“I thought that was you. I was getting some lemonade when Jack told me he saw you out here, and I remembered that you’re on my mending list.” He hands me the mug, then stands at my side, looking up at the sky. “It’s your favorite, if I remember.”

“That’s too kind of you.” I lift the mug and drink deeply, slaking the thirst that’s burned my throat since our little sprint through the Archives. “And don’t worry about my shoulder. It’s already healed. You know, I never got the chance to thank you for helping us during interrogation.”

“I never like to see you hurt, and Varrish has it out for you.” He drinks from his own skin, then scratches his stubbled cheek. “Where is Riorson, anyway? I don’t often see you apart on Saturdays.”

My stomach dips as Jack Barlowe walks across the courtyard, Caroline Ashton at his side with some other second-years from First Wing. It completely flips when he gives me a nod, which I awkwardly return.

“Violet?” Nolon prompts, following my line of sight to Jack. “Everything all right?”

“Everything is fine. And Xaden left earlier. We don’t always get along.” I take another sip of the lemonade, then glance down at the contents. The kitchen must have changed up the recipe, because it has a funny yet familiar aftertaste.

“I meant what I said,” Nolon says quietly, glancing at the cream satchel I carry.

Cream. Not black.

My head blurs, my vision swimming momentarily as I swing my head to look at him.

“Tairn—” But Tairn isn’t there. Every connection I have is fuzzy.

No. Oh gods, no.

But...but I’ve trusted Nolon with my life for years.

“I never like to see you hurt,” Nolon whispers, apology crinkling his brow as the mug rolls from my hand, crashing to the gravel a heartbeat later. “But I can’t protect you from the consequences of your own actions when you risk the safety of every civilian in this kingdom.”

Bootsteps sound all around me and the world spins, but it’s Varrish’s face I see hovering above mine. “Why, Cadet Sorrengail, what have you gotten yourself into?”

The only signet more terrifying than an inntinnsic is a truth-sayer. And yet we letthemlive.

—MAJOR AFENDRA’S GUIDE TO THE RIDERS QUADRANT (UNAUTHORIZED EDITION)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I blink slowly, my vision coming into focus with all the urgency of a snail. Dull, throbbing pressure radiates forward from the back of my head, and the mass of gray clears slightly, revealing stones set in a spiral pattern—a patch of them charred from smoke. A ceiling?

“That’s not our concern,” a man says, his voice unfamiliar and raspy. “We follow orders.”

Fear-laced adrenaline charges through me, but I lock my muscles tight, forcing myself to remain as still as possible so I can get a grip on what the fuck is happening.

“It is if she finds out,” another voice—this one female—replies.

It smells like wet moss and iron, and the air is cool but thick. We’re underground. A steady dripping sound fills the silence.

“She’s in Calldyr. We have a week until she’s scheduled to return,” the raspy-voiced one says.

And I’m sitting; that’s what’s digging into the base of my skull—the back of a chair. The weight across my wrists and ankles is familiar. I’m strapped in, just like assessment.

“Tairn—” I reach out, but the connection is foggy, and my power doesn’t rise.

The lemonade. The satchel. Nolon.

Fuck. I’ve been caught.

“Ahh, there she is.” A grizzled face appears over mine, and the man smiles, revealing three missing teeth. “Major? Your prisoner is awake!” He retreats, and I lift my head, taking in my surroundings.

The prison cell is wedge-shaped, and a door that looks exactly like the one in the interrogation chamber makes up the narrowest portion, but this cell isn’t for instructional purposes. My jailer wears infantry blue, which means this must be the brig.

I assume the wooden shelf at my right is meant to be a bed, and at least there’s a toilet on the other side of that. Fear pulses through my veins at the sight of the unwashed, bloodstained walls, and I quickly look away, scanning the rest of the cell as my head clears. Nora, the woman who always dumps my bag, leans against a wooden table, her arms folded, and her face puckers into lines of what I think might be concern as the door opens beside her.

The smile on Major Varrish’s face forms a pit in my stomach as he enters.

Oh gods. The others. Are they here? Have they been hurt? A boulder lodges in my throat, making it nearly impossible to draw a full breath.

“Out,” he tells the other man, who scurries like a spider into the main chamber but doesn’t shut the door behind him, giving me a glimpse of a desk covered in my black-hilted daggers before Varrish blocks the view. “I promised you I’d try your way once,” Varrish calls over his shoulder.

Terror expands the pressure in my throat. I can’t reach Tairn or Xaden. Can’t call on my signet or even my knife skills, since my hands are bound.

I’m alone and fucking defenseless.

Nolon walks in, his steps sluggish, his eyes heavy with sadness. “We just need you to answer a few questions, Violet.”

“You drugged me.” My voice cracks. “I trusted you. I’ve always trusted you.”

“Clear this up quickly and we can return to trusting each other,” Nolon says. “Let’s start with why you stole Lyra’s journal?” He reaches behind Nora and brings out the book.

Every interrogation technique I’ve been taught deserts me, and I stare… just stare at the journal, my mind scrambling for a way out of this when there clearly is none.

“I wanted to be wrong,” he says gently. “But Markham had sounded the alarm that the royal wards within the king’s private library had been breached, and then I saw you standing in the courtyard with a scribe’s satchel—”

“Which is common to transport books from the Archives,” I counter.

Damn it. We were stupid for not assuming tripping the wards would alert Markham.

“And had that been the case, you would have woken up in the infirmary with a headache and my most sincere apologies.” Nolon holds up the scarred leather journal, the very key to protecting Aretia. “But you carried this.”

“We’re not here to argue that point.” Varrish watches me with rapt fascination. “Answer my questions, and we’ll let you go sleep that headache off before class tomorrow. Lie—even once—and it’s going to get messy.”

So, it’s already Sunday.

“Three questions.” Nolon shoots a stern look in Varrish’s direction. “We want to know how you did it, who you did it with, and most importantly, why.”

The boulder in my throat loosens, and I fill my lungs completely, willing my panic to subside. They don’t know who, which means no one else is chained up down here. Not Xaden, or Rhiannon, or Aaric, or any of the others. It’s just me. Being alone just turned into a blessing.

And I’m not defenseless. I’m still in full possession of my mind.

“Let’s start with how you breached a royal ward,” Varrish suggests.