marking, Orissa retreated to a seat that sat opposite from him. "I can work on your sentence being lowered to a year on the front lines. That is perhaps too hopeful given the timing, but... Cullen, I love Jensen with all my heart and I know your friends all upset with this outcome, but I want to help you. This order on sending all the Marked Ones that are imprisoned is not one made of kindness. It is wrong to sacrifice people this way..."

Orissa sighed, looking out to the window beside them that showed the gloomy day ahead. "Besides those that love you, I am here to speak with you to hear your side of... I apologise for being so indelicate, but I wish to know your views on your... being a Marked One. What ways are there to stop this practice in Thanasis?" For Orissa did not know many Marked Ones, Cullen's name had come up frequently, and not just by Jensen. Some of her Gilded Guard had spoken of him, commended his work with the Thunder despite the prejudices against him. She had thought of him often, wondering how someone of his situation still chose to work with the very city and people that condemned his family, and left him to live and be Marked for it.

 

[Cullen]

Cullen scoffed. The sound was dry, bitter, void of amusement. His fingers twitched where they rested on the arms of the chair, but he made no move for the bowl of soup or the bread she had set before him. His body was screaming for nourishment, but his pride, his distrust, his sheer exhaustion kept him still and his head bowed low, refusing to meet her gaze just yet.

Orissa’s words barely penetrated the wall he had built around himself—until she said something that made his blood run cold.

The front lines.

His breath stalled, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed what she was saying. They weren’t sending him to execution after all. No, they had decided he might as well be useful before he died.

Cullen had served on the Wall for so long that fighting for his life had become second nature. He had clawed his way through the Rising, training every godsdamned day to prove himself, to build something from the wreckage of his name. He had bled for Thanasis, for the Thunder, for a city that had given him nothing but scorn. And now, because he had loved the wrong woman, they would send him back to the hell he had barely escaped.

His jaw tightened as he leaned forward slightly, just enough for the light to catch the bruising along his cheekbone.

"And Meala?" he asked, his voice low, strained. His frown deepened as he finally lifted his head to look at Orissa properly. "Have they caught her?"

If they had taken his dragon, he didn’t know if he’d be able to contain the rage, the grief, the sheer despair that had been clawing at his chest since the day they had thrown him into that cell.

But then, Orissa asked something even more ridiculous than his supposed salvation on the front lines.

His views. On being Marked.

Cullen let out a slow, measured breath, dragging his hands down his face before shaking his head with a quiet, humorless laugh.

"You want to know my views?" he asked, his voice hollow with disbelief. "On being branded a criminal from the moment I lost my parents? On being judged for something I had no part in? On having my family, my home, my legacy ripped from me before I ever had a chance to build a life?"

His gaze locked onto hers then, sharp and dark, burning with resentment.

"Every day, I wake up knowing that nothing I do will ever be enough. That I could fight, bleed, die for this city, and it wouldn’t matter. Because I wear this." He tilted his head slightly, tapping a bruised knuckle against the jagged mark carved into his cheekbone. "Because people like your family decided I was guilty before I ever had the chance to prove otherwise."

His fingers curled into fists, his nails pressing into the raw, torn skin of his palms.

"Forgive me, Princess, if I don’t have some grand insight into how you should stop the practice of Marking people like me. It's your family that made it so." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "But maybe you could start by not treating us like we’re already dead."

 

[Orissa]

Orissa to her credit did not frown. She was patient and listened, because that was the reaction she had expected. Even Jensen warned her against bringing this up, but Orissa had a personal stake in all of this.

"Oh, believe me, despite the love I have for my family, I know when their love can strike against me. I had a friend once, you see. She was Marked wrongfully, and when the truth came out, my parents refused to undo the Markings. Her fate was already sealed they said... and ever since that day, I have been doing my best to finding out ways to have better procedures to prevent such a thing. Starting with punishing children for the crimes of their family they had not been asked to be born into."

And that was all she would say for the moment. She was not here to convince him of her efforts, but to hear from him what woes he suffered with the markings across his face. The treatment he would receive from others.

There were those that sympathised with the Marked Ones, that befriended and allied with them, but Orissa never saw them as anyone different. Of course, there were those that deserved it, but Orissa would not let that cloud her judgement. As a Princess, she was there to serve the People of Thanasis, no matter their status in society.

One day, she hoped her younger brother would be the one to inherit the throne. To wear a crown seemed too heavy a weight upon her head, but Kaveh would wear it well. She wanted freedom and trust to work and listen to those that were proud to be Thanasian. "Tell me, if I found a way to fix it, would you trust me?"

 

[Cullen]

Cullen exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head back against the chair with a quiet, humourless laugh.

"They can't be undone, Princess." His voice was flat, hollow, his expression unreadable as he stared at the ceiling. His fingers flexed against the plush arms of the chair, itching to move, to escape, to put distance between himself and this conversation.

