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The nausea in the pit of my stomach grew. I didn’t say a word. Couldn’t seem to find any. Blake hadn’t repeated the highblood benediction. He stood near me, silent but stolid. I wondered if his stomach was roiling as violently as mine.

I stared at the servant woman’s body lying there in the snow. Some students were walking respectfully around it. Others showed less care and stepped over. A few—highbloods, of course—laughed and jumped over the corpse like it was all some sick children’s game. Meanwhile, above it all stood Viktor, watching us with an expression of triumph. How much triumph could the ancient highblood really feel—looking as ravaged as he did?

I turned to Blake. His single eye held mine. So much unspoken there. So much pain. So much wrath. But more than anything, I saw a plea. Not just for forgiveness—though, for that, too. But for hope.

CHAPTER 4

MEDRA

Kage had been in the courtyard. I’d looked away as soon as I’d spotted him in the crowd.

Seeing him pricked my conscience. I was furious with him. But if I were being honest, I felt angrier at him than I did at Blake. Both were equally culpable, but Blake had made an effort. He’d helped me convince Nyxaris. He’d been willing to die if it meant giving Florence a chance to live. What had Kage done besides turning into a fucking wolf and fighting an undead dragon?

All right, maybe he wasn’t an entirely hopeless case. He wasn’t as evil as, say, Regan or Viktor. But he’d betrayed me. The irony that I was now trapped in his house with him as my House Leader was not lost on me. I only had myself to blame for that move.

With a sigh, I heaved my book bag higher on my shoulder. The assembly and Regan’s crowning as headmistress had eaten up the entire slot for Defensive Arts. My next class was Historical Strategy. The huge lecture hall felt colder than usual as Theo rejoined me and we walked in. Flames flickered in the wrought-iron lanterns that lined the walls. A cloudy winter light came from the row of narrow windows high up on the walls behind the lectern platform.

I slid into a seat midway up the tiers and dumped my textbook and parchment out on the table in front of me. Theo plopped down beside me, stretching out like we were about to see a theater production and not just attend another lecture in the school of hell. Vaughn had disappeared off to one of his House Orphos classes.

I snuck a peek at Blake’s cousin. His expression was nonchalant, but I knew him well enough to know his heart was probably still pounding hard like mine was from the assembly. He wasn’t immune to the sight of blightborn murder; Theo still had a heart. He possessed compassion and kindness: His uncle hadn’t been able to destroy that part of him yet.

Students trickled into the hall slowly. I caught many whispering about what we’d just witnessed in the courtyard. Theo and I looked at one another, but we didn’t say a word. Blake had vanished like a ghost as we’d reentered the school. He was supposed to be in this section. I wondered if he’d show up for class.

Then, just before the bell chimed, Visha marched in. Her head was bowed, her shoulders hunched under a black leather coat. She wasn’t a tall girl, but still, I’d never seen her look so small. She moved stiffly, grief and anger clinging to her like a mist. When she slid onto the bench beside Theo and gave us a terse nod, I felt relieved. Something tight in my chest loosened. I wanted to say something, convey my sympathies for her loss, but the words stuck in my throat. So I just nodded back. There would be time to talk. To sort things out. To grieve.

Our teacher didn’t show up until two minutes after the bell had rung. When the door banged open and Rodriguez walked in, a hush fell across the room. He looked … bad.

His usually clean-shaven jaw was coated in days’ worth of black stubble. He was never the best-dressed faculty member, but now he looked even scruffier. His coat was wrinkled, the white button-up shirt he wore was stained dark with sweat stains.

I leaned forward, my body tensing as I noticed his right arm. It was bound in a sling across his chest. He’d caught a crossbow bolt in the shoulder, shot by Marcus Drakharrow. It must have hurt like hell. But funnily enough, I was having trouble feeling much sympathy.

Rodriguez threw his satchel on the desk with his good hand and walked to the lectern like everything was fine. “Turn to page one sixty-three in your textbooks. We’ll discuss dragon warfare.”

That wasn’t exactly new. Dragons featured in a lot of Rodriguez’s lectures. Still, my back went up. Theo raised an eyebrow at me. I gave the smallest shrug.

Rodriguez started his lecture. Instead of presenting things in an organized, chronological fashion as he would usually do—writing dates up on the board and going through events from start to finish—his lecture veered between battles, skipping from one to another and leaving out dates altogether. Some of the events we’d discussed in class before, others were new to me. Maybe Florence could have followed such a haphazard speech, but I started to get lost. Still, a theme of sorts began to prevail. Rodriguez’s voice might have been a dispassionate monotone, but he’d clearly planned his speech with some focus in mind. He spoke of casualty numbers. Whole villages destroyed by dragon fire. Thousands dead. Civilians. Always civilians. And when he said that word, I knew exactly what he really meant: blightborn.

I gripped my quill.

“The Fall of Lutharion was, as you may recall, a turning point,” Rodriguez droned. “Not for the highbloods—at least, not directly—but for the thousands of civilians caught in the blast zone of House Avari’s dragons.” Rodriguez paused his pacing and looked up at us. His eyes found mine. “The lesson here is clear to anyone who studies the historical record. Dragons destabilize order. While in the past, highbloods have valued them as a useful tool, they are a dangerous one. Capable of challenging the hierarchy. They incite chaos and bring vast loss of life. Not to mention …”

Not to mention it was bullshit. Such utter bullshit.

I stood up, shoving my textbook roughly into my bag, not caring about how much noise I was making. I knew what this was. It wasn’t a lecture, not really. Or if it was, it was intended solely for me. This was a justification.

Rodriguez wasn’t going to apologize. He was trying to rationalize what he’d done. What he’d encouraged Kage and Blake to do with him. He’d orchestrated the betrayal of Nyxaris, and he clearly regretted not succeeding.

“Miss Pendragon,” he barked. “Sit down. This class is not finished.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder. Ignoring him, I moved into the aisle and started down the steps to the bottom of the lecture hall. A ripple of whispers rolled through the room. Rodriguez moved towards the door, walking so quickly he reached it before I did. I paused in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot and hazy. He stank—and not just of days’ old sweat. The predominant theme in the bouquet of repugnant fragrances was alcohol. The man was half-drunk. I couldn’t help it. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

“Is something funny, Miss Pendragon?”

I straightened my back. “Not really, sir.”

“Then, sit back down.”

I stared back at him boldly. “Are you drunk, sir?”