Chapter Text
The summer heat clung to Kholinar Heights like a stubborn ghost, shimmer-hazy and restless. The kind of heat that made tempers short and engines loud. Kaladin Stormblessed leaned against his bike outside the rundown diner at the edge of town, a worn leather jacket over a white T-shirt, hair slicked back with more care than he’d ever admit. His boys—Moash, Drehy, Skar—smoked lazily nearby, watching the cars roll by like predators waiting on slow prey.
Kaladin wasn’t the kind of greaser who trashed mailboxes or picked fights for fun. He was the kind who carried the weight of the world in his jawline. Everyone whispered about how his little brother Tien had died in a factory accident last fall, how the city council—led by Mayor Dalinar Kholin—had promised safety reforms that never came.
Kaladin hadn’t forgotten.
He definitely hadn’t forgiven.
So when the mayor’s eldest son cruised by in his butter-yellow convertible, polished to perfection, Kaladin’s teeth clenched so hard they squeaked.
Adolin Kholin waved like he was greeting fans at a parade.
Golden boy. Letterman jacket. All charm and perfect hair and perfect teeth. Rumor was he’d never lost a scrap of anything in his life—football game, debate team championship, maybe even an argument with God.
Moash muttered, “Look at him. Thinks he owns the damn town.”
Kaladin didn’t answer. His hands were already fists.
The convertible slowed. Adolin leaned over the passenger seat with a grin that, to his credit, wasn’t mocking—just stupidly friendly.
“Kaladin! Hey—nice bike!” he called, shouting over the engine.
Kaladin glared. “What do you want, Kholin?”
Adolin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Nothin’. Just being polite.”
“Well don’t.”
It would have ended there, if not for Shallan Davar stepping out of the diner with a sketchbook in hand and a beret that looked like she’d stolen it off a French poet. Her hair was tied up in a messy twist, red curls escaping everywhere. She took one look at the tension and practically glowed with delight—nothing inspired her like impending emotional disaster.
“Oh, this looks interesting,” she grinned. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Adolin flushed. Kaladin scowled harder.
Kaladin swung onto his bike. “I’m leaving.”
“Kaladin, wait—” Adolin began, for reasons he probably didn’t understand himself.
Kaladin revved the engine like a roar. “Stay out of my way, Kholin.”
He tore off down the road, tires squealing.
Adolin stared after him, something tight in his chest.
Adolin wasn’t used to being disliked. People adored him. Teachers. Girls. Boys. Old ladies with cats. But Kaladin Stormblessed looked at him like he was the reason the world broke.
And maybe—for Kaladin—he kind of was.
Adolin found himself asking questions he wasn’t supposed to ask. Why was safety still garbage at the factories? Why were kids working double shifts? Why had Tien Stormblessed died at sixteen?
Every answer he dug up made him feel a little sicker.
He wanted to fix it. He wanted to help. He wanted—
Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted.
The end of the school year still held that brittle tension that always hung over Kholinar Heights High. The halls smelled of floor polish, cigarette smoke, and the inevitability of bad decisions.
Kaladin hated every second of it.
He walked in with his jacket over his shoulder, boots loud on the tile. People parted around him instinctively—whether because he was a greaser or because his glare could peel paint, he didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He was halfway to his locker when a familiar voice rang out, too cheerful for the hour:
“Stormblessed!”
Kaladin closed his eyes. Counted to three. Considered turning around and walking straight out the front doors.
Instead he turned towards the boy running at him.
Adolin Kholin jogged toward him, golden-boy confidence shining like it had never been punched in the face. Which, Kaladin thought grimly, was a pity.
Adolin stopped in front of him, breathing lightly, the picture of health, wealth, and everything Kaladin had been born without.
“Morning,” Adolin said. Like they were friends.
“What do you want, Kholin?”
Adolin frowned slightly but didn’t back down. “I wanted to ask if you— uh— had plans for after graduation.”
Kaladin stared at him. “You don’t talk to me for months and now you care about my future?”
“It’s just… I guess I was curious if you planned to stay on at the factory?” Adolin stated. “I’m going to take a gap year to do an internship at the city hall, and if you had ideas about the factory, about making it better, I thought you could share them with me?”
Kaladin slammed his locker shut. “I don’t want to talk to you about the factory. Don’t pretend we’re buddies.”
“We’re not enemies either, right?” Adolin said, stubborn optimism brightening his voice. “We’re just—”
“Don’t say ‘complicated.’”
Adolin snapped his fingers. “That was exactly what I was going to say.”
Kaladin stalked away before he could respond.
Shallan was already perched in her usual corner in the art room, sketchbook open, coffee in hand. She wore sunglasses indoors because it made her feel dramatic. Renarin sat beside her, attempting to fix a broken slide projector with a level of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal.
“How long until Kaladin punches my brother?” Renarin asked quietly.
Shallan tapped her pencil against her chin. “Week and a half.”
“You sound confident.”
“They have the emotional maturity of two cats fighting over the same sunny spot.”
Renarin paused. “…so you’re saying Kaladin will win?”
“Obviously.”
Renarin sighed, resigned. “Adolin’s going to get hurt.”
Shallan brightened. “Yes! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Shallan.”
“What? Pain builds character.”
“Or concussions.”
“Sometimes both!”
Renarin buried his face in his hands.
The gym coach—universally hated, universally feared—blew his whistle like he was punishing the air for existing.
“Pair up!” he barked.
Kaladin groaned. He always had trouble pairing up. Most of the greasers cut class. Drehy was sick. Moash was suspended, possibly through the rest of the school year. And Skar had switched into weight training to avoid the coach altogether.
Kaladin was alone.
And Adolin saw it.
He jogged over immediately, beaming like a golden retriever who’d just found a new stick.
“Looks like it’s you and me,” Adolin said.
“No,” Kaladin said simply.
Adolin blinked. “We literally don’t have a choice. There’s no one else.”
Kaladin didn’t answer. He just stared at the ground, jaw tight.
It clicked.
Adolin softened. “You don’t want to hurt me.”
Kaladin shot him a vicious glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You punched a locker so hard you bent the metal last year,” Adolin said. “I’m not blind.”
Kaladin said nothing.
Adolin angled his body slightly, tone gentler. “We’ll go easy. Okay?”
Kaladin still didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away.
That was enough for the coach.
“Training bout!” the coach roared. “Let’s see some grit!”
Adolin jolted. “Wait, training? Like—”
Kaladin’s fist collided with Adolin’s shoulder—a controlled hit, but hard.
Adolin stumbled back with a yelp. “Storms, Kaladin! I thought we were—“
“You talk too much.”
“You hit too hard!”
They circled each other. The rest of the class gathered like hungry birds.
Adolin swung—and Kaladin dodged easily.
Kaladin swept Adolin’s leg—and Adolin stumbled, but stayed up.
Adolin jabbed—Kaladin blocked.
It wasn’t anger, exactly. It wasn’t hate. It was something sharper. Older. Like they were fighting ghosts neither could name.
By the end, both were panting. Bruised. Frustrated. Stubborn.
And the coach looked delighted, the bastard.
“Again tomorrow!” he barked. “Maybe we’ll see a real fight next time!”
Kaladin shot Adolin a look. “I’m not fighting you.”
“You just did.”
“That wasn’t a fight.”
Adolin shook out his arm. “Felt like one.”
Kaladin walked away.
Adolin watched him go, rubbing the swelling bruise forming on his shoulder.
Enemies, yes.
But gravity was gravity.
Even when you didn’t want it.
Election season hit Kholinar Heights like a storm nobody asked for.
Every street got plastered with red-white-and-blue DALINAR KHOLIN FOR MAYOR posters. Storefronts set out little campaign signs whether they supported him or not—because refusing made things… complicated. The Kholins weren’t corrupt, not technically, but they had a way of making people feel guilty for disagreeing with them.
Adolin spent every afternoon handing out flyers, smiling until his cheeks hurt. He didn’t exactly love politics, but he loved his dad, and supporting the family meant showing up.
Kaladin hated every second of it.
He couldn’t walk five feet without seeing Dalinar’s face staring down at him from a lamp post. At school, teachers praised the mayor’s “commitment to the community.” At the diner, old men argued about taxes. Even at home, Lirin and Hesina were anxious—campaign season meant factory inspections, and inspections might mean temporary layoffs.
Tien would’ve had to miss work for that. He’d be so proud to help support the family. His smile on his first day of work had been enough to power the Sun. His smile had warmed Kaladin from the inside out.
Kaladin felt that in his bones like a bruise that never healed.
So when he walked into school on a Thursday morning and saw Adolin and a group of preppy kids stapling campaign posters to the bulletin board, something inside him snapped just a little.
Adolin noticed him instantly.
“Kaladin!” he said, bright, unthinking. “Hey, what do you think? We’re adding posters to every main hallway—Dad’s pushing hard this year.”
Kaladin stared at the poster:
DALINAR KHOLIN — HONESTY. INTEGRITY. COMMUNITY.
He could think of a dozen factory workers who’d disagree.
“You really want my opinion?” Kaladin asked.
Adolin hesitated. “…Yes?”
“It looks like propaganda.”
The hallway went silent.
One of Adolin’s friends laughed awkwardly. “Well, you know how greasers are—”
Kaladin turned his stare on the kid. “Finish that sentence.”
Adolin stepped between them fast, hands up. “Okay, let’s all calm down—”
Kaladin’s voice cut sharp as a knife. “Your dad never fixed a damn thing at the factory.”
Adolin stiffened. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair people died there.”
Adolin’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what my family does behind the scenes.”
“I know what they don’t do.”
Students were stopping to watch. Whispers. Tension thick enough to choke on.
Adolin forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Can we talk somewhere else? Maybe away from—”
“No,” Kaladin said. “I’m done talking.”
He walked away, shoulders rigid.
Adolin stared after him, cheeks burning—not from anger, but from something uglier.
Shame.
That night, Adolin sat at the dinner table staring at his mashed potatoes like they held answers.
Dalinar noticed. Of course he did. Dalinar noticed everything.
“You look troubled, son.”
Adolin swallowed. “Some people think… we’re not doing enough.”
Dalinar’s expression softened. “The Stormblessed boy?”
Adolin froze. “You know?”
“I hear things,” Dalinar said simply. “He lost his brother in the factory. I don’t blame him for having a chip on his shoulder.”
Adolin leaned forward, tension snapping loose. “Then why don’t we fix it? Really fix it? Not just campaign promises?”
Dalinar’s face tightened. “It isn’t that simple.”
“It could be.”
“Adolin—”
“Dad, he’s right! People are getting hurt. What if there’s another serious accident? The safety rails are still broken. The night shifts are understaffed. And every time someone complains, the managers say they’ll ‘put in a request’ that never gets approved.”
Dalinar sighed deeply. “You don’t understand how politics works.”
“Then explain it to me!”
There was a long pause.
Dalinar didn’t answer.
Adolin’s stomach twisted.
Two days later, Kaladin and Moash sat in their usual booth at the diner, boots up on the seats, arms crossed. At a booth across from them, Shallan sat cross legged, sketching people without their permission. Renarin sat beside her correcting homework, though no one had asked him to correct it.
The doorbell jingled.
Adolin walked in with a stack of campaign materials, looking tired in a way Kaladin had never seen before.
Moash nudged Kaladin. “Here comes blondie.”
“Not my problem.”
But Adolin walked straight toward them anyway.
He stopped at Kaladin’s table, swallowing hard. “Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
Kaladin didn’t look at him. “We already did.”
Adolin shifted. “Look, I know you hate all of this—”
“I hate what he stands for, what he hasn’t done.”
“My father—”
“Your father,” Kaladin said, eyes cold, “may as well have cost my brother his life. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“He doesn’t own the factory,” Adolin pointed out.
“No, but he promised to enforce regulations to fix it,” Kaladin snapped.
Adolin flinched like he’d been struck.
The whole diner went still.
After a long beat, Adolin whispered, “I do understand.”
Kaladin snorted. “Right.”
“Look, it’s true that I may not understand what it’s like to lose someone in quite that way.” Adolin’s voice wavered—not weakly, but honestly. “But you’re wrong if you think I don’t care. Or that I’ve never lost anyone.”
Kaladin finally looked at him.
Really looked.
For a second, something softened. Everyone in town knew that Adolin’s mother had died years ago. For the first time, Kaladin thought he saw some of that pain bubble into Adolin’s eyes.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke; but then Kaladin stood up, grabbed his jacket, and walked past Adolin without another word.
Shallan sighed dramatically. “That went well.”
Renarin elbowed her. “Shallan.”
Adolin stayed frozen beside the table, staring at nothing.
He didn’t cry.
But he suddenly looked very young, very human, and very alone.
Kaladin sat on his roof, watching storm clouds roll in. He wanted to be angry. He was angry. But something about Adolin’s voice in the diner unsettled him.
Caring didn’t fix anything.
Caring didn’t bring Tien back.
But it… mattered. More than he wanted it to.
