“You want to give me those three little words?”

I stiffen.

“I thought not. Sleep, Violet.” His arm tightens around me. “You love me,” he whispers.

“Stop reminding me. I thought we agreed not to fight tonight.” I snuggle in deeper, his warmth lulling me into that sweet middle space between wakefulness and oblivion.

“Maybe you’re not the one I’m reminding.”

The Migration of The First Year is one of the crowning achievements of Navarre’s unification. What a celebration of the human spirit, to leave a life of war and enter one of peace, blending people, languages, and culture from every region of the continent and forming a cohesive, united society, whose only goal is mutual security.

—NAVARRE, AN UNEDITED HISTORY BY COLONEL LEWIS MARKHAM

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I’ve decided rolling dismounts might be the death of me yet.

Thursday morning begins with my arm in a sling that’s secured around my ribs with a strap, immobilizing my shoulder, thanks to yesterday’s maneuvers. Turns out Tairn was right, and though I’m capable of making it to his shoulder, my body doesn’t take the impact of the actual landing very well. We both agreed this time—accommodations will need to be made before graduation.

“How is it feeling today?” Rhiannon asks as we walk into the history class we share with Third Wing on the second floor.

“Like Tairn set me down and I just kept going,” I answer. “It’s not my first sprain. Healers say it should be about four weeks in the sling. I’m giving it two. Maybe.” I’ll be the first on the challenge board after Threshing if I give it much longer than that.

“You could ask Nolon—” Ridoc starts, then stops when he sees the look on my face. “What? Don’t tell me Varrish won’t let you get mended.”

“Not that I’m aware of, no,” I counter as we find our seats. “I put my name on Nolon’s list, but I was told he likely wouldn’t have an opening before it healed naturally.”

Rhi shoots me a look that says told-you-so but I just give my head a quick shake. This is not the place to explore her conspiracy theories—even if they’re starting to feel more and more like there might be some truth to them. I’ve never known a mender with a waiting list a month long.

Thursdays are my second favorite day of the week. No maneuvers, no RSC, no physics. I unload the heavy textbook and the notes I took on today’s assigned reading, which is more like review for me. There hasn’t been a single thing in this class I hadn’t already studied with my father or Markham—or that I don’t have trouble believing is true now.

Then I take out a few strips of the bright blue fabric Xaden left me and put them in my lap. I’ve got two of the knots in the book down already, and I’m determined to have two more by the time he gets here on Saturday. It’s a ridiculous thing to challenge me on, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to lose. Even a sling won’t stop me.

“Wonder who’s actually here to teach,” Sawyer says, stepping over the back of his chair from the row behind us and sitting next to Ridoc on my left. “Pretty sure I just saw most of the leadership making a run for the flight field.”

My heart stops. “What?” Only a major attack would empty Basgiath of leadership. I turn in my seat to look out the window behind us, but the view of the courtyard isn’t helping.

“They were running.” Sawyer makes a running motion with his first two fingers. “That’s all I know.”

“Good morning.” Professor Devera walks in, her smile tight as she passes three rows of tables and chairs to get to the front of the room. “I’ll be filling in for Professor Levini. He was called away due to an attack on the Eastern Wing.” She makes a quick study of his cluttered desk, then picks up the book on top. “You’ll hear about it in Battle Brief tomorrow, but so far there’s only one death.” Her throat works before she looks up from the book. “Masen Sanborn. Some of you may have known him, since he’s a recent graduate.”

Masen. Oh my gods, no. His face flashes through my mind, smiling as he pushes his glasses up his nose. It could be coincidence. There’s no logical way an attack would be used to cover up a single death…right?

“Unless they assassinated him during the attack,” I mumble under my breath. We weren’t even friends. I didn’t even know him that well, but out of the ten of us who flew into Resson, now only six are still alive.

“What?” Rhi leans into my space. “Violet?”

I blink quickly and clutch the fabric in my lap. “It’s nothing.”

Rhi’s brows lower, but she sits back in her seat.

“I see he has you discussing the second Cygni incursion from year 328.” Devera rubs the back of her neck. “But I honestly don’t see how that has any practical application.”

“That makes most of us,” Ridoc comments, tapping his pen against his textbook, and those around us chuckle.

“But just to say we did,” Devera continues, running a hand up and down a faded scar marring the warm brown skin on her upper arm. “Everyone should know that the end result of the four-day temper tantrum was Cygnisen being absorbed into the Kingdom of Poromiel, where they’ve been for the last three hundred years. History and current events are tied because one influences the other.” She glances up at the map on the wall that’s about a fifth of the size of the one in the briefing room. “Can anyone tell me the differences between Poromiel’s provinces and ours?”

The room is quiet.

“This is important, cadets.” Devera moves to the front of Professor Levini’s desk and leans back against it. When no one answers, she gives me an arch look.

“Poromiel’s provinces maintain their individual cultural identities,” I answer. “Someone from Cygnisen is more likely to label themselves as a Cygni instead of Poromish. As opposed to our provinces, who unified under the protection of the first wards, chose the common language, and blended the cultures of all six provinces into one cohesive kingdom.” I recite it nearly verbatim from Markham’s book.

“Except Tyrrendor,” someone from the left remarks. Third Wing. “They never quite got the ‘unified’ message, did they?”

My stomach sinks. Asshole.

“No.” Devera points her finger at the guy. “That’s what we’re not going to do. It’s comments like that that threaten the unity of Navarre. Now, Sorrengail brought up a good point that I think some of you are missing. Navarre chose the common language, but who was it common to?” She calls on someone from Tail Section.

“The Calldyr, Deaconshire, and Elsum provinces,” the woman answers.

“Correct.” Devera’s gaze sweeps over us just like it does in Battle Brief when she expects us to not only think through the answers but come up with the questions ourselves. “Which means what?”

“The Luceras, Morraine, and Tyrrendor provinces lost their languages,” Sawyer answers, shifting in his seat. He’s from Luceras, along the bitterly cold northwestern coastline. “Technically they gave them up willingly for the good of the Unification, but other than a few words here and there being assimilated, they’re dead languages.”

“Correct. There is always a cost,” Devera says, enunciating every word. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth it, but not being aware of the price we pay to live under the protection of the wards is how rebellions happen. Tell me what the other costs have been.” She folds her arms and waits. “Come on. I’m not telling you to commit treason. I’m asking for historical facts in a history class of second-year riders. What was sacrificed in the Unification?”

“Travel,” someone from Claw Section answers. “We’re safe here, but we’re not welcome beyond our borders.”

Nor is anyone welcome past ours.

“Good point.” Devera nods. “Navarre might be the largest kingdom on the Continent, but we are not the only one. Nor do we travel to the isles anymore. What else?”

“We lost major parts of our culture,” a girl with a rebellion relic winding around her arm answers from two rows ahead. Tail Section, I think. “Not just our language. Our songs, our festivals, our libraries… Everything in Tyrrish had to be changed. The only unique thing we kept were our runes because they’re in too much of our architecture to justify changing.”

Like the ones on my daggers. The ones on the columns of the temple in Aretia. The ones I’m currently weaving in my lap.

“Yes.” Somehow Devera makes that word sound both sympathetic and blunt at the same time. “I’m not a historian. I’m a tactician, but I can’t imagine the depth of what we lost knowledge-wise.”

“The books were all translated into the common language,” someone from Third Wing argues. “Festivals still happen. Songs are still sung.”

“And what was lost in translation?” the Tyrrish girl ahead of me asks. “Do you know?”

“Of course I don’t know.” His lip rises in a sneer. “It’s a dead language to all but a few scribes.”

I drop my gaze to my notebook.