“But is it real?” Sawyer repeats his earlier question.

“The chances of someone hauling in all these leaflets from the border are next to nothing,” I tell him. “So if you’re asking if it was printed in Poromiel—”

My head jerks up, and I see Markham’s face blotch red as he says something to Caroline Ashton on the aisle. She jumps from her seat and runs up the stairs, disappearing through the door.

“It was printed here,” I whisper, fear twisting my stomach into knots. Whoever did it is as good as dead if they left any trace.

“So it’s not real.” Sawyer lifts his eyebrows, the freckles on his forehead disappearing into the grooves of his skin.

“Just because it’s printed here for public dissemination doesn’t mean what’s on it isn’t real,” I explain, “but it also doesn’t mean that it is.”

“We wouldn’t do this,” Sawyer argues. “There’s no way we send a riot to annihilate a city of civilians.”

“Attention!” Markham shouts, his footsteps thudding as he strides down the steps.

The noise doesn’t dissipate.

“If someone was trying to get news out, they’d send one leaflet like this to the printing press to be approved by scribes,” I tell my squadmates quickly, knowing our time is short. “Once approved, it would take hours to set the blocks to print unless multiple scribes worked on it. But this isn’t official. There’s no seal. So either it’s fake and printed for just this class—which is a lot of work—or it’s real…and not approved.” It’s exactly what I would say if I didn’t know the truth, and to be honest, I’m not certain this leaflet is the truth.

“Riders!” Devera yells, turning to face us. “Quiet!”

The room falls silent.

Markham’s at the front of the classroom now, his features schooled in a mask of serenity as he stands beside Professor Devera. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was almost enjoying the chaos, but I do, and he’s rubbing his forefinger against his thumb.

No matter what he says next, this wasn’t his plan.

“Apparently”—he gestures to us, his palm facing upward—“we are not ready for today’s exercise. We were going to follow up on our discussion about propaganda, but I can see now that I overestimated your ability to judge a simple printing like this without hysteria.” The insult is delivered in unemotional monotone.

Suddenly, I feel fifteen again, my self-worth determined by this man’s opinion of my intellect and control.

“Damn.” Ridoc sags in his seat. “That’s…harsh.”

“That’s Markham,” I say quietly. “You think only riders can be vicious?

Words are just as capable of eviscerating someone as a blade, and he’s a master.”

“On the off chance that we actually did this and someone leaked the information?” Rhiannon asks, glancing my way. “You know him better than we do. What’s his next move?”

“First, I don’t think we’d target civilians across the border.” That’s the truth. We just won’t do anything to help them, either. “But if he didn’t print the leaflets, he’ll discredit, deflect, then distract.”

“As it is, we have two much more pressing matters to discuss,” Markham lectures, his tone still cool. “So, you will now pass all pieces of propaganda to the left, where they will be collected to discuss on a day when you’re capable of being rational.”

A ripple passes over the room as everyone hurries to do as he asks. I’m reluctant to let mine go, but it’s not worth drawing attention.

Professor Devera folds hers with quick, precise movements and pockets it.

“Honestly.” Markham shakes his head. “You should have been able to spot those leaflets as propaganda within seconds.”

Discredit. I have to admit, he’s good. The stacks reach the ends of the rows, and then the cadets hand them forward, the pile growing and growing as it descends toward the floor.

“When, in the history of Navarre, have we ever flown a riot comprised only of blue dragons?” He looks us over like we’re children. Like we’ve been found wanting.

Clever. He’s so fucking clever. With the leaflets collected, every cadet in the room will question the exact wording. Every cadet except the riders who know the meaning of that entire paragraph came down to the placement of the word fire.

“But as I said.” Markham claps his hands together and sighs. “We’ll return to this lesson when we’re ready. Right now, our first order of business is here, and celebration is in order.”

Deflection complete. Cue distraction.

“I wasn’t sure this day would come, which is why I hope that you’ll forgive us for keeping the months of Colonel Nolon’s hard work a secret. We didn’t want to disappoint you if he could not pull off what will arguably be the greatest achievement of any mender in our history.”

Didn’t want to disappoint us? I barely manage to keep from rolling my eyes.

Markham raises his hand toward the doorway and smiles. “He was crushed under the weight of a mountain a few months ago, but Nolon has mended bone after bone to return him to your quadrant.”

Crushed under the weight of a mountain? It can’t be. My stomach hollows, and the noise of the room muffles under the sound of my own blood rushing through my ears to the cadence of a drum.

“No fucking way,” Ridoc says, breaking through my panic.

“Tairn?” I can’t bring myself to look.

“Checking now.” The clipped, tense tone reminds me of Resson.

“Join me in welcoming back your fellow rider, Jack Barlowe!” Markham claps. The entire briefing room joins in, the loudest cheers coming from First Wing as two figures walk down the stairs.

Breathe. In. Out. I force air through my lungs as Rhiannon grasps my hand and holds tight.

“It’s him,” Rhiannon says. “It’s really him.”

“You brought down an entire cliff on his unhinged ass.” Sawyer claps slowly, but it’s only for show. “How the fuck was there anything left to mend?”

Dragging my gaze left, I finally work up the courage to look.

Same bulky frame. Same blond hair. Same profile. Same hands that nearly killed me during a challenge last year…before I killed him during War Games the first time my signet flared.

He turns a few rows down, walking past other second-years as Caroline Ashton escorts him back to his squad. It all makes sense now. The secrecy. Her visiting the infirmary. Nolon’s exhaustion.

Jack pivots as he reaches an empty seat, turning slowly and nodding as the applause carries on. The look on his face is almost humble, like a man who’s received a second chance he definitely doesn’t deserve, and then he pivots, looking up the rows to find me.

Glacial blue eyes meet mine. Any doubt I had dies a swift death. It’s him. My pounding heart jumps into my throat.

“Maybe he learned his lesson?” Rhiannon’s voice pitches high with empty hope.

“No,” Ridoc says, letting his hands fall to his lap. “He’s definitely going to try to kill you. Again.”

Menders are not healers. Healers are bound to the Code of Chricton, sworn to aide all in time of need and never to harm a beating heart. Menders are riders. They’re only sworn to the Codex. They can as easily bring harm as heal.

—MAJOR FREDERICK’S MODERN GUIDE FOR HEALERS