Adolin, meanwhile, sat on his bedroom floor surrounded by campaign posters. He picked one up, stared at his father’s strong, confident smile.
He felt sick.
He had never doubted his father before.
He didn’t know how to start now.
And outside, campaign season rolled on, relentless as the thunder.
Chapter Text
The first vandalized poster appeared on a Monday morning.
Kaladin saw it on his way to school: Dalinar’s campaign poster, slashed across the face with dripping black spray paint. Someone had scrawled LYING SUIT over his eyes. Below that, in jagged letters:
GREASERS DON’T BOW
Kaladin stopped dead.
His stomach dropped. Hard.
Because whoever did this wanted it to look like his people.
Moash whistled low. “Damn, Kal. Didn’t know you felt that bold.”
“I didn’t do that,” Kaladin snapped.
Moash shrugged. “Looks like our style.”
“It’s not.” Kaladin stared at the words, jaw set. “It’s too… obvious.”
Skar squinted at the paint dripping down the concrete. “Whoever did this wants the cops lookin’ at us.”
Drehy nodded. “Sadeas’s buddies on the police force will lap this up.”
Kaladin clenched his fists. “Damn it.”
Students passing by stared openly—some scared, some impressed, some whispering.
It was only the beginning.
By lunch, three more posters had been vandalized around town.
By the next morning, twenty.
And every single one had the same spray-painted signature:
GREASERS DON’T BOW
Adolin spent the next two days in damage-control hell.
He went door-to-door with his father’s campaign volunteers, collecting ruined posters and replacing them. Every time he pulled down a piece of dripping vandalism, he felt his frustration grow like a pressure valve ready to blow.
The whispers followed him everywhere:
“Those greaser boys are getting bold.”
“Stormblessed must be behind it.”
“Kaladin, right? The one whose brother died? I heard he’s been planning something.”
“Dangerous family, that one.”
By Wednesday afternoon, Adolin’s nerves were frayed raw.
He turned a corner behind the gym and nearly tripped over another defaced poster.
Dalinar’s printed smile had been covered with a crude cartoonish mustache.
Underneath someone had written:
STORMBLESSED SENDS HIS REGARDS
Adolin ripped it off the wall so hard the paper tore in half. His face burned hot with anger—
—not at Kaladin.
Not entirely.
But at the whole situation. The lies. The assumptions. The way everyone was so damn eager to point fingers.
Renarin found him five minutes later, still shaking.
“You okay?” Renarin asked gently.
“No,” Adolin said. “I’m really not.”
Renarin hesitated. “…You want to talk to him?”
Adolin looked at him sharply. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he didn’t do this.”
Adolin rubbed his face. “I want to believe that.”
“Then believe it.”
“It’s not that simple!”
Renarin gave him a long—very Renarin—look. Quiet. Serious. Cutting through Adolin’s excuses like a scalpel.
“Sometimes it is,” he said.
“His name is on the poster!” Adolin cried.
“Why would he do that to himself? He knows trouble will come to whoever did this to dad. He wouldn’t put his own name on it.” Renarin argued softly. “That just makes me think it’s less likely to be him.”
Adolin didn’t reply.
It happened after school.
Kaladin was walking toward the bike racks when a police cruiser rolled up, lights flashing. Kids nearby stopped to stare as Officer Torol Sadeas stepped out—tall, smug, and with a badge he loved a little too much.
“Kaladin Stormblessed,” Sadeas called. “We need to have a chat.”
Kaladin froze, expression darkening. “I haven’t done anything.”
Sadeas smiled a politician’s smile. “Funny—you sound guilty already.”
Moash stepped forward. “He didn’t do any of that vandalism crap.”
Sadeas ignored him.
He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket—a photograph. He held it up.
It was a picture of a vandalized poster. Fresh paint—still dripping.
Next to it?
The red smudge of a familiar leather jacket sleeve that had smeared paint in the shape of the buckles on a greaser’s leather coat. As if someone had gotten paint on their sleeve before leaning against the poster.
Kaladin’s jacket.
Or at least… something that looked like it.
Kaladin’s heart pounded, lifting his right arm. “That’s not from me. Look, no paint.”
“Sure looks like your sleeve,” Sadeas said lazily, eyes flickering to the buckles on Kaladin’s jacket. “And eyewitnesses claim they saw a greaser running from the scene.”
Moash swore loudly. “That’s a setup!”
Sadeas sighed. “You kids always say that.”
Kaladin stepped forward, fists clenched. “I didn’t do this. I don’t need to sabotage his campaign because I’m not playing his stupid games.”
“Oh, you’re playing,” Sadeas said, smirking. “Big time.”
Kaladin felt something hot crawl up his throat. Anger. Humiliation. Fear.
Kids were watching. Whispering.
The crowd parted suddenly as Adolin pushed through, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp with determination.
“Sadeas,” he snapped, “that’s enough.”
Sadeas raised an eyebrow. “You here to defend your father’s saboteur?”
“Kaladin didn’t do this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Adolin said, voice hot. “He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward who hides behind signatures and spray paint.”
Kaladin stiffened.
That wasn’t a compliment.
Or maybe it was.
Sadeas smiled thinly. “So, we’re taking character witnesses from the mayor’s son now?”
Adolin stepped between Sadeas and Kaladin. “If you’re going to accuse someone, you’d better have something real. That photograph isn’t enough.”
“Careful, boy,” Sadeas said. “Your father doesn’t control me.”
“No,” Adolin said sharply, “but the truth does.”
A tense silence hung in the air.
Finally, Sadeas clicked his tongue. “Fine. We’ll be watching you, Stormblessed.”
He climbed into his cruiser and drove off.
The moment the car disappeared around the corner, a wave of whispers broke out.
Adolin exhaled shakily, turning toward Kaladin.
And Kaladin—
—looked like he was carved entirely out of shock and stubborn pride.
“Why did you do that?” Kaladin demanded. “You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t have to like you to know when something’s wrong,” Adolin snapped.
Kaladin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I didn’t spray those posters,” he said quietly.
Adolin nodded once. Firm. Certain. “I know.”
Kaladin’s jaw tightened.
He looked away.
Adolin did too.
They stood there, not speaking, not looking at each other, bound together by a problem neither wanted and a truth neither could ignore.
Enemies.
But now enemies tangled in the same mess.
Sadeas wasted no time.
By the next morning, a black sedan pulled into the Kholin driveway before sunrise, tires crunching the gravel with too much purpose. Dalinar Kholin stepped out onto the porch in his robe, half a mug of coffee in one hand, sternness in the other.
Torol Sadeas approached him with a self-satisfied smile. Next door, the neighbor’s dog barked as he approached.
“Dalinar,” he greeted, “you need to hear about what your son’s gotten himself tangled in.”
Adolin had barely buttoned his shirt for school when he heard the door to his father’s study slam open.
“Adolin!” Dalinar’s voice thundered.
Renarin, quietly eating cereal, winced. “He sounds… unhappy.”
“That’s normal,” Adolin muttered, straightening his collar. “We’ll be fine.”
He slipped down the hall and had hardly stepped into the office before his father was speaking.
“You defended Kaladin Stormblessed yesterday.”
Adolin froze in the doorway.
Dalinar stood behind his desk, hands planted firmly on the polished wood like he needed to hold himself down. Sadeas lingered in the corner, smirking like a man who’d just thrown a lit match into dry brush.
Adolin stiffened. “I told the truth.”
“The truth,” Sadeas cut in smoothly, “is that the greasers vandalized over thirty posters. If your son sides with them publicly, it undermines the entire campaign.”
Adolin glared. “I didn’t side with anyone. I just said Kaladin didn’t do it.”
Dalinar’s tone dropped into dangerous calm. “Adolin. Sit.”
Adolin stayed standing. “If I sit, it’ll feel like I did something wrong.”
Dalinar’s jaw worked slowly, the way it did when he was choosing his words very carefully.
“Torol tells me you publicly contradicted a police investigation.”
“Sadeas isn’t investigating—he’s harassing,” Adolin argued.
Sadeas put on a wounded face. “I’m just doing my job, son.”
Dalinar cut them both off with a raised hand. “Whether Stormblessed is guilty or not isn’t the point.”
Adolin blinked. “…isn’t it?”
“The point,” Dalinar continued, “is optics. A mayor’s family cannot appear sympathetic to the group accused of sabotage.”
Adolin felt something cold settle in his chest.
“So what are you saying?”
Dalinar stepped out from behind the desk. His voice softened—not gentle, but controlled. Like a man negotiating a hostage situation with himself.
“I need you to stay away from Kaladin Stormblessed.”
Adolin forgot how to breathe.
“What? Why?”
“Because people are watching,” Dalinar said. “And they are looking for weaknesses. If the press catches wind that my son is defending a greaser accused of vandalizing my campaign—”
“Dad, he didn’t do it.”
“That does not matter,” Dalinar said sharply. “Perception matters.”
Adolin stared at him, throat tight. “You’re asking me to ignore a lie.”
“I’m asking you,” Dalinar said, “to protect this family. And this city.”
Sadeas added quietly, “Stormblessed is trouble, Adolin. He always has been.”
Adolin snapped. “You don’t know him!”
The room went utterly still.
Dalinar’s voice dropped to a cold command. “He is not your concern.”
Adolin felt his jaw clench, emotions knotted tight—anger, confusion, betrayal. But he also knew something else:
Whatever he said next mattered.
A lot.
So he swallowed everything he wanted to yell and simply asked:
“Is that an order?”
Dalinar hesitated. Then nodded once.
“Yes.”
Adolin looked at his father for a long, painful second.
Then he turned and walked out.
Sadeas smiled smugly at Dalinar.
Dalinar did not smile back.
Kaladin didn’t look up when Adolin entered the hallway. The greasers had formed a semicircle around him, shoulders guarded, eyes sharp. Rumors were already flying—Kaladin vandalizing posters, Kaladin getting arrested any day, Kaladin being a violent influence.
Kaladin stood between his friends like a pillar made of old anger.
Adolin walked past him without a word.
Kaladin glanced up, surprised—Adolin always tried to say something, annoyingly—but Adolin didn’t look his way. Didn’t acknowledge him at all.
He walked by like Kaladin was just any other face in the hallway.
And it felt—
Wrong.
Kaladin frowned. Watched him go.
Moash nudged him. “Golden boy finally figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Kaladin asked sharply.
“That he’s too good to stand near us.”
Kaladin didn’t respond.
But his chest felt tight in a way he hated, in a way he didn’t understand.
Adolin didn’t look back.
Not once.
Adolin sat in the passenger seat beside Renarin, who was driving home from school in their father’s old sedan. Renarin gripped the steering wheel carefully, checking mirrors three times before turning.
Renarin finally spoke.
“You didn’t talk to Kaladin today.”
“No,” Adolin said curtly.
“Did something happen?”
Adolin stared out the window. “Dad told me to stay away from him.”
Renarin’s brows knit. “Because of the vandalism?”
“Because of ‘optics.’” Adolin’s voice soured. “Because it looks bad if I defend someone unpopular.”
Renarin thought for a long moment, then said quietly:
“Are you going to listen?”
Adolin didn’t answer.
Instead, he watched the town pass by—the boarded-up factories, the peeling houses, the campaign posters waving like flags of a war he didn’t believe in anymore.
He didn’t know what he was going to do.
Not yet.
But he knew one thing:
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Hey all, I know I'm really hammering out those chapters... I have time off this week, so figured I might as well get some posting done. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday in Kholinar Heights meant families crowding the town park for the annual “Community Picnic,” a tradition Dalinar promoted as proof of unity and wholesome values. There were checkered tablecloths, paper lanterns, booths selling homemade pies, and a makeshift stage decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting.
Kaladin hated it.
He wasn’t planning on showing up at all—greasers weren’t exactly invited—but his mom volunteered at the medical tent every year. Hesina insisted he come help since they were short-staffed.
So Kaladin walked across the grass, jaw tight, helping stack medical supplies while children ran past with balloons and cotton candy.
It felt wrong. Too cheerful. Too fake.
Especially with Dalinar Kholin’s re-election posters nailed to every tree.
Adolin tugged at the collar of his neatly pressed shirt. He’d been given a stack of cue cards that he now stared at like they were written in another language.
His father approached, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Remember,” Dalinar said, voice low, “speak clearly, keep your back straight, and stay calm. Sadeas says this is an important message.”
Adolin swallowed. “Dad… are you sure I need to say this?”
Dalinar’s gaze softened just an inch. “You are my son. People need to know where we stand.”
“And where do we stand?” Adolin asked, more quietly.
Dalinar hesitated.
Sadeas stepped in before he could answer. “With order. With accountability. Vandalism cannot be tolerated, and neither can rebellion.”
Adolin’s stomach twisted.
Kaladin carried a crate toward the medical tent but froze when he saw the stage being prepped. A banner hung overhead:
COMMUNITY FIRST: MAYOR DALINAR KHOLIN SPEAKS AT NOON
Workers adjusted microphones. Families gathered. Kids climbed onto their parents’ shoulders.
