Why the hell didn’t I think of asking her about the wards sooner? Maybe the answer isn’t in a book. Maybe it’s in Mira. After all, her signet is the ability to extend the wards, to tug the protections with her even where they shouldn’t be able to stretch.

She glances back at the sparring pair. “I think they’re worried about attacks here because this outpost has one of the biggest power supplies for the wards. If this place falls, a giant portion of the border is vulnerable.”

“Because they’re set up like dominos?” I throw another dagger, wincing when I’m not as careful as I should be on my aching knee.

“Not exactly. What would you know about it?” She throws another without looking and hits the target true.

“Fucking show-off,” I mutter. “Is there anything you don’t excel at?”

“Poisons,” she answers, flicking another dagger at the target. “Never had the aptitude for them like you and Brennan. Or maybe it’s just that I could never sit still long enough to listen to Dad’s lessons. Now tell me what you know about the wards.” She shoots a sideways look at me. “Weaving isn’t taught until third-year, and anything beyond is classified.”

“I read.” I shrug and hope to Zihnal it looks nonchalant. “I know that they originate from the wardstone in the Vale because of the hatching grounds located there, and that they’re boosted with a power supply along our border outposts to expand their natural distance in places and maintain a strong defense.” All common knowledge, or at least researchable.

She flings another knife. “They’re woven to the ground out here,” she says quietly as the pair behind us continues sparring. “Think of an umbrella. The wardstone is the stem, and the wards take the shape of a dome over Navarre.” She motions with her hands, forming the shape. “But just like an umbrella’s spokes are strongest at the stem, by the time the wards reach the ground, they’re too weak to do much without a boost.”

“Provided by the alloy,” I whisper. My heart starts to pound.

“And the dragons.” She nods, two lines appearing between her brows. “You know about alloy? Are they teaching that now? Or did Dad—”

“It’s the alloy stored in the outposts that tugs some of those umbrella spokes forward,” I continue, flipping my dagger in my hand by pure muscle memory. “Extending the wards twice as far as they’d normally reach in some cases, right?”

“Right.”

“And what’s it made of?”

“That’s definitely above your clearance.” She scoffs.

“Fine.” It stings a little that she won’t tell me. “But how do you weave new wards? Like if we wanted to protect places like Athebyne?” Flip. Flip. Flip. I keep moving the dagger and hope she sees it as casual.

“You don’t.” She shakes her head. “The extensions are what we weave. It’s like continuing a tapestry that’s been stretched too far. You’re just adding threads to something that already exists, and we can’t extend the wards to Athebyne. We’ve tried. But who told you—”

“Is that how your signet works?” I stop flipping. “Because you’re basically a ward, right?”

“Not exactly. I kind of pull the wards with me. Sometimes I can manifest on my own, but I have to be close to an outpost. Kind of like I’m just another thread. What has gotten into you?” She flicks another dagger, and it lands dead center.

“Do you know how the wardstone works?” I ask, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“No.” Her eyes flare. “Keep throwing before curious ears start listening.”

I dutifully throw another.

“That information is way beyond my rank—and yours.” Her next dagger lands right next to the first. “Why are you asking?”

“Just curious.”

“Don’t be. It’s classified for a reason.” Her wrist flicks another knife toward the target. “The only people who know are the ones who need to know, just like every other piece of classified intelligence.”

“Right.” I force a smile and throw my next dagger with a little more strength than necessary. Time to change the subject. Maybe she knows, or maybe she doesn’t, but she’s definitely not going to tell me. “Speaking of classified, were you on any of the missions to check the Poromish cities for damage?” I put my hands up when she gawks at me. “They told us about it in Battle Brief; it’s not secret anymore.”

“No,” she answers. “But I saw one of the riots who did the flying while Teine and I were out on patrol.”

My stomach twists. “Do you know anyone who was on the missions?”

“No.” Another knife, another hit. “But I read the reports. Did they give those to you?”

I shake my head. “And you trust the reports?” It doesn’t come out as casually as I’m trying for.

“Of course.” She searches my eyes for answers I can’t give. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t you?” Her hands make a quick, outward motion, and the noise of the sparring pair disappears. It’s a sound shield, just like she used in Montserrat—a lesser magic, but still a tricky one I haven’t mastered. “Tell me what’s going on with you. Now.”

I was thrown into a battle with dark wielders, lost one of my closest friends, fought an actual venin on the back of my dragon, and then was mended by our very not-dead brother. “Nothing.”

She gives me the look. The one that always loosened my tongue when we were kids.

I waver. If there was only one person on the Continent I could tell, it would be Mira.

“I just think it’s weird that you wouldn’t know anyone on the missions into Poromiel. You know everyone. And how do you know that what you saw was one of the riots tasked with reconnaissance?” I ask.

“Because there were over a dozen dragons in the distance to the south, over the border. What the hell else could it have been, Violet?” She gives me a skeptical look.

This is it. This is the opening to tell her the truth. The chance to bring her in so she fights on the right side of this conflict, so she can see our brother. Wyvern. She saw wyvern. But it’s not just my life I’d risk by telling her. My heart sinks, but I have to.

Xaden could never understand—he doesn’t have a sister.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “What if they’re wyvern?” There. I said it. Kind of.

She blinks and draws her head back. “Say again?”

“What if you saw wyvern? What if they’re destroying Poromish cities, since we both know it isn’t dragons?” My hand clenches around the hilt of my last dagger. “What if there’s an entire war out there we know nothing about?”

Her shoulders dip and sympathy fills her eyes. “You have to spend less time reading those fables, Vi. Have you been getting enough rest since the gryphon attack? Because you sound like maybe you’re not sleeping.” The concern in her tone breaks me down like nothing else could. “And it’s hard to see combat for the first time, let alone as a first-year, but if you don’t get enough sleep and present a stable, steady front… Riders have to be solid, Violet. You understand what I’m saying?”

Of course she doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t either. But she’s the only person in the world who absolutely, unconditionally loves me. Brennan let me believe he was dead—would still let me believe it. Mom has never seen me as anything but a liability. Xaden? I can’t even go there.

“No.” I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m not sleeping very well.” It’s an excuse, and I take it. Heaviness settles in my chest.

She sighs, and the relief in her eyes eases a little of the weight in mine. “That explains it. I can recommend some really great teas that will help. Come on, let’s get these daggers out and get you to bed. You’ve had a long flight, and I have duty in a few hours, anyway.” She leads me to the targets, and we remove the daggers once again.

“You’re on duty with Xaden?” I ask to fill the silence as we pull blade after blade from the wood.

“No. He’s in the operations center, which is—”

“Above my clearance. I know.”

“I have a patrol flight.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry.

We’ll get to spend some time together when you’re here next. Every two weeks, right?”

“Right.”