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I return to my room alone. Technically alone. The corridors are busy. It's not dark yet. I can practically hear Caelen arguing with me from somewhere across the Academy anyway. My evaluation uniform hangs beside the wardrobe. Black. Formal. Council-approved. I hate it. On my desk are three sealed practice vials. Professor Vayne's notes. Dragon homework. Two unfinished essays. Normal student problems stacked beside impossible ones. I begin arranging everything for morning. Quill. Notebook. Dagger. Hair tie. Water. Then something slides beneath my door. A folded piece of parchment. I freeze. Pick it up. Open it. One line. Rhyven's handwriting. Dominion Hall. 0700. Don't be late. I stare. My evaluation is at eight. I open the door. The corridor is empty. Of course. I look back at the note. Seven. Why? Probably another drill. Probably some horrible warm-up designed to make me regret being alive before breakfast. I fold the paper. Set it beside my uniform. Outside, the evening bell rings. Thursday. No new disappearance. Not yet. Tomorrow is Friday. My Blood Echo evaluation. Two days since Lysa. A blank space waiting beneath three names.

I look at Rhyven's note again. 0700. Whatever tomorrow brings apparently Chief Corvell has already decided I won't face it cold.

Chapter Thirty-five

At six fifty-eight, Dominion Hall is empty. At six fifty-nine, I am annoyed. At seven exactly, I become suspicious. Rhyven is nowhere on the training floor.

No practice weapons. No mats dragged into position.

No Professor Vayne waiting to criticize my breathing.

Nothing. I stand in the middle of the enormous hall wearing my formal evaluation uniform and holding the note Rhyven slid beneath my door last night.

Dominion Hall. 0700. Don't be late. I look around again. "Corvell?" Silence. Of course. I fold the note.

"If you've dragged me out of bed an hour early just to prove I can follow instructions—"

"Coffee."

I turn. Rhyven steps through the side entrance carrying two cups and a small paper parcel. I stare at him. Then at the coffee. Then back at him.

"You summoned me at seven to feed me?"

"No." He holds out the cup. I take it anyway.

"There is literally food in your hand."

"Observant."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't praise."

"You're very generous this morning."

He passes me the parcel. Warm bread. Fruit. Something with honey. I look up. "I already ate."

"No, you didn't."

"How would you know?"

He takes a drink from his own cup. "You always say you ate when you had half a piece of toast."

I pause. That is disturbingly specific. "I had more than half."

"How much?"

I consider lying. His expression says don't bother. "Almost one."

"Eat."

There it is. I look toward the heavens. "You're becoming predictable."

"No."

"You are."

"Eat."