And then Kaladin saw the real problem:
Adolin Kholin onstage, holding cue cards with a face so pale even the sun couldn’t warm it.
Moash walked up beside Kaladin, hands shoved in his pockets. “Guess he’s gonna say we’re scum.”
Kaladin scowled. “Adolin wouldn’t—”
He stopped.
He wasn’t actually sure what Adolin would do.
Moash smirked. “Golden boy does whatever Daddy tells him. Always has.”
Kaladin’s jaw clenched—but he didn’t have an argument to throw back.
Not today.
At noon sharp, Dalinar stepped up to introduce his eldest son.
“Community,” Dalinar boomed, “is built on trust. And trust has been shaken by recent acts of vandalism and disorder. Today, my son will address these issues on behalf of our family.”
Scattered applause.
Adolin walked to the microphone, cue cards trembling slightly between his fingers.
Kaladin stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed. He felt the tension in his chest coil tighter, like a storm building behind his ribs.
Adolin cleared his throat.
“People of Kholinar Heights,” he began, voice steady but strained, “I want to address the acts of vandalism that have targeted my father’s campaign…”
He paused. His eyes flicked across the crowd.
They landed—only for a heartbeat—on Kaladin.
“…and the groups associated with it.”
Kaladin’s fingers curled slowly into fists.
Moash muttered, “Here it comes.”
Adolin looked back at his cards.
His father stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed. Sadeas stood beside the stage, watching like a wolf waiting for the kill.
Adolin forced down a breath.
“The acts committed…”
His voice wavered.
“…by the unruly elements in town—”
Kaladin’s heart dropped.
Moash let out a low, satisfied sound. “Told you.”
Kaladin stared at the stage, hurt burning hot and bitter.
Adolin swallowed hard.
“…are unacceptable, and must be condemned.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Dalinar nodded approvingly.
Kaladin’s jaw ticked.
Adolin stared down at the card like it might rewrite itself if he just willed it hard enough.
“These actions go against the values of our town,” Adolin continued, voice hollow, “…and the values my family stands for.”
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Lock the greasers up!”
Another said, “Stormblessed is the ringleader!”
Kaladin stiffened.
Adolin flinched.
Dalinar’s face remained stone.
Adolin looked at the next card.
His next line.
He seemed to choke on it.
Kaladin watched him—watched him hesitate, watched him crack in front of the whole town.
Finally, Adolin forced out the final sentence:
“We… we must not allow individuals who promote disorder to disrupt our community. It’s time we stand together as a community and show our neighbors what it means to be a citizen here. And my father will help enforce the values we all take so seriously.”
A few people clapped politely.
Most just nodded.
Adolin stepped back. The applause felt wrong, like it belonged to someone else.
Dalinar patted his shoulder.
Sadeas smiled.
And Kaladin walked away.
Not angrily.
Not storming off.
Just… silently.
Like something inside him had closed.
Adolin found him later near the parking lot, leaning against his bike.
Kaladin didn’t look up.
Adolin approached slowly. “Kal—”
Kaladin cut him off quietly. “Don’t.”
Adolin’s heart sank. “I didn’t want to say those things.”
“You said them anyway.”
“I had to.”
Kaladin finally met his eyes. And what Adolin saw there hurt more than anything Sadeas had ever thrown at him.
Disappointment.
Cold and sharp.
“You don’t have to do what your father says,” Kaladin said. “You choose to.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Kaladin snapped—then stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You don’t get to talk about fair today.”
Adolin opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Kaladin revved his bike and drove off, leaving dust in his wake.
Adolin stood there long after the sound faded.
Renarin eventually walked up beside him, quiet as always.
“Was it worth it?” Renarin murmured.
Adolin didn’t know, so he didn’t answer.
The trouble started small.
A bruising word here, a muttered threat there. Sidewalk whispers. Stares that burned a little too long. People who used to ignore Kaladin now tracked him with a kind of wary hostility.
Like Dalinar’s speech had given them permission.
Kaladin felt the shift before he fully understood it.
Sunday morning, Kaladin pulled up to the alley behind the auto shop where he worked part time. It was usually quiet, but today someone had spray-painted something across the brick:
“GREASER TRASH GET OUT.”
The paint was fresh. Still dripping.
Syl, the one girl who dared hang around with Kaladin and his crew, perched on a fire escape above him like a sassy street cat. She clicked her tongue. “Subtle. Very subtle.”
Kaladin stared at the words, jaw tightening. “I knew people would talk. Didn’t think they’d start redecorating.”
Moash rolled up on his motorcycle a minute later. “Hell’s this?”
“Ignore it,” Kaladin muttered.
Moash didn’t.
He stormed toward the wall, fingers brushing the wet paint. “This isn’t some joke, Kal. They’re coming for us.”
“They’re coming for me,” Kaladin corrected, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let the others stay out of it.”
Moash stared at him, exasperated. “You can’t take on the whole damn town alone.”
Kaladin gave a humorless half-smile. “Watch me.”
School used to be tolerable. Not pleasant, but survivable.
Now?
When Kaladin walked through the halls, lockers slammed shut like gunshots. A paper wad hit his shoulder. Laughter followed.
Someone hissed, “Greasers ruined the posters!”
Another said, “He’s the ringleader. Adolin said so.”
Kaladin’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. Rage simmered under his ribs, but he kept his head down. He had dealt with worse.
Then he turned a corner and froze.
A crowd of students stood around a bulletin board where someone had pinned a photocopy of Dalinar’s speech transcript—highlighting every line that condemned “his type.”
Below it were notes scribbled in pencil:
He probably DID do it.
Kick him out of school.
Filthy greaser.
One added in red ink:
Stormblessed? More like stormCURSED.
Kaladin inhaled through his nose.
Shallan appeared beside him, hair wrapped up in a scarf, hands stained with charcoal. She took one look at the board and said, “Do you want me to burn it?”
Kaladin huffed. “The whole school?”
She shrugged. “If necessary.”
Her attempt at levity faltered when she saw his face.
“Hey… you know this isn’t true, right? You belong here as much as anyone else.”
Kaladin didn’t answer.
Because whatever he used to believe about himself… he wasn’t so sure anymore.
That evening, Kaladin walked home alone. The sun dipped behind the rooftops, the streetlamps flickering to life. The air smelled like exhaust and late-summer heat.
He passed the grocery store, a group of older boys lingering by the vending machine.
The kind who’d never liked greasers.
The kind who liked having someone to blame.
The tallest stepped forward. “Hey. Stormblessed.”
Kaladin didn’t stop walking.
“Your crew’s real brave, huh?” the boy continued. “Trashing campaign posters. Making the mayor look bad.”
Kaladin kept walking.
Another voice: “Maybe you didn’t do it. But you look like the kind of guy who would.”
That one hit something deep and raw inside him.
Footsteps followed. Two boys flanked him.
“Dumping your kind out of this town’d make everything simpler.”
Kaladin’s breathing slowed. His fingers curled into tight fists.
A hand shoved Kaladin from behind.
His mind snapped into that sharp, instinctive clarity he hated—fists, angles, exits, threat assessment.
He turned.
Quick. Controlled.
The boys backed up, startled at the sudden shift.
Kaladin’s voice was low. “Push me again and see what happens.”
None of them expected him to sound like that.
One muttered, “Freaking psycho.”
They scattered.
He walked the rest of the way home in silence.
At dinner that night, Adolin pushed peas around his plate while Dalinar discussed “upcoming community safety measures” with Officer Sadeas.
Renarin slid him a newspaper clipping without a word.
Adolin blinked.
LOCAL GREASERS CAUSE DISRUPTIONS AT SCHOOL
Tension Rises After Mayor Kholin’s Speech
Below was a paragraph about a “confrontation” involving Kaladin Stormblessed.
Adolin’s throat tightened.
“Dad,” he said carefully, “maybe the speech made things worse.”
Dalinar looked up, frowning. “Adolin—”
“He’s not dangerous,” Adolin said quietly. “None of them are.”
Dalinar’s jaw tightened. “You’re too close to this.”
“I’m not close at all,” Adolin snapped. “He won’t even look at me anymore.”
Dalinar’s expression softened for a moment—a father, not a mayor. “Some things,” he murmured, “cannot be mended by friendship.”
“I don’t want to be friends. I just don’t want him to look at me, at us, like we’re part the reason his world collapsed. Even if we are,”
Dalinar stiffened, and Adolin realized he’d said too much—and yet not enough.
Renarin put a hand on his arm under the table.
Dalinar stood. “Regardless, the town must remain safe. And if this Kaladin boy is causing trouble—”
“He’s not.” Adolin stood up so abruptly his chair screeched.
Dalinar’s brows rose.
Sadeas, who had been quietly stirring his coffee, finally spoke:
“The boy’s a problem, Dalinar. Your son has seen that. He agreed to the speech.”
Adolin glared. “This is exactly what you wanted.”
“Adolin,” Dalinar said sharply, “sit down.”
Adolin didn’t.
He walked out.
He could feel his father’s disappointment like a physical weight—but it didn’t hurt as much as the idea of Kaladin walking home alone in the dark with the whole town looking at him like a criminal.
Kaladin woke to shouting outside his window.
He jumped up, pulling the curtains aside—
Just in time to see a brick smash through the family car’s windshield.
Three silhouettes sprinted off into the darkness.
Kaladin’s heart hammered. He ran outside barefoot.
“HEY!”
The figures didn’t turn.
Just laughter carried on the wind.
Kaladin stood in the driveway, breathing hard, glass glittering at his feet.
His hands shook as his parents dashed outside behind to survey the damage.
Kaladin was silent. They weren’t after the car. He knew that. He felt it in his bones. They were after him.
The broken glass stayed in the driveway all night, glittering in the moonlight like frozen lightning. Kaladin barely slept. Every noise outside made him sit up straight, ready to fight shadows.
By morning, he looked like a storm in a leather jacket.
Syl showed up before dawn, rapping her knuckles on his window until he cracked it open. She wore jeans patched at the knees. Her satin blue jacket caught the light, shining slightly. Her hair was a tangled mess from climbing through backyards to reach him.
“Tell me you didn’t go hunting for them last night,” she demanded without any further greeting.
Kaladin didn’t look at her. “Didn’t need to.”
Syl peered out the window at the shattered windshield outside.
“They’re escalating.”
“No kidding.”
She exhaled sharply. “Kal—”
“Don’t,” he cut in. “I’m tired, Syl.”
“Of what?”
“Being everyone’s favorite target.”
She moved closer, studying him like he was something brittle. “You don’t get to break. That’s their goal.”
Kaladin rubbed his eyes. “I’m not breaking.”
Syl didn’t look convinced.
A knock at the front door startled them both.
Kaladin opened it to find Moash on the porch, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes dark with something meaner than anger.
“I heard,” he said.
“Word travels fast.”
“Good,” Moash growled. “Because we need to hit back.”
Syl stepped into the doorway beside Kaladin. “Absolutely not.”
Moash’s gaze flicked over her, annoyed but dismissive. “This is between me and Stormblessed.”
Syl folded her arms. “Too bad. I’m between you and Stormblessed.”
Moash rolled his eyes. “Look, Kal, they came after you. That makes it open season.”
Kaladin’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to—”
“You think keeping your head down keeps you safe?” Moash interrupted. “Look at your damn car.”
Kaladin flinched.
Syl stepped closer to Kaladin, voice low. “You’re not like him. Don’t start acting like it.”
Moash scoffed. “He should act like it. That’s the point.”
Kaladin shot him a look. “Moash—”
“Look,” Moash said, lowering his voice as if offering a secret. “I know who did it.”
Kaladin stilled.
Syl’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
Moash shrugged. “I have friends. People talk.”
“Names,” Kaladin said tensely.
Moash grinned like a fox. “Roshone.”
Kaladin’s expression hardened instantly. He knew the name — everyone did. His father was Dalinar’s competitor for mayor (a friendly competition of course). Just like his father, Rollir Roshone was mean, bored, and always looking to torment someone who couldn’t hit back without consequences.
Kaladin exhaled slowly. “Figures.”
“See?” Moash said. “We can take care of this. Quick. Make him think twice next time.”
Syl grabbed Kaladin’s arm. “You’re not even considering this.”
Kaladin didn’t pull away.
Moash leaned in. “We jump him tonight. Scare the hell out of him. Nothing major. Just a reminder that greasers aren’t punching bags.”
Syl’s grip tightened. “Kal—please.”
Kaladin finally spoke. “Moash… I’m not sure.”
Moash’s smile dropped. “What?”
“I’m angry,” Kaladin admitted. “I want to hit something. I want to hit him. But—”
“No ‘but,’” Moash snapped. “They started this.”
“And ending it with a beating solves what?” Syl challenged.
Moash smirked. “Satisfaction.”
Kaladin looked at him — really looked. He saw the fury, the bitterness, the love twisted into something sharp from years of being stepped on.
