Chapter Four #2
She smiles like this is all perfectly normal, just another Sunday afternoon, then turns as we reach a grand flight of stairs coiling downward, linking the upper tiers to the courtyard below. It’s beautiful, if you’re into things that scream power and money.
The Citadel is far more pristine than I expected.
Every inch of it gleams, like the stones have been polished by magic or obsession.
It’s everything the Outerlands isn’t—grand, ordered, clean.
Like walking through a history book written by only the winners, every stone a smug little monument to the people who cast us out.
And the cadets and officers? Yeah, they notice me.
Everyone I pass wears the same black uniform—tailored, pressed, pristine. They move in formation, like even their posture’s been regulated. I, on the other hand, look like I just crawled out of a smuggler’s hold. Which... isn’t inaccurate.
I need to keep my head down. Blend in. Just until I can figure out how this place works, and how to survive it. One month. That’s it. Then I can get the rest of Mum’s journals, get the fuck out of here, and get back to Bren—back home.
But as we descend, heads turn, and the looks I get aren’t curious. They’re assessing, cold, like farmers checking livestock before a slaughter. Ezzy notices, too.
“Umm, maybe it’s best if we grab your uniform before the Initiation Brief. Just a quick detour,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “I mean, I’ve got nothing against Outerlanders, but I can’t speak for everyone else... and right now, your outfit’s kind of screaming, stab me now.”
At the base of the staircase, instead of following the stream of cadets spilling into the courtyard, Ezzy tugs gently at my elbow and veers left.
“We’ll be quick,” she whispers, leading me toward a small arched alcove cut into the stone wall where a narrow window sits behind an iron grate. On the other side, a plain-faced woman with skin like wilted parchment and a mouth pinched into a thin line looks up from her desk.
“Good morning!” Ezzy chirps, undeterred. “We’re here to collect two standard winter uniforms, patrol and training, second-year. Oh, and if we could also get a Citadel Codex of Order, that would be amazing.”
The woman blinks once, exhaling hard, it sounds like pure annoyance. Then without a word, she disappears through a curtain behind her.
“The Codex has all the rules,” Ezzy says, fingers twitching at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to fidget. “You’ll want to read it. Cover to cover. Some of the infractions sound completely made up, but they’ll still nail you for them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Like?”
“Well, there’s one about duelling in the library. And another, something about no Thread manipulation within fifteen feet of cattle… which, okay, I guess is valid. But then there’s also a section on seditious posture. Whatever that means.” She gives an easy shrug.
“You ever question the rules in that Codex, or just follow them blind?” I ask, casual as anything, but still watching her reaction.
“I mean… Some of them are weird. But they’re there for a reason, right? Keep the peace, keep us safe...”
Before I can push, the woman returns with two neatly folded bundles and a thick leather-bound book. She clears her throat, and shoves the items through the slot without so much as eye contact.
“Thank you so much,” Ezzy gleams like she’s just been gifted gold instead of uniforms and passive aggression. “Changing rooms are just through there.” She turns, handing me the set and points down a side corridor. “I’ll wait out here so we’re not late to the Initiation Brief.”
I look down at the clothes in my hands. Fuck, if Bren could see me now. A familiar pressure pulses behind my ribs, small, subtle, but I swallow hard and head down the corridor.
A few minutes later, I step back out, tucking the edge of the black pullover into a pair of training pants.
The fit’s snug, too snug. Like it was made for me.
The thought alone sends a jolt of wrongness through my chest. The fabric’s thick but breathable, built for movement and violence.
A wide leather belt sits high on my waist, twin sheaths stitched into either side.
It’s strange. I’ve never worn anything new before—no rips, no frayed seams, no blood soaked so deep it’s part of the pattern. I look down and barely recognise the girl staring back. For once, I look put together.
And that’s the problem.
Because this uniform doesn’t just fit. It claims me. Makes me look like one of them, part of the same system that left my people to starve. The pulsing pressure builds behind my chest. My skin itches, feels traitorous, like it’s adjusting when it should be rejecting every thread.
Remember why you’re here Lyra.
One month, one fucking month. Then I'm out, free. And if I get those journals, maybe I will get the truth, answer to questions I’ve always wanted to know. The fire... Plus I’m in no mood to visit dragons anytime soon.
