Chapter Two
Wind slams into me in a breathless, spiralling surge—violent, hungry. It rips at my clothes, snatches strands of hair loose until they sting across my cheeks.
My magic, my Threads, tear out of me and finally the pressure breaks, drops, and for one breathless beat, there’s quiet.
Jaw softens, hands loosen, I open my eyes.
Light fractures through the air in front of me, splitting the world into shards of colour as invisible threads of magic spill from my fingers, wild, untamed.
They reach out, thin as ribbons, sharp as glass, dragging two elements with them, pulling in air and moisture, more and more, until it thickens into a swirling, chaotic mist.
And just like that, I’m smiling. Wide, sudden, real.
Because this? This always reminds me of her. Mum. Something in the light, the wind, the shimmer—it tugs at memory. I don’t remember details, just the feeling. The way her hands moved, the hush in her voice when she taught me in secret all those years ago.
Maybe that’s what this is, not just power, but her. A small part she left behind, threaded through my veins, surging just beneath the surface. And now… It’s mine.
My spark. My storm.
My secret.
Because I shouldn’t know how to do this, not me, not someone from here.
But Mum was Innerland born—trained, drilled and refined like the rest of them.
She said my Threads were never quiet, that they didn’t need coaxing, just control.
She taught me what she could. How to listen to them, how to release them…
at least, until the fire; after that everything changed…
My throat tightens before I can stop it, memory slicing sharp through the calm I’m always pretending to hold. But I swallow it down, hard, and force my focus back to the Threads weaving between my fingers—the shimmer, the pull, the storm that shouldn’t exist.
But it does.
Because of her. Because she was so powerful.
At the time, I didn’t really understand how much, I was too young. But now? Now I feel it.
Growing up in the Innerlands, though, didn’t mean she could throw her magic around.
Not with the Citadel always watching. Magic over there might not be outlawed, but it’s still leashed, still monitored.
But at least they’re actually allowed to listen to their Threads, taught how to use them, control them.
I drop my hands just as a final, unexpected surge of magic lashes out, alive and sudden.
The gust nearly tears my jacket from my waist, but I catch it and breathe.
Relief floods in, fast and full. A quiet calm, a peace so blissful it almost hurts, because I know it won’t last. My Threads never take long to refill, recharge.
Shrugging on my jacket and slinging my pack over my shoulder, I take one last look at the Ravine.
One last hesitation.
I could wait, turn back, climb into Bren’s bed, steal a few more hours of safety.
.. He’s right, it’s only a matter of time before I get injured, or fall, and the more I cross, the thinner my luck gets.
Plus, even if I make it over, there’s still the warded wall and Citadel patrols that could gut me.
A chill coils low in my stomach, winding sharp up my spine. God, why the fuck am I doing this?
Spice and Kael, that’s why. Because if I don’t go now, I’ll miss the traders for another month—no Ash-dried Dragon Scale—and Kael will gut me anyway. Hell of a choice.
The Ravine yawns out in front of me like a dare. “All right,” I murmur as I start walking. “Let’s do this.”
Just a few paces to the right, I find it. The anchor: a half-dead, wind-bent tree clinging to the cliff like it’s too stubborn to fall, and wrapped tightly around its base, weather-worn and fraying: a rope.
My rope.
It stretches out from the tree, straight across the Ravine, taut and narrow like a high-line.
Took forever to get it over there, my Earth Threads are dormant, so I had to rely on Air.
Half the time the rope knotted midair or snapped sideways into the Ravine.
Wild, twitchy, and about as cooperative as a drunk snake.
But I kept at it. Throw after throw, day after day, until one morning it finally caught on a rock outcrop across the gap—and held.
Most wouldn’t give it a second glance, hell, most wouldn’t even see it. But that’s the brilliance of it. It’s so stupid, it’s genius. No one expects the dumb play. And that’s why it works. That’s why it’s mine.
Even if the Citadel did find it, they wouldn’t give a shit.
Why would they? Outerlanders don’t have magic, or at least, we’re not supposed to and the Ravine’s just a deterrent.
A fucking deep one, but still. The real bastard—the thing no one would be stupid enough to try and breach—is the warded wall on the other side.
Ancient magic etched into the stone. Protective spells carved so deep they nearly killed me the first time I even got close.