He also saw what Moash was becoming.
What Moash wanted him to become.
Kaladin swallowed. “Give me time to think.”
Moash scoffed. “Fine. But don’t think so long you forget who hit first.”
He stalked away, cigarette already between his fingers.
After Moash left, Syl let out a breath she’d been holding.
“You’re not doing it.”
Kaladin didn’t answer.
Syl moved in front of him, hands gripping his jacket. “Kal. Listen to me.”
He kept his eyes on the driveway.
“Kaladin, look at me.”
He slowly lifted his gaze.
Syl’s eyes were fierce, bright, and terrified all at once.
“If you go after Roshone,” she said quietly, “they win.”
“How?”
“Because they want you angry. They want you violent. They want you to prove every awful lie they’re already saying about you.”
Kaladin’s voice cracked. “What else am I supposed to do, Syl? Let them walk all over me?”
“No,” she said, softer now. “Just don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.”
Kaladin’s throat tightened.
Syl brushed a piece of glass dust off his arm. “You’re better than this town.”
He didn’t believe her.
Not today.
She saw it.
And that scared her more than any broken window.
By afternoon, every greaser in the Thunder Road Garage knew something was brewing.
Someone had stolen a baseball bat from the auto shop.
Someone else was asking when Roshone got off work.
Kaladin overheard it all, each whisper pulling him closer to a line he wasn’t sure he could un-cross.
Syl stayed glued to his side like a shadow with opinions.
“You’re not doing this,” she hissed for the tenth time.
Kaladin rubbed his temples. “You can’t decide that for me.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Syl—”
“No!” she snapped, startling him. “I won’t watch you ruin your life for a kid who throws bricks in the dark.”
Kaladin stared at her, stunned by the emotion in her voice.
Syl looked away, blinking too fast. “If you get arrested, or beaten, or worse—”
“Syl—”
“Don’t make me watch you disappear.”
Kaladin exhaled shakily.
And in the quiet that followed, he realized something gutting:
She wasn’t scared of Moash’s plan.
She was scared of losing him.
As the sun set, Kaladin walked to the gas station to clear his head.
He should’ve stayed home.
Rollir Roshone and two friends were there, laughing beside a pickup truck, drinking stolen beer.
They saw him.
The laughter stopped.
“Oh look,” Roshone drawled. “Stormblessed. Or Stormbroken.”
Kaladin froze.
One of the boys raised the brick he still had in his truck bed — like a trophy.
“We left one for your car,” he sneered. “Should’ve saved it for your skull.”
Kaladin’s pulse pounded so hard it made his fingertips shake.
Roshone smirked. “Come on, boy. Hit me. Make it fun.”
Kaladin took one step forward.
Just one.
And something deep inside him split open.
Moash’s voice echoed in his mind.
You gonna let him get away with this?
Syl’s voice cut through it, breaking, real.
Don’t disappear, Kal.
He stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on Roshone, fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched.
One hit.
One swing.
One choice.
The whole town would never let him recover from it.
Kaladin slowly — painfully — turned away.
Roshone laughed behind him. “Coward!”
Kaladin didn’t turn back.
He counted every step until he reached the road.
He kept counting even after he turned into his driveway. He felt like if he stopped, he might turn around and change his mind.
He didn’t.
But the storm inside him was growing.
He touched the door handle, preparing to go in, when sirens wailed in the air. Kaladin frowned, turning towards the sound. They were heading in the direction of the factory. Memories flooded back, and Kaladin’s heart dropped. Without hesitation, he leapt on his bike and tore away.
The story reached the Kholin household before sundown.
Not through Dalinar.
Not through the sheriff.
Not even through gossip.
Renarin told him.
He slipped into Adolin’s room quietly, closing the door behind him like he was guarding a secret.
Adolin didn’t look up from his desk. “If this is about dinner, tell Dad I already—”
“It’s about Kaladin,” Renarin said gently.
Adolin froze. His pencil dropped. “What about him?”
Renarin hesitated. “I was getting snacks inside… he got cornered at the gas station.”
Adolin stood so fast his chair slammed into the wall.
“Cornered?”
“By Roshone and two others.”
Adolin’s pulse spiked. “Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“So they didn’t—” Adolin swallowed hard. “They didn’t jump him, then.”
“No. But they tried to provoke him into fighting.” Renarin’s voice wavered, because he knew exactly what that meant. “They wanted him to swing first.”
Adolin’s hands clenched at his sides. “Did he?”
“...No. He walked away.”
Adolin pressed a hand to his forehead, dizziness flooding him. Relief. And then something else—
Fury.
Cold, clean, and overwhelming.
“They did this,” he whispered. “Because of the speech. Because of me.”
“Adolin—”
“I painted a target on him.”
Renarin flinched at the sound of his brother’s voice — frayed, breaking apart. “It isn’t your fault.”
“The hell it’s not!” Adolin snapped, pacing the room. “I stood on that stage and repeated everything Dad and Sadeas wanted me to say. I told the whole town that Kaladin was a threat — and the first chance they got, they treated him like one.”
He raked a hand through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
Renarin approached him quietly. “You felt trapped.”
“I was trapped. But that doesn’t matter,” Adolin said, breathing unsteadily. “I gave the speech, and they heard my words loud and clear. Of course they went after him.”
His voice cracked.
“Of course they did.”
Renarin put a hand on his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
Adolin stared at the floor.
“I don’t know. But I can’t just sit here.”
He didn’t wait for dinner.
Didn’t wait for Dalinar to finish his call.
Adolin stormed into his father’s home office like a thunderclap. Dalinar looked up, mildly surprised.
“Adolin? Something wrong?”
“Yes,” Adolin snapped. “Something is very wrong.”
Dalinar blinked, covered the receiver. “Take a breath. What happened?”
“Rillir cornered Kaladin at the gas station,” Adolin spat. “He tried to start a fight.”
Dalinar’s expression darkened — but not with concern. With political calculation. “I was told there was an incident, but it appears no one was hurt.”
“No one was hurt because Kaladin walked away,” Adolin hissed. “After being provoked. After his car was smashed.”
Dalinar’s jaw tightened. He apologized to the other person on the line and hung up. Then, he turned back to his son. “I understand you’re upset, but Kaladin’s reputation—”
“His reputation?” Adolin exploded. “You mean the one you helped destroy?”
Dalinar stood, voice stern. “You will speak to me with respect.”
“Then act like someone I can respect!” Adolin shot back before he could stop himself.
The silence was instant and suffocating.
Dalinar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being influenced by that boy and his crowd.”
“I haven’t spoken to him since the speech,” Adolin said, voice cracking. “He won’t even look at me. And why should he? I sold him out.”
Dalinar exhaled through his nose. “You were doing your duty as my son. As a Kholin.”
“Then maybe being a Kholin is the problem,” Adolin whispered.
Dalinar stiffened.
Sadeas stepped through the doorway as silently as a shadow. He always seemed to hang around when re-election was up. He knew he had an ally in Dalinar, which meant he had a vested interest in his re-election.
Now, he raised an eyebrow. “My, my. Looks like someone’s feeling rebellious.”
Adolin rounded on him. “Stay out of this.”
Sadeas smirked. “You’re angry at the wrong people. That greaser boy has been nothing but trouble—”
Adolin slammed his fist on the desk so hard the lamp rattled. “Kaladin didn’t do anything!”
Dalinar stepped between them. “Adolin. Enough.”
But Adolin wasn’t listening.
“He’s being hunted,” Adolin said, voice low with raw, unfiltered fury. “And you’re letting it happen. You stand for law and order? Then enforce it equally. Or stop pretending.”
Dalinar inhaled sharply, wounded by the accusation.
But Adolin didn’t stay to watch it sink in. He stormed out.
Renarin found Adolin outside, sitting on the hood of his car, staring at his shaking hands. He approached quietly and sat beside him.
“You were brave,” Renarin murmured.
“I was stupid,” Adolin muttered. “Dad’s furious.”
“He’s worried.”
“He’s wrong,” Adolin said through clenched teeth. “About Kaladin. About everything.”
Renarin looked up at the sky turning purple with dusk. “So what now?”
Adolin didn’t answer for a long time.
Then:
“I need to talk to Kaladin.”
Renarin nodded. “Will he hear you?”
“I don’t know,” Adolin said. “But I can’t sit here pretending I don’t care what happens to him. Not when it’s my fault he’s in danger.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“And if Roshone or anyone else tries something again…” Adolin’s voice dropped, trembling with something fierce and unsteady, “I won’t let Kaladin face it alone.”
For the first time in days, he meant it.
Notes:
Also, sorry, Dalinar won't always be this annoying... Give him time. Anyway, comments are always appreciated!
Chapter Text
Thunder Road Garage stretched out under the night’s sky like a strip of shadowed promise—broken glass glittering under the sodium lights, engines rumbling in the dark, cigarette tips flaring like fireflies. Word of the gas-station blowout had gotten around, and the greasers had gathered in a restless pack.
Moash leaned against the hood of his bike, arms folded, jaw tight. Rlain, the youngest of the group and a bit of a hanger-on, was tuning up his engine. Drehy and Skar tossed a wrench back and forth to burn off nerves. Syl—barefoot, hair wild, wearing an oversized men’s shirt like a dress—perched on a railing, kicking her heels and humming in a way that sounded more like worry than a tune.
That was when a flashlight cut through the gloom. The conversations died. Moash straightened with predatory slowness. Adolin Kholin approached, waved, pretended to be friendly.
He wasn’t dressed for Thunder Road—button-down white shirt, sleeves rolled carefully to his elbows, expensive watch glinting, hair combed so perfectly it looked sculpted. The kind of boy who belonged at country club dinners, not in the oil-stained dust under a bridge.
Moash’s lip curled.
“Well, well. Look what the mayor’s golden boy dragged himself down here for.”
Adolin looked ten seconds from snapping already. His breath harsh. His eyes blazing in a way none of them had seen at school or in the polished halls of town events.
“Where’s Kaladin?” he demanded.
A ripple went through the greasers—surprised, annoyed, dangerous.
“Not here,” Moash said, pushing off the bike. “Why? You come to see the damage your little speech did?”
Adolin flinched just slightly—barely enough for anyone to catch. But Syl, from the railing, narrowed her eyes, studying him like a puzzle she didn’t trust.
“I heard what happened at the gas station,” Adolin said, stepping forward. “I heard they… that some guys cornered him.”
Skar snorted. “Oh, now you care?”
“Go home, preppy,” Moash said. “Thunder Road isn’t for you. And neither is Kaladin.”
“I’m not leaving,” Adolin snapped. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”
Moash’s jaw twitched—anger, yes, but also something meaner, sharper. He took a step closer. Then another.
“You think you get to know?” he said softly. “After standing up there with your daddy and telling the whole damn town that Kaladin and the rest of us are trash? After helping Sadeas pin those poster jobs on us?”
Adolin’s throat worked. “I didn’t— I didn’t want to—”
“Oh, spare me.” Moash’s smile was cold. “You stood right next to Dalinar Kholin. You read off a speech he wrote for you. You didn’t choke. You didn’t walk away. You condemned us, right there in the park, like a good little soldier.”
Adolin didn’t move. But his hands had curled into fists at his sides.
“I didn’t know it would turn into this,” he said, voice low and cracking. “I didn’t think they’d go after him. I didn’t—”
“You never think,” Moash hissed. “Because things don’t happen to your people. They happen to ours.”
The greasers murmured angrily behind him. A few stepped forward, not touching Adolin yet—but close. Too close.
Syl hopped down from the railing.
“Moash,” she said sharply, “he’s not our enemy.”
“He made himself one.”
Adolin swallowed, eyes flicking instinctively toward her—surprised by her support—but he didn’t say a word.
Moash’s shoulders tensed. “He shouldn’t be here. Rich boys don’t wander into wolf dens unless they’re lost. And he’s real, real lost.”
Adolin met his glare.
“I came because I needed to know if Kaladin’s okay.”
Moash laughed once, dark.
“You don’t get to worry about him now.”
He stepped even closer, chest nearly brushing Adolin’s.
“And you sure as hell don’t get to come down here thinking you can fix this.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” Adolin said. “I just… I just need to know.”
The honesty hit the air like a shock.
Moash’s eyes flickered—not softening, but bracing, as if unexpected sincerity was an insult.
“Why?” he spat. “Why do you even care?”
Adolin opened his mouth.
He didn’t get to answer.
Skar suddenly muttered, “Someone’s coming,” and all eyes shifted as another engine approached from the far end of Thunder Road—loud, familiar, fast.
Moash turned slightly, irritation flickering.
Adolin, breath still tight in his chest, looked toward the oncoming lights—
—and every greaser there seemed to tense at the same moment.
Kaladin’s bike.
And Adolin was standing in the middle of his territory.
Surrounded.
Kaladin’s bike swung into view like a streak of midnight steel—engine whining too high, too desperate. He didn’t slow properly. He practically skidded into the ring of greasers, tires screaming against the cracked pavement.
