Page 78 of Wings of Destruction

Ether, maybe I’ll stay here with Mozi rather than going back to the manor. The last thing I want to do is pretend to be happy in front of my father. There are no days off. Not even for holidays.

I head to the second floor and the massive open hall splitting the center of the castle like a spine.

The classrooms are locked at night now. Some new rule imposed by Harbi, or more likely trickled down from my father.

But being Roman Ryson’s son comes with perks as well as crushing expectations.

I draw the key out of my pocket and slide it into the lock, twisting to open the door. The mechanisms click and I push it open, slipping inside the dim classroom.

It’s different when the others aren’t around, or when Clark isn’t perched on his podium waiting for the fresh meat to realize they’re dead.

The shelves in the back are divided into individual spaces for our books, whether they’re for the class or not.

Most of them are filled with the required reading material and others, like mine, are chock full. The weight in my chest doubles.

I don’t remember much about the previous lessons except for Clark’s bellowing about the General’s current triumphs. A little review will help bring me up to speed. My mouth tastes sour and my stomach cries out for something to fill it.

Knowledge feeds the mind but leaves the stomach hollow.

I pull up short, the tips of my fingers inches from the books in my cubby. They’re in a different order. I obsessively put them back in the same position every time, a small ritual of control no one else seems to notice. But now, the thickest text is in the center of the line instead of at the front.

My stomach twists and my mind struggles for an answer, right in front of me, close enough for me to taste. The books aren’t in the same place, so someone must have touched them. Who would⁠—

A maid, probably. Someone dusting the shelves? Like Morgan the other day. She’d been holding something in her hands when Evie slapped her, hadn’t she?

I glance around the class expecting to see a flash of red.

Then I grab the book and prop it open on the nearest desk, flipping through the pages. I’m seeing ghosts. Every gloomy corner hides a potential enemy and now I’m starting to see them in the ranks of the people who do my laundry and stoke the coals in my fireplace.

I drop into the seat and pull the pen out of the breast pocket of my tunic.

The notes in the margins are for me, to mark my place or passages I want to study more later. And my heart stops at the new question written below mine, right next to my note about land versus air attacks.

“What in the world…”

My immediate fury at having my book taken disintegrates with every new note I find. There are multiple and all of them in impossibly small and perfect script.

Someone stole my book—desecrated my property.

They also offer some thoughtful insight.

This isn’t simple or petty vandalism.

The questions are written in simple terms. A pit opens up in my gut as I turn the pages. They’re sporadic but well thought out, broadening on things I already know.

Expand on this, please. Where are you getting your research? Are there other books on ground vs aerial battles?

And forcing me to look at several subjects from a different point of view.

This text diminishes the advantage of land creatures in favor of the airborne. For instance, dragons are touted as being the most powerful and formidable mount, yet they are unable to breathe fire until they reach a certain specific maturity. This puts them at a disadvantage for many years.

I roll my eyes, huffing out a dry chuckle.

Thanks to Mozi, I hear about dragon maturity regularly. He moans about the way he is forced to expand on his other brilliant strengths since he’s physically incapable of breathing fire.

Also consider dragon flight times. It may take a fully mature dragon half a day to cross the territory and the larger they are, the more visible their trajectory. They are easily marked, whereas a thunderbird, for example, can disappear into cloud formations. Or a unicorn, for that matter.

I tap my pen against my lips. Interesting.