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I throw a narrowed glare at him in warning. Part of me instinctively defensive of Daeja and her kind. “But that’s not just it. There was a mention of dragon riders. And the execution of them, too.”

“Rebels,” Cole answers.

I shake my head in frustration. “What do you know of Queen Elara?”

“Who?”

“Exactly. The journal spoke of a Queen Elara who ruled before King Aaric did.”

“I know the King had a wife, but she died—”

“She wasn’t his wife. Queen Elara was hissister. And King Aaric killed her.”

Cole freezes, his face blanching.

I meet his wide-eyed gaze, begging for him to consider what I thought could be the truth. “My father said he was spying on the King and saw multiple dragon eggs. That’s how I found Daeja’s egg—buried in his grave.”

Cole blinks rapidly as he digests the information, his words slow. “Perhaps…he had…to kill…”

But even he can’t seem to find a reason why. He wouldn’t ever be able to kill one of his own sisters, and the longer he sits with the information, the more his expression knits in conflict.

His final question lingers in my mind for the rest of the day. “But can you really trust your father’s journal?”

After we ate dinner, most of the squad split off from the tables to sit around a campfire and drink. A common occurrence—I’ve come to notice—in the squad’s routine. But the thought of having to get close to the flames is enough for me to refuse the invitations.

“You don’t drink?” Archie asks innocently and covers quickly with, “It’s okay if you don’t! I don’t really, either.”

“I do. I just…would prefer not to drink—” I pause, trying to find the right excuse, my attention settling on where the soldiers pile branches to burn. “There.”

He looks over his shoulder, following my gaze. “There?”

Darian takes a seat at the edge of the campfire, watching the rest of the soldiers setting up, his eyes picking at me from across the distance. I turn away and back to Archie with a nod.

“We could go somewhere else if you wanted?” Archie offers.

“That would be weird, don’t you think? If we showed up for the liquor and left?”

He shrugs. “I think that’s what most of them do, anyway.”

An idea sparks me. “I know where we can get our own bottle.”

Grabbing Archie’s elbow, I pull him to the healer’s quadrant as the last bits of sunlight fades, darkness settling around the camp. Archie covers his mouth with a hand, unsuccessfully masking his snickering until I pinch him quiet.

“You’ll get us caught.” I giggle.

Marge isn’t present when we slip into the healer’s quadrant and inch over to the storage. I peer through the cabinets,searching. Plucking a glass bottle tucked back onto a shelf, we tip-toe back out into camp and to my room. I close my door, and a bubble of laughter erupts from both of us.

Archie plops down into the chair near my desk, and I sit on the edge of my bed. I throw him the bottle, and he catches it with ease. Uncorking the bottle, he sniffs the liquid, and pauses with a grimace. After my encouraging nod, he tilts it back and takes a drink.

“People actually like the taste of this?” he scowls.

I laugh. “No, I don’t think so. But people don’t drink it for the taste.”

“Will I start to hallucinate? Because if I start to see my Great Aunt Becky, I’m never listening to you again.”

I tilt my head to the side. “What’s wrong with Great Aunt Becky?”

“She used to pinch my cheeks and pull my ears. I used to think it’s why my cheeks are always so red and why my ears stick out.”