Moash swore and jumped back.
Adolin instinctively stumbled aside.
Kaladin killed the engine so fast it choked. He didn’t even take off his helmet before yelling—
“Rlain! Skar! Anybody— I need hands, now! There was a collapse—part of the south wall at the factory—the night people are trapped—”
He finally ripped the helmet off.
He was pale beneath the streetlamp glow, hair stuck to his forehead, chest hitching with the effort of getting air down. His eyes searched the group, frantic, not even noticing who he’d nearly run over.
“Something gave,” he said, breathless. “One of the support beams. We got some of the night shift out but—there’s screaming under the rubble. We need to move fast before the whole damn thing drops.”
The greasers erupted all at once—questions, curses, boots scrambling. Rlain grabbed his jacket. Drehy threw a wrench aside and sprinted for his truck, Syl followed him.
But Moash wasn’t moving yet.
He’d turned toward Kaladin, stunned.
“You okay?” Moash demanded.
“Doesn’t matter.” Kaladin waved him off. “There are kids in there. I need bodies. We have to lift some beams—get the smaller guys through the cracks—“
And only then did he notice the silence behind him.
He saw Adolin.
A beat of shock. Then fury. Then something more complicated—shoved down immediately.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Kaladin snapped at the group, pointing at Adolin like he was a hazard sign.
Moash jumped in before anyone else could speak.
“He showed up asking about you.”
Kaladin’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t waste the moment.
“Fine. Whatever. We don’t have time for this.”
He turned back to the others.
“Everyone who can lift—come with me. We need to brace the east side before we dig.”
Adolin stepped forward.
“I can help.”
Kaladin’s head whipped around so fast it was almost comical.
“No. You’re not coming.”
Adolin didn’t back down. “I want to help.”
Moash scoffed. “Oh, sure. Now you want to play the hero?”
“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Adolin snapped, color rising in his cheeks. “I’ve taken a first aid class, and taken a disaster preparedness class to help become an Eagle Scout. I know how to brace a failing wall. And I’m stronger than I look.”
“You?” Kaladin barked a laugh that wasn’t funny. “You grew up with silk sheets and a personal gardener. You’ve never crawled through a half-collapsed building in your life.”
Adolin’s eyes flashed.
“You don’t know anything about my life.”
“And I don’t need to,” Kaladin shot back. “I’m not risking people’s lives on your ego.”
“It’s not ego—!”
“Kaladin,” Rlain cut in, voice urgent. “We need speed. Extra hands help, trained or not.”
Kaladin spun on him. “Not his hands.”
A tense beat.
Adolin stepped forward again—not aggressive, not pleading. Determined.
“If you tell me exactly what to do, I’ll do it,” he said quietly. “No arguing. No questions. Just work.”
Kaladin stared at him like he was trying to find the trap.
Moash folded his arms.
“He’ll slow us down.”
Adolin didn’t look away from Kaladin.
“Let me help.”
The night held its breath.
Kaladin’s fingers flexed once—nervous energy he didn’t have time for. He looked toward the dark horizon where the factory lights flickered weakly against the skyline.
Then he cursed under his breath.
“Fine,” he gritted out. “But if you get in the way, even once—Moash is hauling you back to your fancy side of town.”
Moash smirked viciously. “Gladly.”
Adolin nodded, already rolling his sleeves higher. “Just point me where you need me.”
Kaladin grabbed his helmet again and swung himself back onto the bike.
“Let’s move.”
The greasers piled onto their bikes and cars, engines roaring to life.
Adolin hesitated—he didn’t have a ride.
Kaladin noticed too late, then groaned like the universe was personally mocking him.
“Get on,” he muttered.
Adolin blinked. “What?”
“Do you want to run the whole way? Get on.”
Moash looked like he might combust.
Adolin didn’t give Kaladin time to change his mind. He climbed on behind him, awkward hands hovering before he finally gripped the sides of the seat instead of Kaladin’s jacket. Kaladin ripped off his helmet, shoved it at Adolin, and then revved the engine.
“Don’t fall off,” he warned.
“I won’t,” Adolin muttered, clipping the helmet in place.
And in a blast of exhaust and urgency, they tore out of Thunder Road— toward the factory collapse, toward chaos waiting in the dark.
***
The factory lot was a whirl of lights and noise—the kind that punched straight into your ribs. Red and white from the ambulances, harsh yellow from the fire trucks, flashlights sweeping over dust-clouds that still hadn’t settled. Smoke curled from the collapsed south wall like a wounded thing.
Screams, orders, metal groaning under stress.
And Sadeas—Officer Sadeas in his pristine uniform—stood near the barricade shouting into a radio, jaw clenched, frustration etched deep.
Kaladin braked so hard the bike fishtailed. Adolin nearly pitched sideways off the back, catching himself at the last second. The moment Kaladin’s boots hit the ground, he was running.
Rlain, Skar, Moash, and the rest piled out of their vehicles behind him, boots thundering. Syl followed, blue coat catching the flashing lights.
A firefighter spotted Kaladin. “Kid, you’re back! We need bracing on the east flank! That whole beam’s gonna go any minute!”
Kaladin nodded sharply, scanning. “Earlier there were three voices from the south pocket—two kids, one adult. Any update?”
“Still alive,” the firefighter said grimly. “But we can’t pull anyone until we stabilize that support.”
Kaladin turned to the greasers.
“You heard him. Let’s go!”
They surged forward—
—until Sadeas stepped in front of them, hand up.
“No. Absolutely not.” His voice cut sharp as glass. “We are not letting a bunch of street thugs onto an active disaster site.”
Moash bristled instantly. “People could be dying in there.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Sadeas snapped. “But I’m not risking more casualties because you kids want to play hero.”
“That’s not what this is,” Kaladin growled. “I work here after school. Half of us do. We know the layout better than—”
“Back off,” Sadeas warned.
Firefighters were shouting. Something deep in the rubble shifted with a sickening crack.
Kaladin took a step toward the yellow tape. “Move. Now.”
“Hell, Kaladin,” Sadeas hissed, grabbing his arm, “this is already a PR disaster. If something happens to the mayor’s son or—”
He froze.
Only now really clocking that Adolin behind them—dust already on his clothes from riding behind Kaladin, expression set in a tight, anxious line.
Sadeas’ voice lowered, lethal.
“You brought him?”
Adolin stiffened. “I came to help.”
“You will do no such thing,” Sadeas said. “Your father would—”
But the universe did not care about politics tonight.
A scream tore out from inside the rubble.
A beam inside shifted again—loud, cracking, giving.
Firefighters swore. “We’re losing the east support!”
The greasers didn’t wait.
Skar and Drehy ducked under the tape. Rlain followed. Moash shoved past Sadeas with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
“Get back here!” Sadeas bellowed.
Kaladin didn’t even look at him. Adolin had discarded the bike helmet, left it back at the motorcycle. Kaladin grabbed a spare helmet from a toolbox, shoved it at Adolin.
Adolin blinked, startled. “What—?”
“Put it on,” Kaladin ordered. “You’re on bracing with me. If you get hurt, this whole thing will be more of a disaster.”
Sadeas grabbed for Adolin’s arm.
“Adolin, do not—”
Adolin jerked free—not rough, but firm.
“I’m not standing here doing nothing.”
Sadeas looked like someone had slapped him.
“Kid—your father—”
“He’s not here,” Adolin said. “And I’m going.”
And that was that.
Kaladin vaulted the caution tape. Adolin followed. The dust hit them instantly—thick, choking. Heat radiated from somewhere inside the wreck.
The collapsing wing sounded like a nightmare: the metal’s slow, haunting whine, the grit raining down, someone crying echoing through the narrow gaps.
Kaladin pointed.
“Adolin—there. See that vertical beam? It’s leaning into the support. We need to help them get a jack under it.”
Adolin nodded, pushing through debris with his shoulder despite Sadeas shouting after him.
Kaladin grabbed a heavy steel floor jack from a firefighter who looked relieved for the help.
“You sure they can handle this?” the firefighter asked urgently.
“They’re greasers,” Kaladin said. “We lift engines for fun.”
Moash had already climbed halfway up the unstable frame to wedge a chain around the highest point. He shouted down:
“Kal! You take the jack! Rlain—brace that concrete!”
Adolin shoved a piece of sheet metal aside, coughing, eyes watering from the dust.
“Where do you want me?”
Kaladin pointed to the base of the shifting support.
“Hold that beam steady while I crank the jack. Don’t let it slip.”
“I can do that,” Adolin said, already bracing his shoulder into it, feet sliding in the debris before finding purchase.
Kaladin went to work, muscles straining, metal groaning louder as the jack rose.
The firefighter yelled, “It’s holding! Keep going!”
A muffled voice from below screamed, “Please—please—my leg—”
Adolin’s face went pale, but he didn’t flinch.
“Just hurry,” he muttered. “Please.”
Kaladin met his eyes—just for a heartbeat.
And for the first time since they’d met, there was no contempt.
Only urgency.
Only two teens trying to keep someone alive.
Moash, sweat streaking down his face, called down:
“Kal, faster!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!”
Sadeas had reached the tape again, arguing loudly with the fire chief, furious—but powerless.
Another crack.
Another shower of dust.
Adolin dug his heels in harder. “It’s slipping! Kaladin!”
Kaladin threw his whole weight into the jack—one last heave—
—metal screamed—
—then shifted—
—and the beam locked into place on the jack with a shudder that sent vibrations through the ground.
“It’s stable!” the firefighter shouted. “We can send the crawl team in!”
Adolin collapsed backward, coughing into his sleeve.
Kaladin didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Adolin’s arm, hauling him back to his feet.
“You good?” he asked, breathless.
Adolin nodded shakily. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Kaladin said. “Because we’re not done.”
Firefighters were already sliding into the newly opened gap. The cries from inside carried louder now. A woman sobbed in relief.
And around them, greasers continued climbing the wreckage, moving debris, ignoring Sadeas’ furious orders to stand down.
Because tonight wasn’t about politics.
Or reputation.
Or rival gangs.
Tonight was about people buried in the dark.
And the greasers were saving them—
with the mayor’s son covered in dust, standing shoulder to shoulder with them,
whether anyone liked it or not.
***
The news footage had interrupted Renarin’s favorite science fiction show. Dalinar had only been half-paying attention, but when the screens had cut abruptly to fire and wreckage, Dalinar ordered his younger son upstairs.
His hands were shaking as he reached for the nearest telephone and dialed the number as if on autopilot. He was half surprised when Meridas actually picked up.
“What is going on?” Dalinar demanded immediately. “What happened?”
“It’s… a difficult situation, but the emergency personnel have it handled,” came the smooth voice from the other side of the line. “Incidents happen. This one should be cleaned up within the week.”
“Cleaned up?” Dalinar spat. “I told you we wanted inspectors to check your infrastructure. You promised me this wouldn’t happen again.”
“Dalinar, please, you’ll just raise your blood pressure,” Meridas murmured. “Don’t worry, we’re handling it. I’m surprised, you calling me at this hour with this kind of… intensity. I’ve donated more than enough income to your campaign. How am I supposed to do that if I’m spending money on irrelevant renovations just to make the factory more appealing?”
“A wall collapsed,” Dalinar spat softly.
“And the firefighters are making sure everyone is alright,” Meridas replied smoothly. “Now I’d suggest you get some rest, old friend. I have to place a call to the Roshones. They understand the situation at my factory.”
“I… as do I,” Dalinar murmured.
“Good, then we have an understanding. Goodnight, Dalinar,” Meridas murmured, and the phone call ended with a soft click.
***
The Kholin house sat at the top of Oakridge Hill—a manicured palace of trimmed hedges, white porch columns, and windows that glowed like polished amber in the cold night. Usually, Adolin liked coming home at night. The quiet. The order. The sense that nothing bad could ever happen here.
Tonight, the house felt like a museum he didn’t belong in.
Dust still clung to his hair, his sleeves, the knees of his trousers. His palms were scraped raw. His muscles ached in places he didn’t know existed. And under all of that, one feeling pulsed steady and unwelcome:
Guilt.
He pushed open the front door.
The house was quiet—too quiet—until a voice cut the stillness like a knife.
“Where have you been?”
Dalinar stood at the base of the stairs, jacket still on, as if he’d been pacing. Watching. Waiting. He didn’t look angry in the loud way. This was worse. This was the cold, contained kind of anger that felt like standing in the path of an oncoming storm.
Adolin shut the door behind him softly.
“There was a collapse.”
“I’m aware.” Dalinar’s eyes flicked down, taking in the dirt smeared across Adolin's clothes. “…You were there.”
“Yeah.” Adolin didn’t bother to hide it. “I helped.”
Dalinar took one slow step forward.
“With the greasers.”
It wasn’t a question.
Adolin didn’t answer immediately. He could still hear crying from beneath the rubble. The groaning metal. Kaladin’s hoarse voice shouting orders. The firefighter who’d told him he’d probably saved those people’s lives.
Somehow none of it translated when he stood here in the warmth of his perfect house.
