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.
“It would be impossible for me to breach a royal ward, seeing as I’m not royal.” I lift my chin and mentally prepare for the worst.
“She’s telling the truth,” Nora says, tilting her head to the side. “My signet detects lies. Tell one, and I’ll know.”
My heart jolts.
Truth it is, then. After this is over, I’ll have to explain my answers—or lack thereof—to my mother. Every single word matters.
“Violet, please,” Nolon pleads, setting the journal on the table. “Just explain. Was it an unsanctioned squad challenge? Some kind of dare between second-years? They’re still trying to ascertain exactly what’s missing. Help us. Tell us, and this will go much easier for you.”
Trying to ascertain. They can’t get in.
“You’re jumping to the why part.” Varrish rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Nolon, this is why you’ve never been suited to interrogation.” His pale gaze locks on mine. “How?”
“How can you assume that book isn’t a reproduction if you haven’t verified the original is even missing?” I ask Nolon.
Nolon glances sideways at Varrish. “Markham said the coverlet wasn’t disturbed.”
“And yet we have the fucking journal.” Varrish walks a slow circle around me. “Is it a reproduction?”
