Chapter Three
It's the smell that hits first, thick with the scent of wet stone, mildew and a hint of damp paper. There’s a heaviness to it, like the walls have been steeped in it for centuries.
Then comes the cold itself, sinking into my cheek where it meets the floor, damp and biting, spreading across my skin, into my bones.
My head throbs as I blink open, deep and pulsing. Everything feels… off. Dragging one hand across my face, fingers trembling, I try to push myself up with the other. The room instantly tilts, my stomach lurches.
Fuck, I knew trying to run was a bad idea...
Laying back down, I press my palm flat against the cold stone and exhale as I reach deep. Just a flicker, just enough to feel my magic, my Threads, but they’re distant. Sluggish. I narrow my focus and try again, a little harder this time, jaw tight, will them to stir. To shift.... But nothing.
My heart kicks once, pulsing behind my chest.
Okay, don’t panic—not yet. But it’s wrong. Off. My magic has never been easy to control, but it’s never been silent....
The floor still spins, but I push up again, moving through it to lean against the bed beside me. Once my stomach settles, I gather my legs, and haul myself upright. They barely hold. Knees give, joints groaning like rusted hinges, so I drop down on to the mattress.
What did they do to me? I don’t even remember, not properly. There’s a haze where the memories should be, like someone smeared oil across the inside of my skull. I remember running... but then it’s blank.
Fuck, I need a plan, where even am I? Where are the officers? It’s so quiet, nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just... silence pressing in from all sides.
I don’t know where I am, or why I’m still breathing, but I am. They haven’t Reassigned me, yet. Maybe they need something? Maybe that buys me time? A way out... I just need to figure out what they want before they ship me off to the Northern Peaks to keep the dragons at bay.
Three days. That’s how long you last—if you’re lucky. If you’re clever...
The room’s dim, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust as I look around. Small. Two desks, two cupboards, two beds. That’s it. Except for my pack, slumped in the corner like it’s already given up on any escape.
What in the ever-burning hells is this?
I blink hard, like maybe I’m seeing double. But no. It’s not the magic. It’s not the throbbing behind my eyes.
It’s not a cell.
It’s not an interrogation room.
This place... it looks like a dorm, a student’s bedroom. Shared, maybe. Functional, but lived in. What is this?
A knot tightens in my gut as I push to my feet and immediately sway, one hand catching the desk for balance.
Everything tilts for a breath before it settles, I take a deep breath then turn to the door.
Big, solid wood, dark with age. It looks as immovable as it feels, but I try the handle anyway. Doesn’t budge.
Of course it doesn’t.
I jiggle it again anyway—metal clacking against wood, sharp in the quiet—then shove harder. The door groans under the pressure, but stays firm. No surprise there.
I exhale, then drag my gaze back to the bed across from where I sat.
Blankets folded with surgical precision, boots aligned toe-to-heel beneath the frame.
The desk beside it is covered in papers and books, stacked by size and arranged by colour, every edge aligned.
But the notes? Cramped, messy, ink pressed deep into the page.
Diagrams, half-sentences, scrawled equations.
All of it edged with the kind of urgency that smells like late nights and quiet panic.
My fingers move fast, skimming the top pages, flipping through them one by one for information, something that may help me—Frequency Drift in Thread Vibrations During Multi-Thread Confluence Events, Mirroring Elements and Their Alchemically Reactive Compounds.
Half the terms barely register. Homework, maybe. Or research. Either way, nothing I can use.
Turning, I look back at the bed behind me, aside from the dip where I was sitting, it’s untouched.
A grey wool throw folded tight at the foot, no wrinkles and no creases, and beside it sits the room’s only window, small and deep-set, the glass thick enough to blur the outside.
Looks more like the kind you'd fire arrows from than admire the view through.
My legs feel steadier now, still shaky, but less like jelly and more like mine again. The dizziness fading, whatever they hit me with, it’s starting to wear off. Still, I drop on to the edge of the empty bed, not to rest, just to breathe, to think. My hand lands on my thigh—
—and I freeze.
Fuck. No dagger.
Of course they took it, but the realisation still hits hard, a burning twist low in my gut. No blade. No magic. Nothing.
Panic surges, lungs rising too fast, threatening to scatter my thoughts, but I force it down and and scan the floor. The chair’s flimsy, half-rotted. The boots, soft leather, worn at the toes. Useless. I need something solid. Something sharp. Something I can grip if it comes to that.
