Page 65 of Wings of Destruction

“And his treatment of his prisoners,” Harbi continues. “Has that been relayed to you?”

“They’re not prisoners yet,” Tristan hurries to correct. “But they will be unless they are willing to change their minds.”

We’re expecting these powerful leaders to take a knee without issue, and not for King Lochlain, but for General Ryson. I understand it and so does Tristan.

Judging from the tension on Harbi’s face, she does too. We’re all just pretending, in our different ways, to be okay with this.

“Where will he go next?” a third professor asks, shifting closer to Tristan.

Tristan’s shoulders are thrown far back and nearly dislocated. “It’s not for us to know right now. Once I’m made aware, I will pass on the information in one of these debriefings.”

In other words, he hasn’t been told either.

“Then this meeting is all but pointless.” Harbi brings us to a close. “I’m sorry for pulling you away from your respective duties.”

She flicks her fingers.

“Pointless?” Tristan chuckles.

“Yes. If there is no new information to be gleaned from Roman’s victory, then this could have waited for a more opportune time. Do you know where he plans to go next?” Harbi rapid fires her sentences.

Tristan scowls, and says, “We should hear⁠—”

“No,” Harbi interrupts. “You do not. Until you do, then I believe we can hold off on more of these meetings. There seems to be no reason for your General to bring us into his confidence. So, Tristan, Kieran, back to your classes.”

There’s no good time for war. There is no good time to be told your father is the one responsible for the murder of thousands of people as he plucks the leaders off the board one by one. At the end of his game, there will only be him and his desires.

The harder I try to understand him, the further away I get. If his goal is domination, he’s well on his way to doing so, leaving only suffering and survival in his wake.

The two are intertwined.

Tristan knocks me out of the way and cuts out the door first. I let him. Mozi always says to pick your battles and rather than chase after him, I stop, drag a breath into my body until my ribs ache.

Duenden down. How many more to go?

And if the leader of the hydra pack fell to Roman Ryson, then what kind of hope do I have of winning? A shred. Nothing less. Certainly nothing more.

Fourteen

Morgan

Iscrub my hand over my cheek along the lines where finger-shaped bruises mark me. That blasted harpy. The entitled always take time out of their busy schedules to lord their superiority over people they deem as weak.

It’s one of their favorite pastimes and one of the things I hate about mean girls in general.

They believe they’re invincible and can do or have whatever they want.

In my old life, I wouldn’t have hesitated before hitting Evie back and sending her spiraling into yesterday. In my old life, I was on equal footing with her and her noble family.

Curse her. Straight into the mine pits. Only in my fondest dreams. Those are in pretty short supply these days.

I grind my teeth down to nubs and flick the feather duster along the intricate lines of a golden candelabra.

I can bear the insult of Evie slapping me. It’s a little physical pain. Nothing I haven’t handled before. And there will certainly be more to come in this place. But knowing there is information in DragonSpear that might have saved my mother—knowledge deliberately kept from us? Books that could have turned the tide of the battle in our favor but we had no access to them?

It’s worse. It’s so much worse than a slap.

I glare at the candelabra and the dull gleam of ancient gold. Easy luxury. Hidden knowledge.