Page 510

Rhyven's handwriting. Short. Obviously.

You ran for an hour.

Drink the water.

Eat all of it, not half.

The towel is clean.

The book took three weeks to find, so don't complain about the edition.

A pause.

Then beneath:

Don't destroy Varethia while I'm gone.

— R

I stare at it. Then read again. Again. Three weeks.

He looked for this three weeks. Before deployment.

Before Elarion asked. Before any of this. He had been planning to give it to me anyway. That somehow makes it worse.

A laugh leaves me. Small. Broken around the edges.

I press the note against the page. The towel is clean.

I laugh again. Asshole.

Then something warm hits my cheek. I stop. Touch it.

Tear. Fuck. No. Absolutely not. I wipe it away. Immediately. Another. "Fuck." I whisper.

I sit at my desk. Not crying. Technically. Just apparently leaking. Stupid.

I look at the food. Water. Towel. Book. No goodbye.

Rhyven didn't say goodbye. He came into my room, insulted my shelves, worried about my eating habits and left. Then trusted me to understand everything he couldn't say. And I do. That's the problem.

I drink the water. Because apparently I am obedient now. Disgusting.

I eat. Meat. Fruit. Bread. All of it. Because if he somehow asks from four hours away, I refuse to lose the argument.

Then I shower. Use the clean towel. Obviously.

At eight forty-eight, I return to the window.

The western grounds are bright with deployment lanterns. Dragons. Soldiers. Third-years. Fourth-years. Professors. Families. Students. Everyone.

I can see Vyrael. That means I can find Rhyven.

Small from here. Dark coat. Standing beside him.

Caelen somewhere below with ground command.

Nyra enters quietly. Cassian behind her. Neither asks about my face. Good.