“People needed help,” Adolin said. “I wasn’t going to stand around.”
Dalinar’s jaw tightened. “You could have been killed.”
“So could they,” Adolin shot back.
“Those boys choose danger,” Dalinar said. “You do not.”
Adolin blinked in disbelief. “They didn’t choose a building collapse!”
“That is not what I mean,” Dalinar said sharply. “I mean they choose a life that leads them into chaos and risk and violence. I will not have my son dragged into their world.”
Dragged.
Funny. Adolin didn’t remember being dragged.
He remembered running toward that building.
Dalinar continued, voice low and terrible:
“Officer Sadeas told me you defied orders. That you crossed the emergency line. That you endangered yourself and others by interfering—”
“Sadeas wasn’t helping anyone,” Adolin snapped. “He was too busy calling them thugs.”
“Because they are,” Dalinar thundered.
The silence after that landed heavy.
Adolin felt his nails dig into his palms.
“You don’t know them.”
“I know enough. And I know Kaladin Stormblessed is trouble.”
Adolin’s chest tightened—not because Dalinar was wrong about Kaladin’s rough edges, but because tonight had shown him something different. Something raw and fierce and full of responsibility. Kaladin hadn’t hesitated once. He’d just thrown himself into danger to save strangers.
“Kaladin saved lives tonight,” Adolin said, voice steady. “Moash did. Rlain did. Syl—everyone there—”
Dalinar cut him off. “Enough. The election is in three weeks. The last thing we need is you being seen with dangerous delinquents in a public crisis.”
Adolin stared at him.
“That’s what you’re worried about?” His voice cracked at the edges. “Your polling numbers?”
Dalinar’s expression flickered—hurt, offended, something complicated.
“That is not fair. I was worried about you Adolin. Sadeas says you put yourself in danger, and now you’re claiming you were out there saving lives?”
“It’s the truth,” Adolin whispered. “Dad, people were screaming. They were dying. And all Sadeas cared about was keeping ‘street kids’ behind a line. But those street kids held up a collapsing wall with their bare hands.”
Dalinar rubbed a hand over his face—tired, worn, not knowing how to reach his son. “Adolin… you don’t understand the forces at play. The public perception. The danger.”
“You think I’m that fragile?”
“I think you’re worth protecting,” Dalinar said softly.
Adolin swallowed. Hard.
It should have comforted him.
It didn’t.
“I’m going upstairs,” he said finally.
Dalinar didn’t stop him—but the tension in the room clung like static electricity.
As Adolin climbed the staircase, he heard his father murmur quietly to himself.
“I can’t lose you too.”
Adolin paused halfway up. Something inside him twisted.
But he didn’t go back.
His room was immaculate, untouched, smelling faintly of cedar polish. He dropped onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and just breathed.
Images kept flashing behind his eyes—the kid’s trembling voice from under the rubble, Kaladin’s strained face, Moash chaining the upper beam, Syl darting in and out with quiet, frantic energy.
And the moment the beam locked in place, saving three lives.
Adolin pressed his hands over his face.
He wasn’t supposed to care this much.
He wasn’t supposed to feel this angry.
This conflicted.
This… awake.
Somewhere outside, a siren wailed in the distance.
Adolin lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling—
and realized he didn’t feel like he belonged in this quiet, perfect house at all.
Not tonight.
Maybe not for a long time.
***
Dalinar didn’t go to bed.
Not right away.
After Adolin’s footsteps faded upstairs, the house settled into its usual hush—the grandfather clock ticking in the hall, the distant hum of the streetlight outside, the faint scent of dinner that no one had eaten lingering in the air.
Dalinar crossed the living room and poured himself a small glass of whiskey. He didn’t usually drink on nights like this. Not when the campaign demanded clarity. Not when reporters prowled for the slightest misstep.
But tonight his hands were shaking.
He sat heavily in his leather armchair, the one beside the cold fireplace, and stared at the glass without drinking it.
Kaladin Stormblessed.
The name had hovered on the edges of police reports for months. Not as a suspect—no real charges stuck—but as a presence. Near fights, near trouble, always hovering around the other greasers. Sadeas insisted Kaladin was the ringleader. Dangerous. Unstable. Resentful.
Dalinar had believed him.
Sadeas had been one of his most trusted officers for years. Loyal. Efficient. Sharply pragmatic. Never soft.
Dalinar once valued that.
But tonight…
Tonight he kept seeing the faces of the rescued workers on the brief news flash. Covered in ash. Trembling. Crying.
A child on the sidelines—maybe eight years old—had pointed at someone behind the camera and whispered, “He saved my brother.”
Kaladin.
Dalinar set the whiskey down, untouched.
He’d thought Adolin repeating the prepared statement about “community safety” at the park would make the town feel secure. He’d thought distancing his son from the greasers was the right call.
But Sadeas had told him the greasers interfered at the scene. He’d claimed they’d caused chaos. That Kaladin had argued with first responders. That Adolin had followed them into danger recklessly.
Then Dalinar saw the footage.
Not the polished written report—someone’s news camera, focused on the ‘thugs’ who’d stepped in during an emergency. Just a few seconds, but enough.
Kaladin—covered in dust—lifting part of the buckled frame with two other boys, shouting for someone to “get the kid through now.” Beside him, Adolin held a brace jack steady, face contorted in effort and fear.
The contrast hit Dalinar like a fist.
Kaladin wasn’t causing chaos.
He was organizing it.
Saving people.
And Adolin… Adolin wouldn’t have been able to help without someone like that guiding him.
Dalinar’s throat tightened.
He leaned back and let out a long, shaking breath.
For months, Sadeas had insisted the greasers were nothing but a threat. Said they were the reason the town’s youth were slipping. Said Kaladin—specifically Kaladin—was practically a criminal waiting to happen.
Dalinar had never questioned it. Not deeply.
But tonight, with that dust-strewn child’s voice echoing in his mind, he wondered—
Was Sadeas lying?
Or worse: shaping truth to his benefit?
Dalinar’s eyes drifted to the framed family photograph on the mantle. Adolin at age nine, smiling too large for the camera, hair sticking up. Renarin leaning shyly beside him. Dalinar behind them, hand on each shoulder.
He remembered a younger version of himself saying: I will protect them. Both of them. No matter what.
But protecting wasn’t the same as sheltering.
And sheltering wasn’t the same as blinding oneself.
Dalinar rubbed a hand across his jaw.
He had believed Kaladin was a lost cause. A boy bent toward trouble.
But trouble hadn’t rushed into that collapsing building.
Kaladin had.
And Sadeas…
Sadeas hadn’t mentioned that on the phone.
Not once.
Dalinar felt something cold uncoil in his stomach—something that tasted like suspicion. Betrayal. Memory. Shadow.
For the first time, he wondered if he’d been wrong.
For the first time, he wondered if Sadeas wasn’t telling him the whole truth.
For the first time, he thought:
Perhaps that boy deserves a different judgment.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the quiet, sleeping town. Rescue lights still flickered in the distance.
Dalinar drained the untouched whiskey into the sink.
Tomorrow, he would ask more questions.
Tomorrow, he would watch Sadeas closely.
Tomorrow, he would reconsider the boy he’d dismissed.
But tonight, he stood alone in the silent kitchen—
and thought of Kaladin Stormblessed, dusty and breathless, carrying frightened strangers out of the dark.
And wondered what else he had failed to see.
Notes:
I’m loving all the comments, thank you :) and yes, Meridas Amaram does in fact own the factory, bit of lore for you.
Chapter Text
The next morning, the school felt… wrong.
Usually, Monday mornings at Kholin High had a sleepy, half-alive shuffle to them—students yawning their way through the front doors, the hum of lockers slamming, teachers clutching coffee like lifelines.
But today, the air buzzed.
With whispers.
With rumors.
With the aftermath of a night no one could ignore.
As Adolin stepped onto campus, conversations died and restarted in hurried, excited tones behind him.
“—heard the whole wall came down—”
“—my cousin said some greaser was inside before the cops—”
“—no way Kholin was with them, he’d never—”
“—I saw him on TV, though. Covered in dust—”
Adolin kept his chin high and jaw clenched, sleeves rolled down to hide the bruising on his arms. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard metal cracking and felt the beam tilt in his hands again.
He made it three steps toward his locker before someone called out:
“Adolin!”
He turned. Shallan was hurrying toward him—dress patterned with ink-splotch designs, hair pulled into a messy bun with three pencils sticking out of it. She had a sketchbook clutched to her chest.
“You were at the collapse!” she hissed the moment she reached him. “Tell me everything. No—wait—actually don’t tell me everything yet.” She flipped open her book and shoved a charcoal drawing at him. It was a quick sketch: Adolin crouched beside a jack, muscles strained, Kaladin bracing. It wasn’t perfect, but the emotion was there.
Adolin blinked. “…How do you already have this?”
Shallan shrugged. “The news report. I sketched fast as I could..”
A beat.
“You okay?”
Adolin opened his mouth—then shut it.
He didn’t know how to answer that.
Shallan’s expression softened. “You did good. Whatever anyone says today, you did good.”
Before he could respond, a different energy swept through the hall—shivers of tension, whispered curses, a couple people backing out of the way.
The greasers had arrived.
Kaladin walked at the center of them, face unreadably blank. Moash flanked his right, glaring at anyone who looked too long. Rlain on the other side, hands in pockets. Syl bounced along beside them, hair still a little smoky from the night before.
The hallway parted around them like an old wound reopening.
Adolin felt his stomach tighten.
Kaladin saw him.
And for the first time since they’d met, Kaladin didn’t sneer, or scowl, or roll his eyes.
He just… stopped walking.
The greasers halted too, staring between Kaladin and Adolin with varying degrees of confusion and suspicion.
Shallan glanced at Adolin, wide-eyed. “Um. Should I—uh—go? This feels like I should go.”
Adolin swallowed hard. “No. Stay.”
Kaladin approached slowly.
Not aggressive.
But not friendly.
Something in between.
When he stopped a few feet away, the hallway was dead silent.
Kaladin studied him—taking in the tired eyes, the way Adolin stood a little too stiffly. Finally, he spoke, voice low.
“You okay?”
It was the last thing Adolin expected. It hit harder than any insult might have.
He nodded. “Yeah. You?”
Kaladin huffed a dry almost-laugh. “Been worse.”
Moash muttered, “This is surreal,” under his breath.
Shallan stepped forward. “Just so you know, I fully document all historical moments, and this definitely counts.”
Moash leaned in. “Kal, let’s just go. We’re not doing this peace-talk-in-a-public-hallway thing.”
“A moment,” Kaladin muttered.
He turned back to Adolin.
“Look… yesterday… you didn’t have to be there.” He hesitated as if the words physically hurt him. “But you didn’t run.”
Adolin’s voice was quiet. “Neither did you.”
Another quiet beat passed.
Adolin stepped closer, lowering his voice. “My father saw the footage.”
Kaladin froze. “And?”
“And… he didn’t dismiss it.” Adolin swallowed. “We spoke this morning. I think he’s rethinking you.”
Kaladin’s expression twisted into something pained and suspicious. “That doesn’t change much.”
“No,” Adolin admitted. “But it’s something.”
Kaladin didn’t answer.
Down the hall, the bell rang—but no one moved until Kaladin finally spoke.
“Listen,” Kaladin said, voice softer than Adolin had ever heard it. “Last night doesn’t fix the mess between us. Or the mess your dad’s speech made.”
Adolin nodded. “I know.”
“But…” Kaladin lifted his chin. “You were solid under pressure. I can respect that.”
Adolin’s chest tightened—because for Kaladin Stormblessed, respect wasn’t small. It wasn’t casual.
It was everything.
Kaladin exhaled sharply and nodded once to Adolin. “See you around.”
The greasers began walking again. The hall’s noise returned in a wave as they passed.
But before turning the corner, Kaladin glanced back—just for a second.
Not a smile.
Not a truce.
But a flicker of understanding.
And Adolin felt something shift beneath his ribs.
Not friendship.
Not yet.
But the first crack in the wall between them.
And cracks, Adolin knew from last night, could be the beginning of rescue.
***
Lunch period came with the weight of a thunderstorm.
Usually the cafeteria was loud—teenagers shouting across tables, metal trays clattering, the smell of too many different foods competing for supremacy. But today, tension clung to the walls like humidity before a downpour.
The collapse dominated every conversation.
But even louder than that was opinion.
And opinions had sides.
Adolin walked in, tray in hand, feeling the shift as heads turned. He wasn’t used to being stared at like this. Admiration from sports wins? Sure. Attention for being Dalinar Kholin’s son? Always.
But this was something else.
A tight knot of upper-class kids whispered to each other, glancing his way—people he normally sat with. People who usually wanted his approval.
One waved him over halfheartedly. “Adolin! Over here.”
