Chapter Two #2
A breath pulls tight in my chest as I press my palm through the Ward, testing.
Heat brushes my skin, then—stone. Cold and solid beneath.
It’s still open. Good. I shift my pack higher, cinch the straps, and find the first groove with my boot.
Looking up, my fingers slide into place like they remember the wall better than I do.
It’s a straight climb, six metres of wind-worn stone, broken only by the marks I carved. Shallow chips. Slim wedges. Barely there, just enough to catch when it matters.
Shifting my weight, I start moving—but as soon as both feet leave the ground, that familiar voice in the back of my head starts hissing about the height again. My stomach tightens, but I breathe through it, fingers scraping stone, and keep climbing.
At least it’s not as bad as the Ravine.
Near the top, I pause—one hand braced on the ledge, chest pressed to the wall—letting the weight settle in my arms before glancing down to check my watch.
Perfect.
The Innerland guards should be rotating soon. I’ve got maybe a minute, two, if I’m lucky. I haul myself up, elbow hooking over the edge and slide on to the top, the stone cool beneath me.
For a moment, I stay there, letting my breath settle, lungs adjusting to the stillness, before I glance back, beyond the dry scrubland of the Outerlands.
From up here, the world stretches wide and open, rolling on and on. In the distance, a shimmer of light catches my eye—the Northern Peaks, dusted gold and rust-red, their jagged tips just beginning to catch the season’s first snow.
And beyond them?
Past the last settlement, past the last outposts.
That’s where the dragons live now. Exiled.
No one goes beyond those ridge-lines, not unless they’ve been Reassigned. And if they do, they definitely don’t come back.
For a heartbeat, I just stare. All that land, empty and endless, beautiful in a way that somehow also feels intimidating.
Then when my lungs finally settle, I turn and face forward, toward the Innerlands.
I can’t even picture it, what this place looked like before the Treaty.
Before the Veins tore this land apart. When Aurelia was still one kingdom, four magic-bound realms under one crown, when dragons ruled the skies. Now it’s all order. Structure. Control.
Movement below catches my eye, and a grin pulls at my mouth. Great. My window. The guards are rotating, I don’t have long. I swing my legs over and start lowering myself down the other side. Slow. Careful. Controlled—
Until my foot slips.
Air tears past as gravity yanks me down.
I hit hard—shoulder, hip, then everything else. It hurts, but not much. Ego takes most of the blow.
“Graceful,” I mutter through clenched teeth, shoving myself upright, grit scraping my palms as I brush them clean. But no time to sulk, no time to bleed, as ten metres of open ground stretch ahead of me. My pulse stutters, then kicks, fast.
But I don’t stop to think, to second guess.
I just run.
And in a blink, I’m gone, swallowed by the cool shadows of the Air Realm.
My footsteps stay quick and quiet, as I slip through narrow alleys and dipping in and out of shadow. The Innerlands are too clean, every cobblestone scrubbed so clean you could practically eat off of it.
A young man brushes past me, pressed lines, polished shoes, a sleek jacket slipping off one arm.
He doesn’t even notice when my fingers catch it.
One smooth pull, and it’s mine. I drag it over my shoulders, covering the patched, sweat-worn mess I actually am with something that looks like it belongs here.
To my right, a door clicks open, spilling the warm scent of fresh pastries as the young man—now one jacket short—slips inside without ever noticing.
Head down, I keep walking and the crowd around me thickens. Workers streaming through the alleys like neat, orderly rivers. No shouting. No shoving. Just the steady rhythm of shoes on stone and the soft murmur of voices asking for passage.
It’s… weird. Not bad, exactly. Just weird. In the Outerlands, crowds are loud, fast, and unpredictable. Someone bumped you, you checked your pockets. But here? They step aside. They say pardon, and no matter how many times I’ve snuck in, I never get used to it.
A flash of red pulls at the edge of my vision.
The tailor’s shop—I’ve passed it countless times but I still slow, just for a second.
Behind the glass, something new gleams: a pink silk dress, scattered with tiny silver stars.
Not my style. Too frilly. Too clean. But someone, somewhere, will buy it for a girl who’s never had to steal her breakfast.
In the reflection I catch my brows pulling tight, lips thinning, I glance away and keep walking before it sticks, no use getting mad about things I can’t change.
