Chapter Two #3
Not that it means anything. Just because I don’t like him like that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the effort he puts in. It’s basic courtesy—
“Hey, stop!”
This time I don’t wait to see who saw me, just duck sideways, slipping behind a wide woman with an overflowing herb basket. Then I’m gone, swallowed by the crowd. Blend and vanish.
Thirty minutes later and I’m back in the Outerlands, where the air tastes of soot, and just a hint of piss.
Yep, someone’s definitely just tossed their toilet bucket out the window, and judging by the smell, I just walked right through it.
God, this place stinks. But still, it’s familiar and it’s home.
A few more turns, and I’m there. An old door, cracked wood, rust around the handle. Basic and run-down, just like everything else out here. Three knocks, and the door slowly creaks open—just a crack at first—before flying wide.
“Thank the stars,” a tear-streaked woman says, grabbing my arm with both hands and yanking me inside before I can speak.
Guess I’m right on time.
The door closes behind us, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. It’s small. Cosy might be the word, if it weren’t so run-down. Wooden walls, low ceiling. Everything patched or fraying at the seams.
A small cough from the corner draws my eye, where a boy lies curled beneath a threadbare blanket, wheezing—skin too pale, lips cracked.
“Any better?” I ask, lips thin, nodding towards him.
Rhiann shakes her head slowly, worry etched into every wrinkle around her face. “Last night was rough, his fever spiked again. The local mender stopped by earlier, but—” Another wet, rattling cough cuts her off. It’s too weak. Too wrong.
My gut twists. Shit. I should’ve been faster, should’ve come yesterday. Maybe even the day before.
“Right. Well…” I say, throat tight, as I drop my pack, crouching down and pulling out the goods. Ten vials of bright yellow Spice. “I got something for you.”
Her breath catches. “Fuck me… Lyra—”
“I managed a bit more than usual,” I say, handing them over.
Rhiann doesn’t move. Instead, she presses the vials back into my hand. “Keep half,” she murmurs. “You need it too. You always give more than you should.”
“We’re not doing this again. Just take it.” I shove the vials back into her hands.
She hesitates. I raise a brow, don’t start, and finally, she reaches out, unhurried, like moving too fast might make me change my mind.
“This is… God, this is too much. Do you know how much this is worth? How did you even… Lyra, if anyone caught you—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in. “No one saw me.”
“We’re so grateful. Truly. You might have just—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving it off; gratitude’s always been so much harder to swallow than guilt. “It’s nothing.”
I hate this part, the way they look at me, like I’ve done something noble. I haven’t. I just have a little more nerve and a little less... sense, that’s all. Still, a small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth.
“Do you want to join us for some tea?” Rhiann asks, hopeful.
A twitch pulls at my fingers before I can stop it. I hate this part. The longer I stand here, the heavier the air gets, so I shift my weight, already angling toward the door. I’ve done this before, plenty of times, but it never stops feeling awkward. Time to go.
“Sorry, Rhiann. I’d love to stay, but I’ve gotta run.” I sling my pack over one shoulder as I open the door. “I’ll swing by tomorrow, check in, yeah?”
She nods, silent, still clutching the vials like they’ll vanish if she lets go. I slip out before she can say anything else.
The door clicks shut behind me I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding—long, low, and laced with relief.
Job’s done, for today, at least so I start wandering toward the square, boots kicking up dust, and fetch the apple I pocketed earlier from my pack.
I take a bite, it tastes tart, sweet and stolen. Perfect.
The other apple’s still there, and a smile curves at my mouth as I picture tossing it at Bren, a little reward for his time last night. His hands flash through my mind, and I wonder if he’s back yet. Maybe I could pop over, a little lunchtime snack—
Movement
Just ahead, a boy darts into an alley, clutching something too tightly to be good. He glances over his shoulder once, fast and sharp, I follow his gaze.
Something inside me cinches tight, freezing me where I stand.
Because out of the corner of my eye, I spot him—Kael. Slippery little bastard. piercing face, razor-thin grin.
And fuck. Ash-dried Dragon Scale. How the hell did I forget?
Because, Bren, that’s how. Because I got distracted, let my guard drop.
Stealing apples like an idiot, when I’m supposed to be smuggling over rare, illegal produce.
