Chapter Two
LYRA’S POV
Air won't come.
Gasping, my eyes snap open. Damp canvas, candle smoke and something bittersweet.
The smells hit all at once, locking my chest before I can even place them and I jerk upright. Silk sheets tangle around my legs, trapping me, and panic tears through me harder. Clawing at them, desperate and frantic, I fight to get free, as if that alone might make my lungs work again.
Where am I?
Kicking clear of the sheets, I twist toward the dim room, but the movement sends everything tilting.
Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and the harder I fight for air, the more the room breaks apart around me.
My pulse hammers too fast, too loud, dragging me back to the last thing I remember—
Finn leaving. Ezzy hitting the floor. Rowan’s blood.
They’re gone. They’re all gone.
Bile floods my mouth as my stomach churns. God, I'm going to throw up.
Folding forward, I wrap my arms around my knees and try to drag in a breath, it catches halfway as a tremor tears through me—followed by another, then another.
My muscles contract around me, and I try to brace, still the shaking keeps coming anyway, rattling through my ribs as my lungs fight for air.
Breathe. Just breathe. But I can’t. My body won't listen.
Then, movement to my right.
“Lyra.” A familiar voice cuts through my rising panic. “Lyra, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
The tone lands and suddenly the tension inside me loosens, enough for air to slip past my throat. It scrapes down raw, yet this time it doesn’t catch. The next inhale sinks deeper, fuller, flooding my lungs, sending a warm rush up my spine and taking the edge off the pounding behind my ribs.
For another few inhales, I stay folded forward, head in my hands, letting my chest rise and fall. Then, little by little, the rest of the world starts to creep back in—the soft, cool silk sheets against my feet, the warm summer breeze brushing the back of my neck.
Finally, once I'm confident I won't pass out, I carefully lift my head and turn.
He’s there.
Seated in a chair beside the bed, his hair is messier than normal and dark stubble shadows his jawline. He looks tired, but the gold in his eyes is bright, catching the candlelight as his gaze finds mine.
“You’re okay,” Talen reassures me. His hand shifts slightly, like he’s about to move closer, but then he stops, his shoulders easing as he pulls himself back. “Ezzy’s okay. Just breathe.”
Following his words, I draw in another breath that comes easy now.
“What’s going on?” My voice comes out too calm, too steady for how I should be feeling as I break eye contact and scan the room. “Where am I?”
As I scan around I realise it’s not a room; it’s a tent, a large circular one, lit only by low candlelight.
I’m in the centre of a wide four-poster bed, sitting upright with Talen beside me on a small wooden chair.
Thick canvas walls rise around us, fur rugs layered across the ground.
On the left, a low dresser stands neatly arranged, and beside it, a single armchair sits with its cushions shoved aside and a wool blanket slipping from one arm, creased and rumpled.
“You’re at a temporary camp at the bottom of the Southern Peaks.” His chair creaks as he leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. “The Movement’s main base. You’ve been here for about two weeks now.”
“Two weeks?” My head shakes, yet the rhythm in my chest stays steady. “How? Why?”
“Your body needed time to heal; you were badly injured during the Trials—fractured left arm, significant blood loss, and the healer insisted on keeping you sedated. You couldn’t be moved.”
The soft scrape of canvas rustles behind him as a breeze pushes the flap open.
Slipping inside, it curls over my arm and sends a shiver down my spine.
Following the sensation, my gaze drops to the edge of a thin cotton nightdress and far too much bare skin.
Flinching, I drag the silk sheets higher, wrapping them closer around me.
“I didn’t…” Talen mutters, his eyes tracking my movement. “Once the healer cleared you, I asked a few of the girls to help change you, to make you more comfortable.”
Keeping the sheets high, my mouth opens, then closes as I stare at him, but I don’t even know what I’m looking at.
He has the same eyes, the same voice, the same dark brown, boyish waves falling across his forehead as before, and part of me wants to move, to lean in, to let him draw me close and pretend everything is fine—that nothing happened.
But that’s wrong.
