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Not a question. I look at her. "You don't know that."

"No."

"You're guessing."

"Yes."

"Based on?"

"The historical route." I hate that answer. Because I'm thinking the same thing.

Another door opens farther down the corridor. Cassian appears wrapped in a blanket. Hair destroyed. Expression murderous.

"What happened?"

"Nothing in Varethia."

He blinks. "That's unsettling."

"Apparently."

He looks toward the staircase. "Where are they?"

"Council."

"Of course." He sighs.

"Should we go?"

"No." Nyra answers.

I answer at the same time. "Yes."

We look at each other. Cassian slowly retreats half a step. "I'd like to abstain from whatever this is."

We do not go. Mostly because the stairwell is guarded within three minutes. That tells us enough. Professors begin moving through North Residence. Two additional Chiefs leave their rooms. A fourth-year Rider runs downstairs fully dressed despite the hour. Somewhere outside, another dragon lands.

Then another. Not panic. Mobilization. I know the difference now.

Within ten minutes, the entire Response Wing is awake. Nobody has information. Everybody has theories. Exactly what we need.

Nyra eventually drags us into the common room. "If we're going to wait, we may as well be useful."

Cassian drops onto a sofa. "I was being useful asleep."

"No."

"Debatable."

She pulls the old route map from the locked cabinet.

Varethia. Elarion. Tiravell. Lyssara. The historical dates remain marked beside each. Eleven quiet days after Varethia. Then Elarion. We passed eleven days. Nothing. Twelve. Thirteen. More. History was wrong.

I had been happy about that. Now I stare at Elarion and feel something ugly moving through my stomach.

"Maybe it's not them." Cassian says.

Nyra looks toward him. "Maybe."