That took me years to chip away at, one layer at a time.
A breeze cools across my face as I crouch low, digging through my pack. Fingers brush waxed cloth, a flask, rustling paper, then close around the hook. Bren made it for me years ago. Ugly as sin, but it holds. Every time.
His hands are truly masterful.
Heat flushes up my neck, but I clear my throat, ignoring the memory of last night, and slip the iron hook through the stitched loop at my waist before snapping it onto the rope with a satisfying click. I give it a firm tug—it holds. Good. One less thing to worry about killing me today.
Chest rising fast, pressure already building behind my ribs, I take a breath and edge forward, boots scuffing loose grit, toward the drop. The Ravine stretches wide and open beneath me, a straight plunge into mist and stone.
Another deep breath.
Then I step off.
For a heartbeat, my legs dangle into the void, the rope and hook the only thing keeping the Ravine from swallowing me whole.
I look down. Mistake. A wave of vertigo punches through me like a boulder slamming into my chest. Holding the rope tighter, white-knuckled, breath sawing in and out, a familiar jolt slides up my spine.
It’s stupid, it’s not the fall or the death I fear—it’s the height.
It could be one metre or a hundred, doesn’t matter.
My stupid, primal brain always overreacts to the empty space beneath me.
I’ve trespassed into three restricted zones this week alone.
But this? This is what gets to me? It’s not even rational, this fear of heights—not like my fear of fire—but still it owns me.
And I hate it.
Breath comes too fast, my heart rate spikes, but I manage to hook my legs around the rope, locking into place with practiced ease and fixing my gaze upward. Back to the rope, back to my anchor—not the drop. Never the drop.
Teeth clenched, I wait for the rhythm in my chest to settle. Okay. We’re fine. It’s fine.
I can do this. I do this.
Just as long as I keep looking up.
Hand over hand, foot by foot, I start moving across the line, the iron clasp Bren made shifting with me. My jaw stays tight, stomach clenched as the rope shudders with every shift of my weight, taut and trembling above me like it knows how badly I hate this.
Wind punches through the Ravine, hard enough to shove the rope sideways. My body swings with it, a sickening arc over open air. Instinct snaps through me—I clamp every muscle tight.
Fucking Innerlanders. They don’t have to hang upside down like this; they’ve got a bloody bridge they can just walk across. But it’s way too guarded for me to even think about trying that way. So I’m stuck with this.
Just as my palms start to sweat and my thighs sting, I catch a glimpse of the other side. Almost there. Just a few feet more, don’t look down, idiot, just keep moving.
Clasp—click.
Click. Stone. It’s over. For now.
A tight breath bursts free, as my fingers hit solid ground, relief, satisfaction, and that stupid giddy rush that hits every single time I make it across.
Swinging my leg over the edge, I remove the hook and push up to standing. My knees are unsteady, but they hold as I glance up—and there it is.
My next problem.
A six-metre, warded nightmare of stone separating me from the Innerland Realms beyond. It’s not a fence, not a border marker, this thing’s a fucking fortress.
But there’s no guards on this side, no arrow slits or watchtowers, no sign of life at all. Who needs them when the magic from the Wards can melt your bones if you get too close? I square my shoulders. “Well,” I mutter, “Let’s see if you’re feeling cooperative today.”
Walking along the edge, I reach out, trailing my hand not along the stone, but over the charged space just above it. The magic hums against my skin, thick and resistant. Like a static shock that never quite lands, but just enough to crawl under my skin and set my nerves on edge.
I remember spending years doing this. Walking this stretch.
Waiting for a give, the thinnest gap in the Ward.
A place where the layers didn’t quite overlap.
And when I found it, I came back. Day after day, slipping my Threads through it, prying it wider.
Not clean. Not careful. Just whatever I could shove out of me without losing control, sometimes too much, sometimes nothing at all.
I didn’t even really know what I was doing. Not even close. I was fifteen, pissed off, and too damn stubborn to stop or realise how dangerous it was. So I just kept showing up. Kept fumbling it through, hoping something would shift. And eventually… it did.
The static at my fingertips eases as I slow at a familiar spot, just the faintest whisper of looseness, a subtle break in the pattern. It’s easy to miss unless you know what to feel for. And I do.