Adolin moved toward them, but his eyes flicked toward the far table—the greaser corner, tucked under the half-broken “GO BULLDOGS” banner. Kaladin sat there with Moash, Lopen, Rlain, Skar, Drehy, and Syl perched atop the table like a stray cat daring anyone to shoo her away. They didn’t look at him, but he felt their presence like a pressure point.
He sat with his usual group. It felt… wrong. The table too polished. The voices too loud.
“Man, the way the news is spinning this,” Jak said, waving a french fry. “You’d think those greasers actually saved people or something.”
Adolin stiffened. “They did.”
Jak shrugged. “Sure, sure. I’m just saying—some of those kids probably started the collapse. It’s an old building, but come on. They’re always there messing around.”
Adolin’s jaw tightened. “No they weren’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was there.”
Jak laughed lightly. “Yeah, and you were helping them? Man, you’re way too nice. They’re taking advantage—”
“Stop talking,” Adolin snapped before he could help it.
The table fell silent.
Jak blinked, confused. “I—I’m just saying what Rillir was telling everyone this morning.”
Adolin put his fork down. His hands were shaking with leftover adrenaline he couldn’t quite suppress.
“You weren’t there,” he said. “You didn’t hear anyone screaming. You didn’t see the beams giving out or the dust choking the air. You didn’t watch Kaladin help someone crawl in a gap barely wide enough for a cat because someone inside couldn't breathe.” His voice rose with each sentence. “So don’t sit here and spread crap about things you didn’t see.”
Jak stared, wide-eyed. “Okay, man. It’s not that serious.”
“It was that serious.”
The table grew cold.
And just when Adolin thought the awkwardness couldn’t get worse—
A shadow fell over them.
Kaladin.
He stood beside their table, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable. Moash hovered behind him like a storm cloud.
Everyone at the preppy table went stiff. Some leaned back. Others looked at their plates. One girl muttered “Oh my god” under her breath.
Adolin tried not to look startled. Tried—failed.
Kaladin glanced at him first—just a flick of recognition—then addressed the table.
“Lunch lady said some kid paid for our meals today,” Kaladin said. “Said it was ‘anonymous.’”
The preppy kids looked at each other, confused.
“I want you to know we aren’t charity cases,” Kaladin stated firmly.
Adolin went pink around the ears.
Kaladin smirked. Just barely.
“But I still decided to come say thanks.”
He nodded at Adolin pointedly.
“From us. For the food.”
Adolin coughed into his sleeve, desperate to look casual. “Wasn’t a big deal.”
Moash snorted. “We had three trays of mashed potatoes. It was a pretty big deal.”
Shallan trotted up behind them, joining the strange tableau with a sketchpad in hand. “Oooh, is this the part where we all join hands and sing kumbaya?”
“No,” Moash and Kaladin said at the same time.
Shallan grinned.
Adolin’s table watched, confused and vaguely horrified.
Kaladin shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable being here among sweater vests and letterman jackets.
“Anyway,” Kaladin muttered. “Just didn’t want it to go unsaid.”
Adolin nodded in return—an acknowledgment, a truce, a thing neither of them had words for yet.
Kaladin turned to leave.
But Jak—nervous and not thinking—blurted:
“Hey, uh… Stormblessed?”
Kaladin turned slowly.
The whole cafeteria froze.
Jak swallowed. “So… that building didn’t, like… collapse on purpose or anything?”
Moash took a long step forward, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jak held up both hands. “Nothing! It’s just—rumors! People said maybe you guys—”
Kaladin’s voice came out calm. Too calm.
“You’re looking for someone to blame. That it?”
“I—I didn’t say that—”
Kaladin’s stare sharpened. Not angry. Just cutting.
“If someone caused it, they’ll be find out,” he stated. “But it wasn’t us.”
Jak shut his mouth.
Kaladin didn’t raise his voice, didn’t move aggressively—but the whole cafeteria felt the pressure of him. Like standing at the edge of a drop.
He tapped the table with two fingers—an oddly polite gesture.
“Enjoy your lunch.”
He turned away. Moash followed, shoulders tense.
The greasers returned to their corner.
The noise in the cafeteria returned slowly.
Adolin sat back, heart pounding, breath uneven. His friends turned to him, dozens of questions in their eyes, but he didn’t hear any of them.
He was watching Kaladin’s retreating form.
And watching something else too:
The way people parted around him.
The way some admired him.
The way others feared him.
The way rumors stuck to him like static.
And the way Kaladin carried all of it alone.
Shallan nudged Adolin’s shoulder.
“You know,” she said quietly, “fault lines don’t stay hidden forever.”
Adolin frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shallan tapped her temple. “Means the ground’s shifting. People feel it. Sooner or later, something’s gonna crack.”
Adolin swallowed.
He had a sinking feeling she was right.
***
By Friday afternoon the whole town felt stretched thin, like the week had been one long breath nobody quite exhaled. Exams were done, graduation robes were being fitted, and every senior walked the halls with that strange mix of freedom and dread buzzing in their bones.
But all of it—every scrap of excitement—was overshadowed by the memory of the collapse.
Kaladin noticed it most in the looks people gave him.
Half wary.
Half grateful.
Half something he couldn’t name.
(He’d never been good at math, but he knew looks weren’t supposed to add up like that.)
Adolin noticed it too—mostly in the way his friends went silent whenever he walked up. Or the way they whispered things he pretended not to hear. Their opinions were shifting, but nobody wanted to admit it.
And Moash noticed it most in how the cops drove slower past the greasers’ hangouts.
Watching.
Waiting.
The whole week passed like that—tight, brittle, waiting for the next quake.
***
Dalinar Kholin’s end of the school year party was the event of the season. This year was extra special, his son was graduating.
The mayor’s backyard had been transformed into something out of a magazine—paper lanterns strung through the oak trees, the smell of grilled food drifting through the open gates, a live band warming up on a newly built stage. Tonight, photographers would mingle with reporters while parents celebrated the end of an era.
Dalinar stood in the center of it all, back straight, smile bright, every inch the polished leader gearing up for reelection.
It was perfect.
Which made what happened next all the more… complicated.
The Fire Captain—Captain Khal—showed up in uniform. The crowd of people putting finishing touches on the decor parted around him easily, respectfully. He climbed the patio steps and pulled Dalinar aside.
Adolin, lingering close enough to overhear, felt the shift immediately.
“Mayor Kholin,” Captain Khal said quietly. “I came to thank you for the support this week. The crews appreciated it.”
Dalinar nodded. “Of course.”
“But I’ve got a request,” Khal continued, voice careful. “Unusual one.”
Dalinar’s brows pulled together. “Go ahead.”
Khal exhaled slowly. “There’s been a lot of noise about those greaser boys.”
Dalinar tensed—Adolin saw the flicker of irritation.
“I’ve heard,” Dalinar said.
“Some folks claim they caused the collapse,” Khal said. “Others are calling them heroes. Truth is—” he hesitated “—I had men on scene. Your son was there too. And those boys saved lives.”
Dalinar’s jaw stiffened. Adolin’s heart thumped harder.
“So,” Khal said, “I think it would look good for the town… and good for your campaign… if you invited them tonight.”
Dalinar blinked once. Slowly. “Excuse me?”
“They helped,” Khal repeated. “And people know it. A gesture from you would quiet rumors. Show unity. Show you’re a man who honors courage wherever it comes from.”
The mayor said nothing.
But his expression said everything:
This was the last thing he wanted.
“Sir,” Khal added carefully, “it’ll look worse if you ignore them.”
A long, strained silence.
Adolin found himself holding his breath, waiting.
Finally Dalinar forced a smile. “Very well. If the fire department believes it’s wise, I won’t argue.”
“You’ll invite them?” Khal asked.
“Yes,” Dalinar said, each word sharp-edged. “I’ll extend the invitation.”
“Good man,” Khal nodded, “You’ve got my vote.”
He then saluted, and walked away.
Dalinar remained still for a moment, posture rigid.
Then he turned to Adolin.
“They’re not to cause trouble,” Dalinar muttered. “If they come.”
Adolin hesitated. “They won’t.”
Dalinar sighed. “Find them. Tell them they’re invited. Hurry back. Guests will arrive soon.”
There it was—the reluctant acceptance.
Not respect.
Not trust.
Just political necessity.
Adolin nodded and headed toward the house to grab his jacket.
Behind him, he heard his father mutter:
“Heaven help me... This could be a disaster.”
***
Thunder Road wasn’t far.
But Adolin felt the weight of every step as he walked up to the greaser’s hangout.
They were all there.
Moash leaning against a motorcycle.
Drehy and Skar arguing over spark plugs.
Syl sitting cross-legged on the hood of a car eating a popsicle.
And Kaladin, arms crossed, watching Adolin approach like a storm cloud sizing up the horizon.
“Prep-boy shows his face again,” Moash said. “Brave.”
Adolin swallowed. “I’m here with a message.”
“Oh good,” Syl teased brightly. “Do I get to throw him in a dumpster afterward?”
“No,” Kaladin said.
“Yes,” Moash said at the same time.
Adolin ignored that. “It’s… an invitation.”
That got some attention.
Kaladin’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered.
“Invitation?” he said. “To what?”
Adolin exhaled. “My father’s end of year party.”
Moash burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s rich.”
Skar blinked. “Wait—for real?”
Adolin nodded stiffly. “The fire captain insisted. He said you saved lives. It’d look good for the town.”
“That’s the reason?” Kaladin asked. “Politics?”
Adolin winced. “Yes. I mean—also no. It’s not just—”
“It’s fine,” Kaladin said gruffly. “We know what this is.”
Syl tossed her popsicle stick aside.
“Are we allowed to start fights?” Lopen asked.
“No,” Adolin said quickly.
“Then what’s the point?” He muttered.
Kaladin looked at his crew. “He’s using us. Not just inviting us.”
Adolin nodded. “Some people there think you caused the collapse.”
A pause.
“So… things might be tense.”
Moash smirked. “Since when do we run from ‘tense’?”
Kaladin didn’t smile. “We don’t run. But we choose our battles.”
He met Adolin’s eyes for a long moment.
Something unspoken passed there—an acknowledgment neither of them dared name.
“We’ll come,” Kaladin finally said. “To show we’re not hiding.”
Adolin exhaled in visible relief.
“But,” Kaladin added, stepping closer, “if Sadeas is there—and he stirs trouble—you better keep him away from us.”
“I’ll try,” Adolin said. Then corrected, “I will.”
Kaladin nodded, just once.
Moash cracked his knuckles. “Man. This party’s gonna be fun.”
***
As Adolin returned, Dalinar glanced up sharply.
“Well?” he asked.
“They’re coming,” Adolin said.
Dalinar’s sigh was long and heavy. “Let’s pray this doesn’t blow up in my face.”
Adolin’s gut tightened.
He had a feeling it would.
Fault lines didn’t stay quiet forever.
And tonight?
Tonight the whole town would be standing on them.
***
The sun dipped behind the hills just as the greasers arrived.
Kaladin had made absolutely sure they were presentable—clean shirts, grease wiped off hands, no jackets with rips, no switchblades, no alcohol. Moash complained the whole time, but even he obeyed. Lopen put on a sports coat. Rlain slicked back his hair. Drehy actually ironed his shirt. Syl insisted on wearing mismatched earrings but otherwise complied.
“You all remember the rules,” Kaladin said for the fifteenth time as they approached the Kholin estate—music drifting through the air, the mayor’s lawn glowing with lantern light. “No fights. No yelling. No mouthing off. No—”
“Fun,” Moash finished dryly. “We remember.”
“It matters.”
Kaladin looked at them—really looked. Thunder Road kids. Factory apprentices. Sons of factory workers and mechanics. Kids the town used when convenient and blamed when bored.
He wasn’t letting them be blamed for anything tonight.
“We walk in,” Kaladin said, “we act like civilized human beings, we leave.”
“Such excitement,” Syl muttered. “I can barely contain myself.”
***
The moment they stepped onto the lawn, the party froze.
It didn’t actually freeze, of course—the band kept playing, waiters kept moving, children kept laughing at the far end near the lemonade stand—but in another sense, in a social sense, everything locked into place.
Heads turned.
Parents stared.
A cluster of country-club moms went rigid, clutching pearls that weren’t even technically pearls.
And at the center of it all—Adolin.
He’d been greeting guests, bright and polished in a pressed button-down, but when he saw Kaladin and the others arrive, the mask faltered. Not from shame—not this time. From worry.
He moved toward them, ignoring the eyes on his back.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You came.”
Kaladin shrugged. “You said Captain Khal asked. We’re not about to disrespect him.”
Moash muttered, “We’re also not about to kiss the mayor’s ring.”
Adolin shot him a look. “Then don’t.”
Kaladin elbowed Moash—lightly. Sharply. “Behave.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Dalinar watched them from the patio, jaw set but neutral. Not welcoming—but not hostile either. It was… progress. Or political calculation. Hard to tell.
But someone else was watching too.
Someone much more eager.