"We’re walking examples," he muttered, letting his head tilt back down so he could look at her. "Guilty by association. My mother was a friend to your mother, I believe, and still they took her head for my father's alleged schemes. Without trial." His jaw tightened. "Because your family—because this city—lives in fear. Fear of rebellion. Fear that one day, someone bigger than them might dare take what is theirs."

His gaze sharpened, dark and knowing. "That's why they need the Mark. It's not just about justice, or punishment. It’s about power. About keeping the rest of us in line."

He let the words settle, watching her closely, searching for any flicker of hesitation or doubt.
Then she asked him if he would trust her.

Cullen barked out a short laugh, though it carried no amusement. His fingers clenched into fists, his knuckles paling.

"Trust you?" His cracked lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a bitter smile. "Princess, if my best friend in this world could bury a knife in my back, what makes you think I’d trust you?"

His voice was low, quiet, but edged in something raw and wounded. He had trusted once. Had given himself fully to those he thought would always stand beside him. And yet, here he sat—alone, beaten, discarded like something rotten.

No. He didn’t trust anyone.

Not anymore.

"And you've yet to tell me whether I still have my fucking dragon."

 

[Orissa]

"She is under protection." Orissa answered. "You have a resourceful friend that is ensuring no one touches her. Protection I also have offered as is the law."
No dragon was to be harmed if their rider was incarcerated. The distance between the bonded was punishment enough.

"And you can trust me, Cullen. Even if you do not believe my word, I am on your side. On the side that Marking children is not right, especially without a trial..." Orissa knew his hate ran deep. Jensen had warned her so, but Orissa was never one to take caution. She liked speaking her truth, to show her support. "I am not here to convince you. I am here to make sure you have been treated well and to see you with my own eyes." And he looked as if he needed a meal inside him.

Her warm eyes noticed he had not reached for any of the food.
"Please... eat. Your dragon is restless because she knows you hunger. Faye Valimir has a message for you... I shall take my leave."

Orissa tried. She spoke to him as a friend but all he could see was the family she belonged to. One day, she hoped he would stop seeing her for her family as her parents had seen his family. She did not expect him to thank her or to even acknowledge her leaving the room with her Gilded Guard, closing the door behind them so that he would have a few moments to spare of peace before the other soldiers came to collect him.

The letter had been sealed, a silver-white seal with a simple V pressed into it. It was addressed to Cullen by name, in Valimir's familiar handwriting.


Cullen,

Do not fret about the health of Meala. She is sad and angered, but I have done my best to stay with her and Cathán in my Aunt's estate home outside Thanasis. No one can touch her out here for my dragon has become protective of her. Not even a stray cat can get close.

I write to you because news has reached me they are to send you to the front. The Thunder did not care to allow you to take Meala with you, but the Wing Leader who will not be named passed the command that any Marked Ones with a dragon bonded to them may ride at the front.

You will have your Meala back, but please take care of yourself out there. I may not be stationed at the front to heal you should anything go awry.

Keep alive,
Faye

 

[Cullen]

Cullen sat unmoving, his body still, but his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the arms of the chair. His jaw remained tight, his lips pressing into a thin line as Orissa spoke, yet the moment she mentioned Meala, something in him shifted.

Relief. It cut through the numbing weight of exhaustion, through the ache in his ribs and the bitter resentment curled tight in his chest. Meala is safe. He swallowed hard, exhaling slowly through his nose.

But it was fleeting.

His gaze flicked back to Orissa, studying her in the dim light of the chamber. When she insisted he could trust her, he gave her a look that made his feelings clear—dubiety, skepticism, outright disbelief. Trust was not a thing given freely, not to him. It had to be earned, and even then, it could be shattered in a single breath.

'To make sure you have been treated well...'

His bruised brow arched, his lips curling into something that was almost a smirk but held no real humour. A sharp breath left him. He was malnourished, filthy and beaten to shit. Perfect condition to be sent to the front lines to fight for Thanasis. To fight for his life.

"Well then... I hope I have been well enough cared for by your standards, Princess." His voice was quiet but laced with something bitter, something hollow. "Your concern for my welfare is noted."

Cullen remained still, listening as the door closed, as silence settled around him once more.

Only then did he reach for the letter. His fingers hesitated for half a second before breaking the wax seal, his tired eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

Faye.

A slow exhale left him as he read of Meala’s care, of Cathán keeping her safe, of her waiting for him.

Then—

The Wing Leader who will not be named passed the command that any Marked Ones with a dragon bonded to them may ride at the front.

A sharp twist of pain lanced through his gut, and he clenched his jaw as his grip on the letter tightened.

Nadya.

He didn’t know what he felt—anger, bitterness, regret. All of them, none of them. He forced himself to take another breath, but the ache in his ribs was nothing compared to the one in his chest.