I glance at the empty rows of seats above First Wing. We knew last year that we had the fewest number of dragons willing to bond, but to see how few of us there really are is…disconcerting.
“Fewer dragons are bonding,” I say toward Tairn, knowing Andarna drifted into the Dreamless Sleep a few days ago. “Is that because the Empyrean knows about the venin?”
“Yes.” I can almost hear the exasperated sigh in Tairn’s voice.
“But we need more riders. Not fewer.” It doesn’t make sense.
“The Empyrean remains divided on whether or not we should get involved,” Tairn grumbles. “Humans aren’t the only ones keeping secrets.”
But Andarna and Tairn have already made their choice—of that, I’m sure.
“…But the second year brings its own challenges,” Professor Grady continues as I focus on class. “Last year, you learned how to ride the dragons who chose you. This year, you’ll learn what to do if you fall off. Welcome to Rider Survival Course, or RSC for short.”
“What the hell is that?” Ridoc mutters.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, writing the letters RSC in the blank book in front of me.
“But you know everything.” His eyes widen.
“Clearly not.” Seems to be the theme lately.
“Don’t know what it is?” Professor Grady asks with a grin, staring straight at Ridoc. “Good—our tactics work.” He crosses one boot in front of the other. “RSC is kept classified for a reason, so we get your genuine reactions to the situations at hand.”
“No one wants my genuine reactions,” Ridoc murmurs.
I bite back a smile and shake my head.
“RSC will teach you how to survive if you become separated from your dragon behind enemy lines. It’s a staple of your second year, culminating in two full evaluations you must pass in order to continue at Basgiath—one in a few weeks…and the other around mid-year.”
“What the hell do they do with a bonded rider who doesn’t pass?” Rhiannon asks quietly.
Every member of my squad looks at me. “I have no clue.”
Caroline Ashton raises her hand from her seat in First Wing across the room. A chill races down my spine as I remember how close she’d been to Jack Barlowe—the rider who’d been intent on killing me until I killed him instead.
“Yes?” Professor Grady asks.
“What precisely does ‘around mid-year’ mean?” Caroline asks. “Or ‘in a few weeks’？”
“You won’t know the precise date,” he answers, lifting his brows.
She huffs, sitting back in her seat.
“And I won’t tell you, no matter how many times you roll your eyes. No professor will because quite simply—we want you surprised. But we do want you to be prepared. In this room, I will instruct you in navigation, survival techniques, and how to withstand interrogation in case of capture.”
My stomach turns over, and my heartbeat goes double-time. Torture. He’s talking about being tortured. And now I carry information worth being tortured over.
“And you’ll face trials on those at any time,” Professor Grady continues, “taken from any place in the quadrant.”
“They’re going to abduct us?” Nadine gasps, fear lacing her tone.
“Sounds like it,” Sawyer mutters in response.
“Always something around here,” Ridoc adds.
“The other assessors and I will give you feedback during those trials, so by the time your full evaluations come around, you’ll be able to withstand—” He cocks his head to the side as if choosing his words carefully. “Well, be able to withstand the hell we’re going to put you through. Take it from someone who has survived it: as long as you don’t break during the interrogation portion, you’ll do just fine.”
Rhiannon puts her hand up, and Professor Grady nods at her.
“And if we break?” she asks.
All traces of amusement leave his face. “Don’t.”
With my pulse still racing an hour after Orientation, I head to the one place that used to calm my fraying nerves—the Archives.
As I walk through the doorway, I inhale the scent of parchment, ink, and the unmistakable tang of book-binding glue and let out a long, calming breath. Row upon row of bookshelves span the massive chamber, each taller than Andarna but not quite up to Tairn, filled with countless volumes on history, mathematics, politics—what I’d trusted to be all the knowledge on the Continent. And to think, at one point in my life, I’d thought climbing their ladders would be the scariest thing I’d ever do.
Now, I’m simply existing with the ever-present danger of Vice Commandant Varrish, Aetos’s threat hanging over my head, a secret revolution that could get us all killed at any moment, and now imminent torture from RSC. Kind of miss the ladders.
After five days of watching, Jesinia’s name finally appeared on the scribes’ schedule posted outside this morning, which means it’s time to get started.
Fuck not getting involved. I’m sure as hell not going to sit around and do nothing while my brother and Xaden risk their lives. Not when I’m certain the answer to protecting both Aretia and Poromish civilians is right here at Basgiath. The revolution might not have a scribe in its ranks, but it has me, and if there’s even a shot that we can win this war without the weapons the revolution hasn’t made or found, then I’m taking it. Or at least investigating the possibility.
Only scribes may continue past the long oak table near the doorway, so I stand at its edge and trail my fingers across its familiar grain and scars as I wait. If training to be a scribe taught me anything, it was patience.
Gods, I miss this place. I miss what I thought my life would be. Simple. Quiet. Noble. But I don’t miss the woman I was, the one who didn’t know her strength. The one who believed everything she read with unfailing confidence, as if the simple act of writing something on a blank page made it gospel.
A slight figure wearing a cream tunic, pants, and hood approaches, and for the first time in my life, I’m nervous to see Jesinia.
“Cadet Sorrengail,” she signs, smiling when she reaches me and flipping back her hood. Her hair is longer now, the brown braid nearly reaching her waist.
“Cadet Neilwart,” I sign back, grinning at the sight of my friend. “We must be alone to warrant such an enthusiastic greeting.” Scribes are strongly discouraged from showing emotion. After all, their job isn’t to interpret but to record.
“We are,” she signs, then leans to look past me. “Well, except Nasya.”
“He’s sleeping,” I assure her. “What are you up to back there?”
“Fixing a few bindings,” she signs. “Most everyone is off preparing for the new cadets coming tomorrow. Quiet days are my favorite.”
“I remember.” We’d spent nearly every quiet day at this table, preparing for the exam or helping Markham…or my father.
“I heard about…” Her face falls. “I’m sorry. He was always really nice to me.”
“Thank you. I really miss him.” I squeeze my hands into fists and pause, knowing that what I say next will either lead us closer to the truth…or get me killed.