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"What?"

"You're becoming Rhyven." I throw bread at him. He catches it. "Thank you."

Caelen arrives late. He looks exhausted. Not unusual anymore. Chief duties have become a second curriculum. Or first. Hard to tell. He sits beside me. Steals half my drink. I stare. "Why."

"You weren't drinking it."

"I was."

"Slowly."

"That's still drinking."

He takes another sip. "I disagree." I hate family.

"You have night training?" I ask.

"Always."

"Chief drills?"

"Later."

"Where?"

"Response Wing."

I nod. Good.

Tuesday passes. Nothing. No alarms. No disappearances. No reports from other kingdoms. Not yet. The Council knows what we found in the village library. Everyone important does. Still...nothing. That should feel good. Instead, the quiet stretches thinner every day. Like fabric pulled too tight.

Wednesday makes eight. The historical Varethian silence lasted eleven. Nobody in Response Quarters says that aloud. We all know. Training escalates again. Emergency ward reinforcement moves from theoretical to timed. Seven minutes. Then five. Then four. Rhyven calls three forty unacceptable. Professor Vayne calls Rhyven psychologically unwell.

Rhyven responds: "Useful." Apparently I've infected Vayne with sarcasm. Tragic.

Dragon practicals continue every afternoon. We work with unfamiliar dragons now. Not only Sky Wing. Older. Younger. More reactive. One female refuses to let anyone within twenty feet. We spend forty minutes learning how to accomplish a medical inspection without touching her. Nobody forces her.

Good. Rhyven would probably kill them.

The strange thing is the more intense training becomes, the less frightened I feel during it. Not because the threat is smaller. Because I know what I'm doing. Mostly.

Wednesday night, I return to Response Quarters at twenty-two thirty. Nyra is studying. Cassian is asleep face-first on the common-room table. Someone has placed a blanket over him. Not Rhyven. I checked. Gods. Nyra has ruined me. I should sleep. Instead, I hear movement downstairs. Training room. I hesitate. Then go.

The hall is empty except for one person. Not Rhyven. Caelen. He is standing before one of the heavy training dummies, wrapping his hands. No shirt. Sweat already along his shoulders. I stop in the doorway. "Disturbing."

He looks over. "What."

"I forgot you had muscles."

He gives me a flat look. "We share genetics."

"That explains nothing." He turns back.

I move toward the second mat. Start stretching. For several minutes, neither of us speaks. Nice. Rare. Then— "You're dropping your left shoulder." I stop.

Look over. Caelen isn't even facing me. "I didn't ask."

"Still dropping it."