***
Rillir Roshone stood near the punch table wearing a slick suit and a predatory smile. His father had money. Old money. The type that made people listen even when they shouldn’t. Rillir pretended to be sipping punch, but his eyes were locked on the greasers with the intensity of a wolf eyeing a flock.
He nudged a friend. “Look. The trash arrived.”
His friend murmured, “Your dad said to let them be.”
Roshone grinned. “My dad’s not here tonight. Dalinar is.”
“So?”
“So—Dalinar invited the wrong crowd. I just need the right shove to prove it.”
He flicked his cigarette into the bushes, ignoring the glares.
His friend swallowed. “What are you planning?”
Roshone’s smile widened.
“Nothing. Unless they start something first.”
He watched Moash’s shoulders tense, Syl’s fists clench, even Kaladin’s jaw tighten as whispers followed them.
“Someone will snap,” Roshone said. “They always do.”
He drifted past a group of parents, dropping seeds of suspicion like breadcrumbs:
“Dangerous boys.”
“Factory troublemakers.”
“Everyone knows they’re involved.”
By the time he circled back to the punch table, the room was primed.
All it needed was a spark.
***
Moash’s hands stayed in his pockets—but just barely.
“Everyone’s staring,” he hissed.
“That’s because you glared at a toddler,” Lopen whispered.
“It was looking at me funny.”
“It’s three.”
Adolin stepped between them. “Please. Just breathe. Tonight doesn’t need drama.”
“Tell that to them,” Moash said, flicking his chin at a pair of businessmen talking too loudly about “criminal kids” as if the greasers couldn’t hear.
Kaladin exhaled, long and controlled. “Ignore it.”
“You ignore it,” Moash muttered.
Syl grabbed Kaladin’s sleeve. “He’s right. You all need to ignore it. Even the part where the tiny lady over there called you ‘unsightly.’”
Kaladin winced. “Syl—”
“What? I’m just reporting.”
But he stayed calm. For now.
Adolin guided them toward the food tent, deliberately away from clusters of judgmental parents.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Kaladin shot him a look. “Are you?”
Adolin swallowed. “…Working on it.”
There was a brief, strange moment where they shared a mutual recognition—of being watched, measured, expected to be something they weren’t.
But the moment broke when a loud voice cut through the party:
“Well, well. If it isn’t Thunder Road trash.”
Rillir Roshone.
He approached with a drink in hand and a grin sharper than broken glass.
Kaladin tensed—but stayed still.
Adolin stepped forward. “Roshone. Not now.”
“Relax, Kholin,” Roshone said, clapping him on the shoulder in a pointedly aggressive way. “I just want to ask our heroes a few questions.”
Moash moved first—but Kaladin shoved an arm out to stop him.
“No,” Kaladin warned under his breath. “Not tonight.”
Roshone circled them like he was inspecting livestock.
“So,” he drawled, “how does it feel being both blamed for the collapse and praised for it? Must be confusing. I mean—”
He leaned close to Kaladin.
“—you’re used to the first part.”
Kaladin’s knuckles whitened.
Adolin stepped in front of him. “Back off.”
Roshone’s smile stretched. “Oh? Mayor’s boy protecting the trash? Careful. Your dad’s polling well tonight.”
Kaladin inhaled slowly—once, twice.
But Moash’s temper was a live wire.
“Say ‘trash’ again,” Moash said, stepping forward. “Say it. I dare you.”
Roshone’s eyes gleamed.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Kaladin grabbed Moash’s jacket. “Don’t you—”
But before anyone could stop it—
A girl shrieked.
Heads turned.
A tablecloth near the lantern-lit hedges was on fire—someone’s cigarette tossed carelessly, catching dry leaves, spreading fast.
People screamed. Water splashed. Someone yelled to call the fire department.
Roshone paled.
He knew exactly whose cigarette it had been.
Kaladin reacted instantly.
“Move!” he shouted, sprinting toward the flames.
He grabbed the nearest cooler, dumped it on the fire. A few embers spread, trying to catch a table cloth. He smothered the embers with his sports jacket, the only one he owned.
The greasers rushed in behind him—Lopen stomping stray sparks, Drehy hauling another cooler, Moash throwing his vest over a flare-up despite cursing loudly.
Guests watched, stunned.
The fire was out in seconds.
Silence fell over the yard.
Dalinar turned, eyes wide, realizing who had stopped the disaster.
Captain Khal exhaled. “Those boys again.”
And Roshone?
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Kaladin straightened, smoke on his sleeves.
“Accident,” he said loudly. “Wasn’t us.”
And the way he looked at Roshone made everyone understand exactly who he meant.
Dalinar stepped forward, expression unreadable.
Then he said, clearly and firmly:
“Thank you.”
Kaladin blinked. Adolin stared. The whole party felt the shift.
Not big.
Not dramatic.
But real.
Someone clapped.
Then someone else.
Soon the sound spread.
Applause.
Hesitant, awkward… but applause.
Kaladin didn’t smile. But Adolin did.
Syl leaned over to Kaladin and whispered, “See? Told you we were irresistible.”
Kaladin snorted.
***
Kaladin didn’t even notice his jacket was ruined at first.
He was too busy brushing soot off his arms, coughing out smoke, and patting Syl on the head because she insisted she was “helping contain the dramatic tension,” whatever that meant. Moash swore under his breath at the scorch marks on his own vest. Drehy smelled faintly of melted vinyl. Guests whispered behind gloved hands.
But then someone gasped, and Kaladin glanced down.
His jacket—the one he’d saved for special events for years, patched up half a dozen times—was burned straight across the back. The fabric was charred and curling, blackened where he’d thrown it onto the flames.
Kaladin touched it, fingers brushing brittle edges.
“It’s fine,” he muttered.
“It is very much not fine,” Syl said, aghast. “It looks like a dragon nibbled it and then gave up halfway.”
Moash snorted. “Guess that’s what happens when you dive onto a fire like an idiot.”
“I put out a fire,” Kaladin said.
“You can do both,” Moash replied.
People were still gawking—the mayor’s guests, the reporters, kids from school. Some watched with something like awe. Others with suspicion. Some with curiosity. But all with attention Kaladin didn’t want.
He tugged the ruined jacket tighter around himself.
Then Adolin appeared, weaving through the crowd with purpose.
His expression was tight—part worry, part frustration, part something Kaladin couldn’t decipher. He stopped right in front of him, scanning the damage.
“Are you hurt?” Adolin asked.
“No,” Kaladin said. “Just the jacket.”
Adolin hesitated, then swallowed. “Come with me.”
Kaladin frowned. “Why?”
“Just—trust me for once,” Adolin muttered.
Moash folded his arms. “He doesn’t go anywhere alone with you.”
Adolin rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to murder him. It’ll take thirty seconds.”
Kaladin gave Moash a warning look. “It’s fine. Stay here.”
Moash scowled but let him go.
Adolin led Kaladin toward the house, the crowd parting reluctantly. They slipped inside through the side door, into the quiet of the mudroom lined with jackets and polished shoes.
Adolin opened a closet, rummaged with a sigh, and pulled out a neatly pressed letterman-style jacket—navy blue, soft wool, nicer than anything Kaladin had ever owned.
“You can borrow this,” Adolin said, offering it.
Kaladin stared at it. “What? No. Your dad will kill you.”
“It’s mine,” Adolin said. “He won’t even notice.”
“It’s too nice,” Kaladin muttered.
“So?” Adolin stepped closer. “You showed up looking decent tonight. You did everything you promised. You saved people again. You shouldn’t have to stand out there in a ruined jacket like some—”
He stopped himself.
Kaladin’s eyes narrowed. “Like some what?”
“Like some thug everyone already assumes the worst about,” Adolin said quietly. “You don’t need to give them more ammunition.”
Kaladin exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting.
“Put it on,” Adolin said.
Kaladin hesitated.
Wearing it would make him look like he belonged.
Or at least like he wasn’t the town’s favorite target.
“Fine,” Kaladin said. “But only so Syl stops making that face.”
Kaladin slipped off the burned jacket and shrugged into Adolin’s.
It fit.
Not perfectly.
A little tight in the shoulders.
But warm. Clean. Presentable.
Different.
Adolin watched him with a strange expression—approval, maybe. Relief. Something gentler than either.
Kaladin tugged at the collar. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”
Adolin laughed softly. “You look like someone who deserves better than how this town treats you.”
Kaladin blinked, caught off guard.
Adolin opened the door back to the yard.
“You don’t have to stay long,” he said. “Just long enough that people see the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” Kaladin asked.
Adolin swallowed. “That you’re not the villain they keep trying to make you.”
Kaladin stared at him—studying him.
Then nodded.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get this over with.”
They stepped back out into the lantern-lit yard.
And every head turned again—
But this time, the stares were different. Not all approving. Not all kind.
But noticing.
And Kaladin, wearing Adolin’s jacket, didn’t shrink under them.
Roshone saw him from across the lawn and froze, expression souring at the sight.
Dalinar saw too—and the flicker that passed over his face was unreadable.
Something had shifted tonight.
Something small.
Something real.
But storms were still gathering.
And Kaladin could feel the wind changing.
***
The party had recovered, at least on the surface.
Music drifted from the backyard again, the band easing into something soft and romantic. The lanterns glowed warm gold, and conversation swelled back to its usual hum—though now and then someone’s gaze flicked toward the borrowed jacket Kaladin wore, trying to figure out what it meant.
Shallan had found Adolin near the refreshment table, and she was teasing him mercilessly about something that made him blush so hard he kept pretending to cough. Syl, who’d wandered over to listen, whispered loudly to Kaladin:
“They’re flirting. Badly.”
“I know,” Kaladin muttered.
“They’re so clumsy about it. I can practically hear the awkwardness.”
“Yes, Syl.”
“They’re going to knock over a tray of deviled eggs at this rate.”
“Syl.”
“I’m HELPING you actually pay attention instead of hiding your face in your new jacket.”
Kaladin smothered a grin. “Congratulations. You’re very observant. Stay out of trouble.”
“Never,” Syl said, skipping off toward the string lights like a mischievous firefly.
Kaladin sighed and headed inside—partly to escape the staring, partly because he really needed to use the restroom.
***
Dalinar’s house was big. Too big. A labyrinth of hallways, polished floors, portraits lining the walls. Kaladin had never seen so many neatly folded towels in his life.
He passed one door, another, turned left—
Wrong turn.
Then right—
Still wrong.
He muttered to himself. “Damn. Where do rich people put their toilets?”
He spotted a half-open door and figured he’d ask whoever was inside for directions. He stepped quietly closer—
Then froze.
Inside the dim room, lit only by a lamp, two figures were close together. Very close. Soft murmured words. A hand cupping a cheek. A hesitant smile.
It took Kaladin a second to recognize them.
Renarin.
And Rlain.
Kissing.
Kaladin’s breath caught. Not out of judgment—never that—but out of pure, startled instinct. He backed up a step, but his shoe hit the baseboard.
A soft thump.
Both boys jolted apart.
Rlain’s eyes widened with panic first. Renarin went pale.
Kaladin lifted his hands immediately. “Sorry! I—damn it, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—look, I was just trying to find the restroom.”
Renarin stared, stunned into silence. Rlain looked ready to bolt.
Kaladin stepped back another inch. “It’s okay. I didn’t see anything.”
“You… definitely did,” Rlain whispered.
Kaladin winced. “Alright. Yes. I did. But I’m not telling anyone.”
Renarin swallowed hard. “Kaladin… if people knew—”
“They won’t,” Kaladin said firmly.
The fear in their eyes struck him deep.
Kaladin softened his voice. “Look. Whatever you have… it’s yours. And it’s not my business. Just be careful.”
Renarin’s shoulders sagged, relief crashing through him. “Thank you.”
Rlain looked at him long, searching. “Why help us?”
Kaladin shrugged. “Because I know what it’s like for people to watch you and assume the worst.”
For the first time, Rlain smiled. Small. Warm. “You’re a good person, Kaladin Stormblessed.”
Kaladin rolled his eyes. “Don’t spread that rumor. I have a reputation.”
Renarin let out a shaky laugh.
Kaladin cleared his throat. “Alright. I’ll go before this gets more awkward. Also—still need the restroom. Directions?”
Renarin pointed down the hall. “Second door on the left.”
“Thanks. And seriously—your secret’s safe.”
Rlain nodded deeply. “I trust you.”
Kaladin slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.
***
When he returned to the lawn, Syl was waiting for him with a plate of tiny sandwiches.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” she said.
Kaladin took one automatically. “…Not a ghost. Just something I need to never mention again.”
“Ah.” Syl nodded sagely. “One of those secrets.”
“Yes.”
“You’re good at keeping those.”
A soft, knowing smile.
“Better than most people realize.”
Kaladin adjusted the borrowed jacket, watching the lanterns flicker in the night breeze.
The world felt bigger and more fragile than it had an hour ago.
And he had a feeling that tonight’s secrets—Adolin’s, Rlain’s, his own—were threads in a web tightening around all of them.
ChecktheCeiling on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Nov 2025 04:26AM UTC
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