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I already know. "More dragon drills."

"Six."

I groan. "You're ruining dragons for me."

"No."

"You're ruining mornings."

"That was already true." Fair.

I smile. "Goodnight, Corvell."

"Night."

I enter my room. Close the door. And for the first time since Elarion's message arrived, I feel something besides fear. Not hope. Not yet. Something sharper.

We are learning. Slowly. Painfully. Usually after losing something first. But learning. And maybe, when the Hollowborn move again, the dragons will know before we do. And maybe this time, we'll listen.

Chapter Fifty-three

By the time training ends, my hands hurt too much to hold a weapon properly. Which is apparently when Professor Vayne decides we're done. Not before.

Obviously. The final drill ends at twenty-two forty-seven. No manifestations. No dragons. No simulated casualties. Just twenty minutes of fighting after exhaustion had already made everyone sloppy. That was the point. Again. Again. Again. Until tired stopped being an excuse.

I leave the eastern training hall with Nyra and Cassian. Cassian walks like someone twice his age. "If I die tonight, tell everyone it was academic."

Nyra doesn't look at him. "I'll tell them you were dramatic until the end."

"Thank you."

"Not praise."

"I'll take what I can get."

The corridors are quiet. Most students have already returned to their residences. Curfew passed almost an hour ago. Response personnel get exceptions. Another privilege nobody wants.

Nyra disappears into Room 304 the moment we reach the third floor. Cassian continues toward 303.

I should follow. Sleep. Six a.m. dragon anomaly drills tomorrow. Ward theory after that. Combat. Academics. Whatever additional torture the instructors invent. My body desperately wants bed. My mind does not. I stand outside my room. Look at the door. Then toward the stairwell. Bad decision. Obviously. I go downstairs.

The Response Wing training room is lit. Of course it is. I expect Dax. Maybe Caelen. Someone hitting something because apparently nobody in this corridor knows how to process stress normally.

Instead, Rhyven is sitting on the floor. Not training.

That surprises me enough that I stop in the doorway.

A Rider harness lies across his legs. Half dismantled.

Several leather straps sit beside him. Tools. Metal fastenings. One small bottle of oil. Rhyven is leaning over a buckle, working a new hole into the leather.

His sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Dark hair falling over his forehead. He doesn't look up. "You're staring again." Damn him.

"I wasn't."

"You stopped walking."

"Maybe I changed my mind."