“Of course you are. I chose well.”

Professor Grady grins and sets down his mug as he rises from the chair that sits a few feet away from the door against the rocky cliffside.

Rhiannon strides forward, lifting her sword in attack position with her right arm and extending her left hand. “We’ll take that patch now.”

…

Dain doesn’t look me in the eye at any point over the next few days, and I don’t make the effort to talk to him. What could I even say? Thank you for doing the only decent thing and not violating my privacy?

“I’m just saying that spending every weekend flying for Samara or holed up in your room with Riorson isn’t good for you,” Ridoc says as we climb the staircase of the academic wing with the crowd headed for Battle Brief.

“As opposed to…” I glance over at him and wince. His cheek is still black and blue.

Thanks to Nolon, there’s not a mark on me. It’s anything but fair.

We lost a first-year, Trysten, to Gauntlet practice while we were in interrogation and missed the formation where they called his name on the death roll, too. That isn’t fair, either.

“Being a normal second-year and spending some time blowing off a little steam every now and then,” Sawyer answers for Ridoc from my other side. Ever since the interrogation, my squadmates have barely let me out of their sight.

“I’m fine,” I tell them both. “This is just what happens when mated dragons bond to riders in different years.” Twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be in the saddle on my way to Xaden.

“It’s why they usually don’t do it,” Ridoc mutters.

“First Squad lost someone,” Rhiannon says, coming up behind us as we reach the second floor. “They just came out of interrogation about an hour ago. Sorrel’s name will be on the death roll tomorrow.”

My heart drops. The interrogation assessment has now taken two second-years.

“The girl with the kick-ass bow skills?” Sawyer gapes at Rhiannon as she scoots between us.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

A scribe cadet walks by, but I can’t see who it is with the hood up. That’s odd. Usually they’re only in the quadrant for death roll or whenever Markham needs extra people.

“Did she break?” Ridoc asks. “Or did they break her?”

“I don’t—” Rhiannon’s words stop short, and so do we when two First Wing squads move off the wall and into our path. “Can we help you?”

They’re all second-years. I drop my hands to my sides, close to my daggers. “You guys escaped, right?” Caroline Ashton asks, lowering her voice. “That’s what people are saying about the new patch.” She taps beside her own shoulder, where we now wear a circular, silver patch with a black key.

“It’s a classified patch,” Sawyer says.

“We just want to know how you did it,” Caroline whispers as the crowd pushes by us on the side to get to the briefing room. “Rumor is, it took them an entire day to reset the interrogation room after you guys.”

The fact that she calls it a room and not rooms lets me know no one is really talking.

“All we can tell you is the same advice you’ve already been given. Don’t break,” Rhiannon tells them.

“Stick together,” I add, holding Caroline’s gaze even when she narrows it on me.

“Shouldn’t you all be in Battle Brief?” Bodhi asks, his voice booming as he comes up behind us. One look sends the other squads scurrying for the door.

“Tairn told me he felt Sgaeyl get very angry last night,” I say over my shoulder to Bodhi as we continue walking. “Anything I should know about?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” We separate as we walk through the wide double doors into the briefing room.

My squadmates and I start down the steps, but something is off. The usual hum of the briefing room is approaching a roar of murmurs and outright exclamations as cadets pick up what look to be leaflets lying on every seat.

“What’s happening?” Ridoc asks.

“Not sure,” I answer as we bypass the first cadets in our row and find our way to our seats.

I pick up the half sheet of parchment on my chair and flip it over as my squadmates do the same.

My knees weaken as I read the headline.

ZOLYA FALLS TO DRAGON FIRE

THE THIRD LARGEST CITY IN THE BRAEVICK PROVINCE HAS FALLEN TO THE BLUE FIRE DRAGONS AND THEIR RIDERS. THOUGH THE CITY AND ITS DRIFTS FOUGHT VALIANTLY, THE TWO-DAY BATTLE ENDED IN POROMISH DEFEAT. ALL WHO DID NOT EVACUATE HAVE PERISHED. AN ESTIMATED TEN THOUSAND LIVES HAVE BEEN LOST, INCLUDING GENERAL FENELLA, THE COMMANDER OF BRAEVICK’S GRYPHON FLEET. ALL TRADE ROUTES TO THE CITY HAVE BEEN BARRICADED TO PREVENT FURTHER LOSS OF LIFE.

Two days ago.

My hand trembles, and I twist around toward the back of the room, my gaze jumping from one third-year to the next until I find Bodhi and Imogen.

“Oh gods,” Rhiannon whispers beside me.

Bodhi and Imogen exchange a panicked look, and then our gazes collide. What the hell are we supposed to do? Bodhi’s tense shake of his head tells me he doesn’t know, either.

Drawing the least amount of attention to myself seems prudent, so I turn back to face the map and slide into my seat.

“Is this real?” Sawyer asks, turning over the parchment to examine it.

“Looks…real?” Ridoc scratches the back of his neck as he sits. “Is this some kind of test to see if we can discern official proclamation leaflets from propaganda?”

“I don’t think so,” Rhiannon says slowly, staring at me.

But my eyes are locked on the recessed floor and Professor Devera, who has just been handed a leaflet.

Please be who I think you are.

Her eyes widen, but I only see them for a second before she turns to face the map, her head tilted back. I’d bet my life that she’s staring right where I am now, at the little circle at the foot of the Esben Mountains along the Stonewater River that marks where Zolya stands—stood. It’s maybe a four-hour flight from our border.

“Violet?” Rhiannon’s voice rises, like it’s not the first time she’s called my name.

“What is all the commotion this morning?” Markham shouts over the briefing room as he descends the steps. Someone hands him a leaflet.

“What do you think?” Rhiannon asks.

I glance from my squadmate’s furrowed brows to the leaflet and force the roaring in my ears to quiet as I make a quick study of the parchment. “Parchment looks like ours, but I’ve never personally seen any made outside the border. Typeset is standard to every printing press I’ve ever seen. There’s no seal, Navarrian or Poromish.” I run my thumb over the larger, scrolling block letters of the headline, smudging the ink. “It’s less than twenty-four hours old. The ink hasn’t cured.”