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In the north, change was more gradual. Many smaller towns and villages had been devastated by the plague, especially the region around the Bonewood. Whole villages had been emptied. Rebuilding would take years.

All over Sangratha, the rot had not simply vanished. Certain magazines and newspapers, no doubt bankrolled by highblood elites, continued to print articles harkening back to the good old days of the stable regency. Some decried a lack of noble leadership. Others had even begun to mythologize Viktor and his memory, claiming everything had been better under his rule. They used words like safer and more orderly. But it was easy to read between the lines—what they really meant was safer for highbloods and more orderly only in the sense that blightborns had been more easy to exploit.

Rodriguez had told me that was why he was creating a new archive. “Memory is political. We need to record the past so we don’t repeat it,” he’d told me, wagging a finger in my face like I was still in one of his classes.

Sangratha had been built with fear and blood. Its entire state religion was predicated on the belief that some people were born to rule and others were born to be used. You couldn’t erase all of that in one year, but Bloodwing was proof that you could start. For instance, Professor Elizabeth Briggs now taught a course called Blightborn History over the Ages. It was mandatory: Every student at Bloodwing had to take the course and pass it before being approved to graduate.

Other policies had shifted. Blightborn students were no longer conscripted into attending the academy, nor were they sentenced to death or servitude for academic failure. The admissions process was being completely overhauled. Starting this term, students now applied to the house of their choosing. If they weren’t accepted into their first choice, they could be considered for their second. Of course, there was still favoritism and political games to be played, but overall blightborn students had at least a semblance of choice now.

House Mortis still stood. Some believed the entire house should be dismantled and renamed. The subject had been hotly debated all year, but for now, Mortis remained. Personally, I still wasn’t sure what should happen. Erasing the house from the school would not erase the bloodline which still existed—nor what had been done in House Mortis’s name. But suffice it to say that House Mortis hadn’t received many new applications that year.

“You look very far away, little dragon. Where did you go?” Blake murmured, his breath warm on my cheek.

I looked up to see he’d moved away. He’d finished dressing and now stood, leaning against a bedpost. I forced a smile. “Just thinking.”

Whenever I let them, my thoughts went to Hawl. We’d buried them where they’d fallen. Sometimes I deeply regretted that—I couldn’t even visit their grave. Were they lonely beneath the ground?

A knock sounded at the door just as I finished fastening my earrings, two dangling golden fluffins. Blake came toward me. He lifted my chin, tipping my head up. His eyes searched my face like he was checking for cracks.

I leaned into his touch with a sigh. “I’m all right.” It wasn’t precisely true. But it had to be for tonight.

His thumb brushed my jaw. “A change of scenery will do you good.”

The knock came again. “Come in, Visha,” I called.

The door swung open, and she strode in. Her short silver hair was slicked back on one side and razored on the other. She was wearing a tailored pantsuit of red silk that clung to her petite, athletic frame. The front plunged low in a completely outrageous, very deep V that showed off a great deal of cleavage. And when she turned to close the door, I saw the back dipped just as low—exposing smooth brown skin and the very top curve of her ass. She smirked when she caught us both looking.

“Trouble has arrived,” Blake announced, giving a low whistle.

“Nothing new, then.” Visha tilted her head cockily as she swept her violet eyes over us in assessment.

“Did I clean up sufficiently?” Blake asked, tugging at his lapels.

“You look all right,” she said dismissively. Her eyes softened as she looked at me. “Regan would love that dress.”

“I wish she was here to wear it instead,” I said, as my chest tightened.

“Funny that we’re all thinking that, isn’t it?” Visha said softly. “At one time or another I’m pretty sure we would have liked nothing better than to stab her in her pretty little face.”

“That outfit,” Blake said, quickly changing the subject and gesturing to the crimson concoction clinging to Visha’s body, “what is this, Vish? Excited to see your beau?” Visha’s fist caught him square in the arm before he could move. He yelped dramatically. “Fuck! Dammit, woman. I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

I laughed and moved toward the door, smoothing my skirt and reaching for a small purse covered in jet black beads. “It will be nice to see Kazmyn.”

Visha rolled her eyes, but her cheeks had a slight tinge of rose to them. “He’s a menace. Can’t believe they’re really letting him come teach here.”

“Visiting Assistant Professor of Dwarven Construction and Scouting Techniques,” Blake drawled. “Quite the mouthful.”

“He probably gave himself that title,” Visha snapped.

“Does that mean you won’t be giving him an opportunity to taste sweet highblood fangs tonight?” Blake asked. Then he dashed out into the hall ahead of us with a holler of laughter before Visha could hit him again.

When we reached the refectory, music was already spilling out into the hall. Inside, the room was once again transformed into something elegant and opulent. All four house banners hung proudly from the walls. Long tables had been set up along the edges of the room in each of the house colors. Fourth Years and Fifth Years filled the room, decked out in finery, some parading about with drinks in hand, others already out on the dance floor. Faculty mingled with parents, and I saw dignitaries from across Sangratha wearing various highblood house colors. Many blightborn of influence were in attendance from Veilmar, too, council members and guild leaders, healers and merchants.

I reached for Blake’s hand. “Still doing all right?” he murmured.

I looked up at him and nodded. How could I not be with him on my arm? He looked devastatingly handsome tonight. His silk cravat was sitting just a little crooked. I reached up and fixed it. He caught my hand and kissed my fingers, but I saw his gaze had turned absent. He was looking over toward the stage, his jaw suddenly tight.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re going to be fine.”