In class, Raisa studied battle strategies developed by Gideon Byrne centuries ago. Lila Byrne had designed the prototype of a double-edged rapier that was still in use today. Dwite Byrne had made innovative use of mounted soldiers at a time when the cavalry had fallen into disuse.

Raisa and Amon had this in common: they both felt the pressure of being the living heirs of an ancient dynasty of accomplishment.

Amon was skilled with weapons, and performed well in his course work, but he wasn’t the biggest or strongest or richest of the cadets in his class at Oden’s Ford. He didn’t win over his classmates by buying ales and ciders for them on Bridge Street, then staggering home arm in arm with them in the small hours.

He radiated a calm focus—like he knew who he was and where he was going. He was a steady mooring in a sea of change. He was honest and he kept his word, and he was unrelentingly fair. It made people want to follow him.

I can learn from him, Raisa thought. I tend to stir people up, not settle them down.

Amon continued to train her in sticking, using the staff Dimitri had given her. Some days it was all she saw of Amon—he left the dormitory before she crawled out of bed, and she was usually fast asleep when he came home. As class commander, he attended endless meetings and participated in the governance of the school. That was the story, anyway. It still seemed to Raisa that he avoided being alone with her.

Yet sometimes she’d look up, even at dinner, and find those gray eyes fixed on her.

“I thought this place was called the great leveler,” she said to Amon as she closed the book on another long day. It was now eight weeks into the term, the most exhilarating and exhausting eight weeks of her life.

Amon looked up from his engineering drawing. “It is.”

“Then why did Master Askell agree to put us all in the same dormitory? And why did he approve a special curriculum for me, if everyone is treated equally?”

“They are,” Amon said. “Until they’re not.” He returned to his work until the pressure of her glare made him look up again. He sat back, rolling his quill between his fingers. It had become a habit. “Master Askell knows who you are,” he said. “I told him.”

Raisa nearly spit out her tea. “What? Aren’t you the one who said it was so important that nobody know who I am?”