But just as I turn, something flickers at the edge of my vision—a faint mark etched in the middle of the tailor’s red door; it’s delicate and strange, like it doesn’t quite belong. I’ve walked this street a hundred times and never noticed it before—
Someone brushes past, wavy boyish hair, taller than most. They mutter a soft apology, and the moment quickly slips. So I keep walking, until the alley opens into a vast square. And it hits me, not the sight, the smell.
Rosemary, lemon peel, and crushed cloves. Herbs tied in tidy bunches and hung to dry in the late morning sun. Dozens of them, stacked high in open bowls and glass jars.
A tightness creeps into my chest, the colours alone could feed a storybook—golden yellows, deep blood-red paprika, soft curls of pale green thyme.
There’s too much choice. Too much ease.
My throat tightens before I can stop it, the reaction as automatic as breath.
I can’t help it—not with all this gleaming abundance on display, not when it’s so clear they’ve never had to choose between hunger and heating, or weighing a fever against next month’s rent. And god, I wish I didn’t either.
Pressure builds behind my ribs, my Threads, shifting restless beneath my skin. But I exhale hard, forcing the surge down before my magic does something stupid, reminding myself I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Spice.
Keeping to the side, I scan the square. One, two.
.. three stalls down from the apothecary’s—and there it is.
Same crooked awning, same rust-red canvas, faded and fraying at the corners.
And on the back shelf, vials and vials of bright powdered Spice stand in a perfect line, yellow and glinting like sunlight caught in glass.
Jacket collar high, head down, I move toward the cart. A steady rhythm builds beneath my ribs as I cut through neat rows of merchant stalls—eyes sweeping for patrols, exits, anything off.
Heart ticking fast. Every step a calculation.
But nothing pings. No lingering stares, no sudden shifts. So I let the tension ease for a second, but as soon as I reach the cart and my gaze snags on the price, and the rhythm spikes again. Fists curl tight.
Back home, this would cost twenty, maybe fifty, times more. And that's if you could even find it at all. But here? It’s stacked like cheap firewood; just one vial of this could clear an infection overnight. Two, and you’d stop a plague in its tracks.
All I would need to do is steal one vial and I could pay my rent through winter, maybe even buy a coat that doesn’t leak.
And the price difference, that’s blood money.
The fucking Veirmonts’ taxing every ounce like it’s sacred. Hoarding cures, squeezing gold from a sickness they’ll never smell. All so they can just keep padding their lavish velvet-draped lives.
The image burns. Heat prickles under my skin, power twitching at my fingertips, I swallow hard and push my magic down. Not now. Not here. Not with market eyes watching.
But if I ever met a fucking Veirmont—
Before I can finish the thought, a shout cuts through the hum of the market.
“I haven’t done anything wrong!”
I glance up as two Citadel officers in pristine white uniforms push through the crowd dragging a man between them. He’s young, arms flailing like he thinks they’ll listen.
“You can’t just keep Reassigning people for doing nothing!” he yells. “Gathering in a group isn’t a crime! You’ll regret this—”
One of the officers clamps a hand over his mouth and the sound cuts off. They move fast, efficient, clinical, and within seconds, they’re gone, swallowed by the far end of the street.
But that’s all it takes.
The spice merchant steps out into the square, distracted, craning his neck for a better look.
Perfect.
I move fast, sliding my pack from my shoulder, fingers closing around the vials one by one. Would’ve been a hell of a lot easier with a little magic, but I don’t have that kind of control. I’d probably end up blowing the cart sky-high and me right along with it.
The last vial slides into place with a soft click.
But then—
Eyes.
I feel them before I see them, a crawl across the back of my neck.
She stands behind the cart. A girl, maybe six, maybe seven. Too still. Too spotless. A blue velvet ribbon tying back perfect blonde curls. Her mouth’s parted. Watching. Not me, my hands.
Shit.
A tight, hard thud rises under my ribs. Threads twitch, magic stirs and for half a breath, I freeze. I could walk? Drop the pack, leave the vials behind and step away quiet, unseen. Or, god, shut her up somehow?
She doesn’t move, keeps watching, so I lift a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”
A frown, her small brows pulling across her forehead in confusion, uncertain but not afraid. Then her mother calls, one tug on the girl’s arm, and she turns. Just like that, she’s gone. Thank fuck.
My lungs finally let go, chest unclenching just enough to move. The pack’s still open and the distraction still holds—So I shift sideways, quick and easy, to the next cart, scanning for honeyberries—but I can’t see any. Not surprised, I snag two apples instead. One for me. One for Bren.