“My father loved this place. He was ecstatic when my mother was assigned here because it meant that he’d have the full resources of the Archives.” I smile at the memory. “Not that he didn’t love maintaining the records and libraries at the outposts we were stationed at, but to a scribe, this place is the pinnacle of a career. It’s their temple.” We round the last curve, bringing the vault-style door into view. The circular entrance is ten feet across and guarded by a singular scribe, who’s asleep in his chair.

“A well-guarded one.” Xaden shoots a disgusted look at the sleeping scribe.

“Promise me you’ll be on your best behavior.” I grip his elbow so he knows I mean it. “She’s an old friend.”

“So was Aetos.”

I narrow my eyes.

“If she’s a true friend, then she has nothing to worry about.”

“Look, if she was going to turn me in, she would have done it when I requested The Fables of the Barren last year,” I tell him as we cross into the Archives.

“You. What?” His jaw flexes, and he breathes deeply when we reach the table. The Archives are empty again, thank Zihnal, but that’s why Jesinia chose Saturdays.

“Before Mira gave me the book at Montserrat, I requested it. And I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But no one showed up at my door. No one hauled me off and divested me of my head. Because we. Are. Friends.”

He remains silent as Jesinia approaches, her gaze widening as she looks between us.

Her steps slow.

“He’s with me,” I sign, offering a smile. “Stop scaring her.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“That’s enough. Trust me.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she signs back, nervously biting her lip, her focus darting to Xaden.

“No.” I hand the bag over to her, and she slings the strap over her shoulder. “They’re all too recent…and vague.”

Her lips purse in thought.

“Maybe we should shift to something about the history of wards in general?” I suggest.

“Give me a couple of minutes. I have an idea.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Xaden signs.

Jesinia nods, then disappears into the rows of bookshelves.

“You can sign,” I whisper at him.

“You speak Tyrrish,” he replies. “One is far less common than the other.”

We stand there in awkward silence, our argument still festering—at least on my part. I never know how he’s feeling, which is one of our problems. By using that one word with Jesinia—us—he’s linked himself to me. If she turns me in, he’ll be dragged down, too.

“Try these two,” Jesinia signs when she returns, then hands over the bag. “Also, I returned yours. Thank you for letting me read it.”

“What did you think about it?” I ask, unnervingly aware that Xaden is watching.

Whatever she says next will seal her fate with him.

“Solid folklore with good stories.” She tilts her head to the side. “It was a limited printing, clearly done on a press, but not so limited that there wouldn’t have been one submitted to the Archives at publication.” The look she gives me is full of expectation. “It’s an…odd subject matter to leave out of the Archives, don’t you think?”

I swallow hard. “I do.”

Xaden tenses beside me.

“As I said,” she continues. “Intriguing. I’ll see you Saturday after next?”

I nod, and we leave after thanking her again, passing Nasya, who has started to snore in his seat.

We’re halfway through the tunnels before Xaden speaks.

“Tell me what other book is in the bag.” Guess the argument is still festering inside him, too.

“It’s The Fables of the Barren.” There’s no point lying to him.

“You gave that to her? Why?” Xaden’s head slants in my direction, and he stops in the middle of the tunnel, grasping my elbow gently as fear flashes in his eyes.

“I loaned it to her, and because she asked.”

“With that text, she could have turned you in.” Anger burns in his eyes.

“And if I report that she’s not recording my requests, she’ll be at Markham’s mercy.” I grip the strap of the bag a little tighter. “Trust has to go both ways to mean anything.”

“Both ways, but you’re shutting me out while I’m trying my damnedest to open up to you.”

Says the man who’s never so much as told me he loves me. If he does. Gods, I’m so sick of having to make the first move when it comes to this man. And today isn’t the day to open myself up to that rejection, too.

“Sure, as long as you can keep your secrets. Has it ever occurred to you that this”—I gesture between us—“is all because you don’t trust me?” I take a step backward. “You expect complete, blind faith without giving it. It. Goes. Both. Ways.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t trust you?” Shadows curl around his ankles, following him as he pivots, heading up the tunnel. “I’ll see you later. I have to find Bodhi.”

He’s heading off on revolution business, no doubt, and leaving me behind. Again.

“That’s all you have to say?” I call out, frustration locking my muscles.

“No good can come of the things I want to say right now, Violet,” he says over his shoulder. “So, instead of digging a deeper hole with words I’ll regret later, I’m going to take some space and do something productive, because this isn’t.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he doesn’t get to choose when we have a fight, but he asked for space, and I can do the mature thing and give it to him.

When I wake in the morning, the other half of my bed hasn’t been slept in and his things are gone. I can’t stop my chest from tightening at the thought that he’s headed back to the front lines, that either of us could be killed at any moment, and the last words we said to each other were in anger.

Dragons do not answer to the whims of men.

—COLONEL KAORI’S FIELD GUIDE TO DRAGONKIND