“This could be a new tactic,” a third-year calls out from behind us. “Infiltrating our outposts under false pretenses.”
“Exactly.” Markham nods again.
Devera shifts her weight and then lifts her chin, looking up at us. Does she know? Gods, I want her not to know. I want her to be as good of a person as I think she is. What about Kaori? Emetterio? Grady? Are any of my professors actually trustworthy?
“What’s more disturbing is the propaganda these Poromish people bring with them, falsified announcements from their own leadership of cities destroyed in what they claim to be violent attacks.” He pauses, like he’s debating telling us the rest, but I know it’s for dramatics. “Attacks they claim come from dragons.”
Fucking. Liar. Heat stains my cheeks, and I quickly avert my gaze when he looks my way. The buzzing rises to a hum as energy gathers, pushing at my skin, looking for an outlet.
A disgruntled murmur rises from the cadets around me.
“As if dragons would ruin cities,” Rhiannon mutters, shaking her head.
They wouldn’t, but wyvern would…and do.
Markham sighs. “This notice does not mean we are without compassion. In fact, for the first time in hundreds of years, we authorized classified missions— now completed, of course—to reconnoiter those very cities.”
My pen casing groans and power ripples along my skin, lifting the hair on my forearm.
“Are you all right?” Rhiannon asks.
“Fine.”
“You sure about that?” She stares pointedly at my hand.
And the tendril of smoke rising from the pen. I drop it, then rub my hands together, like that’s going to help dispel the energy coursing through my body.
“Those assigned riots have reported back that the cities inside Poromiel are intact, leading us to the same conclusion you’ve drawn—this is a new tactic that plays on our compassion.” He says it with such certainty that I nearly applaud his acting. “Professor Devera?”
She clears her throat. “I read the reports this morning. There was no destruction mentioned.”
Whose reports? The scribes can’t be trusted.
“There you have it.” Markham shakes his head. “I think this is a good time to focus our discussion on the efficiency of propaganda and the role civilians play in supporting a war effort. Lies are powerful tools.”
He would know.
Somehow, I make it through the rest of the briefing without setting the map on fire, then pack my things in a hurry and force my way past the other cadets to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
I break into a run down the hallway, pulling the straps of my heavy pack tight so it doesn’t slam into my spine when I race down the steps. Agonizing heat spirals tight, building in preparation to strike, and when I finally push through the doors into the courtyard, I stumble forward and throw up my hands to release it.
Power rips through me and lightning strikes near the outer walls, far enough away that the flying gravel only impacts the wall.
I feel Tairn hovering on the edge of my mind, but he doesn’t lecture.
“Violet?” Rhiannon steps in front of me, her chest heaving from obviously having run after me.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Gods, that’s getting so fucking easy, and it’s the one thing she asked me not to do.
“Obviously.” She gestures to the courtyard.
“I have to go.” Step by step, I back away from her, a knot the size of the entire quadrant forming in my throat. “I’ll be late for RSC. Will you take notes?”
“Because that’s definitely the class you should be late for,” she says sarcastically. “What could possibly be more important than learning interrogation techniques?”
I shake my head, then pivot and run before I tell another lie. Into the dormitory. Down the steps. Through the tunnels. Across the bridge. Into the Healer Quadrant. I don’t stop running until I’m almost to the Archives, and then only my body slows, not my thoughts.
The guard stands but doesn’t challenge my right to walk straight past the large, circular door and into the Archives. Paper and glue and Dad. The scent fills my lungs, and the knot in my throat loosens as my heartbeat calms.
Until I realize at least two hundred scribes are seated at the tables, and every single one of them is staring at me. Then the organ beating in my chest picks up the pace again.
What in Amari’s name am I doing?
“You’ve apparently lost all common sense with your control and regressed to where you think you can locate it,” Tairn growls.
Fair point. Not that I’m telling him that.
“Just did.”
A tall figure in cream robes turns in her seat and looks me up and down. “The Archives are not open to riders at this hour.”
“I know.” I nod. And yet I’m here.
“What can we do for you?” the professor asks in a tone that suggests I find somewhere else to be.
“I just need…” What? To return the book I shouldn’t have?
Three rows back, a scribe stands, then walks forward, shooting me an incredulous look before lifting her hands to sign toward her professor. Jesinia.