But there’s nothing.
I pull in air that tastes sharp and thin, tension rippling through me as I turn to the window, eyes sweeping for other options.
Maybe a loose stone. A gap in the frame.
A way out. I lean in, press my palm to the glass.
It’s cold, solid. The frame’s thick, wood set deep into stone.
I push once. No rattle, no give. I check the edges for latches, hinges, even a hairline crack, but nothing.
Fuck, Lyra, what have you gotten yourself into
With a sigh, I drop my hands to my lap and let my gaze drift beyond the glass, to the world outside.
Mountains.
It’s the first thing my eyes catch, their endless ridge-lines rising in layers, snow-capped peaks catching the light, blues and purples bleeding across them as the sun starts its early afternoon descent.
A low haze softens them, but there’s no hiding their size.
Or their sharpness. Which means they're not the Northern Peaks—the ones I see on the horizon back home, distant and pale.
These are taller, meaner. Blue-white and brittle, which means I must be looking south.
A chill skates down the back of my neck, settling between my shoulder blades like a weight I can’t shake. I’ve never seen this far before. I've never been this far before and I don’t know what waits for me here. That’s the part that's gnawing at me, not the being caught. It’s the not knowing.
Because where I come from, when they catch you doing something you shouldn’t? They don’t waste time, you don’t wake up in a room like this. They throw you to the Peaks. Hand you a dull blade, shove you north toward dragon country, and let them sort out whether you were worth anything.
So what the fuck am I doing in what appears to be a student dorm?
The wool blanket itches beneath my fingers as I shift, straining for a better angle at the window.
I’m high up, five flights, maybe more. Below, the Citadel grounds stretch out in chilling, silent order.
Nothing green. No trees. No grass. Just layers of bleak grey stone and bare courtyards split by cobbled paths.
A low wall curves around the edge, and beyond it—water. Wide and dark, encircling the Citadel like a noose. A perfect, unnatural moat. No bridges, no boats in or out. Just isolation.
To my right, one of the four Veins spills out from the black water below, carving a path from the Citadel like a slash across the land. It winds through the Innerlands, slicing between two realms like a line on a map no one dares cross. Farther and farther, until it disappears into the Ravine.
And beyond that—Home. The Outerlands. It’s faint and blurred by distance, but it’s there. And I’m not.
My shoulders sag. I press my forehead to the cold glass, breath fogging against it. For a second, I just let it all hang there—weight sinking into my spine, chest tight with regret.
God, you knew this would happen. You knew that if you got comfortable. If you dropped your guard, let people in, let Bren...
Click—
The door handle turns, and the hinges groan as the heavy wood swings inward.
I’m on my feet in half a beat, blood thudding in my ears, stance already braced. No magic. No blade. The left leg of the desk looks weak, so if it comes to a fight, that’s the one I’m snapping off first.
But the man who steps through isn’t an officer. He carries no weapons and has no armour, just robes. Deep red, trimmed in gold stitching that catches the light.
He’s tall and straight-backed, hair white as snow, skin lined and weathered, but his movements are precise. Clean. Not slow with age, refined. And those eyes. I know those eyes, it’s the same piercing blue gaze that pinned me at the wall.
For a moment he just stands there, watching me. Then—
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, Lyra.
” Smiling now, almost gentle. Almost friendly.
And somehow, that’s worse. I was braced for pain, threats, maybe torture.
Not… civility. “But I have to admit,” he continues, the smile never slipping, “you made a far more dramatic entrance than I expected.”
He takes a step forward. My heart kicks hard, I reach for my Threads on instinct, fingers curling tight into my palms. Air, water, whatever’s closest. I don’t fucking care. I’ll take anything I can throw between us.
But they’re still muffled, distant. Like someone dragged them to the bottom of a frozen lake and left them there to drown. My brows pull tight, jaw locking as I strain.
“Ah. Yes.” His eyes track every shift in my expression.
“That sensation will pass, I had to quiet your Threads when we brought you in. Safety precaution. You were quite… volatile.” His tone is mild.
Almost amused. “But don’t fret, it’s temporary, your access will return in time.
Best not to rush it. Why don’t you have a seat? ”
He gestures to the bed beside me, but I ignore it. Step forward, mouth already open, protest rising.