God, I should have known better. This isn’t just bad, it’s lethal.
That debt? It’s already overdue. Twice. And Kael’s the kind who doesn’t do gentle reminders.
His gaze flashes towards me, I duck into the nearest alley, heart pounding. Did he see me? Fuck, I already know how this ends. Even if I vanish today, he’ll find me tomorrow. Or the next day. And I’ll still be empty handed. Still a screw-up.
It’s not even his magic I’m afraid of. Not really. Most folk around here can’t feel a drip of power from their Threads. But Kael? He taught himself, illegally of course; it’s rough, but it’s just enough to keep this side of town under his boot.
And he’s never alone. Not ever.
And that’s the problem.
I can’t hide from this, I check my watch. No time. No choice. If I move fast, I might just make the next guard rotation and reach the market before the traders leave for another month.
A shaky, pounding rise pushes under my ribs as I turn and run, lungs burning, boots sliding on broken stone. Back to the Ravine, back to the wall.
By the time I drop the last few feet into the Air Realm below, the sun’s already shifted—warmer now, throwing longer shadows across the sun-baked earth.
I hit the ground hard, both feet hold this time, but my jaw stays locked, not just from the heat or the drop, but from the weight of my own mistakes.
Should have known better.
Still, I made it and in record time, no less. That’s something.
Okay, Ash-dried Dragon Scale, get in, get out, no more issues today. I take two steps forward—
And stop.
The world jerks to a halt, air locking in my chest as the realisation slams through me.
White. Crisp. Uniforms.
Five. No—six.
Citadel officers.
Shit.
They’re already moving in. Fan-like, precise. No shouting, no wasted motion. They don’t need to speak when every step says the same thing: you’re trapped.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, think, Lyra, how the hell are you getting out of this one?
A familiar pressure sparks under my skin, my Threads, my magic, flaring to life. Hot, angry and fucking useless.
The officers continue to close in. Silent, trained.
And I’m not.
Not like that, not like them.
I clamp down on the rising surge, drag in a steadying breath, and shove it hard beneath the surface before it can blow. Because power isn’t the problem, control is, and I don’t know what would happen if I let go right now.
I stare them down as they step in closer. Six trained killers versus one half-trained mess.
I could run, maybe? There’s a narrow alley to my left, half-blocked with crates. Bet my life on speed? Or I let go, let my magic out right here? Take them out—and maybe myself with them.
I grit my teeth, everything in me lifting too fast, too hard, like my body’s already bracing for the hit.
Shit. Neither option’s good. But blowing myself up? That’s a guarantee. Running? I might make it.
The officers press in closer, I shift my weight, knees flexed, ready to bolt—
But my Threads spike anyway. Too fast. Too much. Magic slams through my veins like a scream with nowhere to go. My fingers twitch. My vision warps at the edges. The air thickens, charged and tense, and god, I can’t push it back down.
The officers flinch. One of them reaches for something. Behind them, something red glints.
Hold. Breathe. Wait. This isn’t the plan. I’m supposed to run not start a losing fight.
But my Threads don’t care. They surge, hot, wild, like a blade I can’t sheath. Static lifting the hairs on my arms as I clamp down hard, everything in me locking tight, trying desperately to hold the line.
But it’s too late. My hands fly up, fast, uncontrolled, stupid.
Then—
“Now, there’s really no need for that.”
The voice is calm, precise, and suddenly everything in me stills. Magic freezes mid-surge, choking off so fast my body jolts from the absence. Like something yanked it back. Hard.
My head snaps toward the voice as a figure steps out from behind the officers.
He’s tall, wearing a heavy Scholar’s robe, deep red, trimmed in gold stitching that catches the light as he moves. The officers' part for him like this was always the plan, like they were never in charge to begin with.
As he steps closer, his face comes into view. Pale and weathered, deep lines carved around his mouth and eyes, and a white beard trimmed clipped at the edges.
“You’ve caused quite enough excitement for one day, Miss Bloom,” he says, stopping a few feet away.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—those stay cold, calculating, like he’s already dissecting me.
”Now... if you’d be so kind, please come with me,” he continues. “The Citadel has been waiting a long time to meet you.”
Fuck, so much for no more issues today.
I turn and bolt.