God, that’s so fucking wrong.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why the fuck am I not moving? I should be tearing myself out of this bed, screaming until my throat bleeds, holding a blade to his throat for what he did.
Strangely the feelings never land. It’s like everything sharp inside me is dulled, wrapped in cotton and pushed too far away to touch and instead, a strange warmth sits heavy in my chest. Almost… soothing.
My fists tighten, brows drawing together as I try to make sense of it.
“You’re not going to feel right straight away,” Talen notes, watching my confusion. “Your body’s fine, but your head’s lagging. Thoughts will come out of order. Reactions too.” His mouth pulls thin, then he adds, quieter. “And I’m sorry, I’ve had to dampen some of your emotions... Just for now.”
“You what?” Silk slides against my bare skin as my spine snaps straighter. “No, stop it. Now.”
“If you really want me to, I will.” He takes a slow inhale.
“But, I need you to hear what I’m about to tell you.
Without anger or fear drowning it out. Not react to it, not run from it.
Listen. Afterwards, you can hate me all you like.
” His eyes soften, breaking with something that looks a hell of a lot like regret. “And trust me, you will.”
Everything inside me stays frozen as he holds my gaze.
I want him out of my body—out of my Threads, my feelings. Still he’s right. If I felt even an ounce of what I should be feeling, I’d be bolting for the door or holding a blade to his throat for what he did. There’s no way in hell I’d be sitting here listening to a word out of his mouth.
And without the urge to run, to scream, or to fight, all that’s left is the desperate need to understand. What this is. What he is. The truth, once and for all.
“Fine, tell me.” I demand, crossing my arms. “Tell me, what’s going on?”
Running a hand through his hair, he exhales like it hurts, and for a moment his gaze drifts past me, fixing on the armchair like he'd rather speak to it than me.
“I’ve played this conversation in my head a thousand times,” he mutters. “Never once figured out how to begin. So I’m going to lay it all out, because if I stop, I might not start again.”
Arms still locked across my chest, I watch him from the centre of the bed, like he’s about to draw the blade he’s kept hidden for too long.
His throat works once before his focus finally comes back to me.
“Merrin’s been preparing me since the start.
He placed me into care with the Veirmonts and raised me in the system, trained me to tear it down from the inside.
My role was simple enough: stay close to Serrane.
Earn his trust, do his bidding, manipulate his emotions and find his weaknesses.
I recruit others into the Movement, and when the time comes, break him.
Break the whole fucking system. Give the land back to the people and the sky back to the dragons. ”
A thin, weary smile curves at the corner of his mouth as the confession comes out fast and hard. No easing into it. Just the whole truth, dropped straight into my lap.
“And I’m good at it.” His head shakes. “Really fucking good. I’ve played the role for so long, it’s become muscle memory—the Veirmont golden boy, Serrane’s prized officer.
Kill on command, smile on cue. But then you showed up and everything got a thousand times more complicated, because there’s more to me than that. ”
Candlelight sways, throwing shadows across his cheekbones as he drags a hand down his face, as though he’s bracing for what comes next.
My gut twists, pulse picking up, then his arm settles on the bed beside me, and the feelings dissolve.
“When I was sixteen,” he goes on. “I bonded. I was young—probably too young—but Merrin insisted. At first, it was incredible, I felt invincible, bonding with a dragon was all I’d ever dreamed of.
But his power was too much. I couldn’t control it at that age, and not long after that, Sophia happened.
At the time, she was the only good thing in my life, and I ruined it. I took her Threads, her magic. I—”
He cuts himself off, gaze lowering, and with my anger muted, the urge to reach for him rushes in fast. Balling my hands into fists, I force myself to stay still as he continues.
“The following year after she died was hell. I was a hormonal boy being raised by the fucking Veirmonts, newly bonded, drowning in magic, training undercover as a bloody cadet in the Citadel—listening to them spew their bullshit every goddam day, and I started to become reckless. Erratic. Less caring. And one morning, on a routine training assignment with Lucien, I did something stupid, really fucking stupid, and injured myself—bad.”
Lifting his gaze back to mine, my hands loosen and the space between us shrinks by inches as I find myself leaning toward him, listening.