“Oh my stars, you look amazing! See?” Ezzy does a little spin in place, delighted as I step in front of her. “Now you look like one of us! You don’t look so… poor.” She smiles like she’s just handed me the greatest compliment in the world.
My mouth twitches as she hands me the Codex.
You can tell, she’s not trying to be cruel.
That’s the worst part. She actually means it.
No malice, just pure, unfiltered naivety.
Back home, a comment like that might’ve earned someone a split lip.
Here? There’s no point correcting her, not with words or fists, not with someone this sheltered.
She hasn’t seen the real world, has no idea how hard it gets.
So I just shove the Codex into my pack on top of my old clothes, slide it on to my shoulder and nod toward the courtyard.
“Let’s go,” I mutter through clenched teeth, about to turn when Ezzy frowns.
“Wait.” Her eyes narrow at my waist. “It’s not complete.”
Before I can ask, she reaches to her side, pulls one of the two daggers from her belt, and holds it out to me hilt-first.
“Here. Everyone gets two. You’re missing both.”
I blink. Stare. I don’t take handouts, don’t take charity, don’t like owing anyone. But it’s a weapon and I never turn down a weapon. I reach out, not fast, not grateful.
“I’ll give it back,” I mutter.
Ezzy beams. “You won’t have to. It’s yours now. I have spare.” Then she turns and starts walking back toward the main stairwell.
The crowd that trickled past us earlier has thickened, cadets, officers, and robed professors in royal blue moving in clean, organised lines. Ezzy and I slip into the flow, letting it carry us out into the open-aired courtyard at the heart of the Citadel.
A low hum ripples through the space as we join the other cadets, quiet voices, the scuff of boots, the occasional laugh, quickly stifled.
Overhead, a banner snaps in the wind, I flinch, then glance up. Pale marble walls rise around us in a wide, perfect circle—five, maybe six stories high.
It feels like standing in the hollowed-out heart of a fortress. Wings jut off at odd angles, turrets scattered like watchmen, looming and silent. I tilt my head back, trying to take in the size of it. The weight.
Okay. If I’m going to survive the month here, I need to start figuring out the power dynamics—who to avoid, who might make a decent ally. Or at least a useful pawn. All without drawing too much attention. I shift my gaze, scanning the crowd—
“Ezzy!” The name rings out over the noise. We both turn. Two male cadets stand a few metres away, half lost in the bustle. Both are waving, eyes locked on her.
“Oh! Come on, you’ve got to meet my friends!” She lights up, already moving, dragging me with her. “They’re going to be so excited, they’ve never met an Outerlander before. At least… not, like, a real one.”
“A real one...?” I query.
“I mean, not one that wasn’t, like... under guard or in custody or something. Dead.”
I don’t respond. But stars help me, if one of them tries to pet me like I’m a rare exhibit, I’m breaking fingers. Ezzy lets go, hurrying ahead to greet them.
But I hang back. Because across the courtyard, something catches at the edge of my vision. Sharp and bright. I turn, eyes locking on the source.
A circular golden talisman twirls lazily between long fingers, flickering as it catches the afternoon light.
It’s effortless. Casual.
Hypnotic.
And god, is he beautiful.
Legs crossed at the ankle, one hand in his front pocket, he leans against a marble pillar at the edge of the courtyard. The other hand keeps the talisman spinning between his fingers like it costs him no thought at all. I’d guess he’s older than me, but not by much.
Two cadets pass behind him. Their voices drop, they don’t look at him, just pick up their pace. Meanwhile, I take him in without meaning to. The way his shirt pulls tight across his chest, sleeves stretched just enough to hint at the muscle beneath, yeah, hard not to notice.
And for a second, I forget where I am. What I am. What he is.
But then I see it—the uniform. It’s not standard cadet issue, it’s more tailored. A high collar with the Citadel’s crest worked in dark metallic stitching at his shoulder. An officer, of course he is.
Of course the one person I end up checking out is exactly the type I should despise.
He’s not just a cadet, not just another cog waiting to be ground down by the system.
He is the system. The very hand that turns the gears.
An enforcer, a weapon, out there doing the work that keeps people like me in our place.
Fighting for scraps while he guards the plenty.
Deadly, obedient, built for control and everything I was raised to loathe.
But still, there’s a heat curling low in my belly, deep and unwelcome—like my body hasn’t gotten the memo that he’s exactly the kind of person I should avoid.
I should look away.
I want to look away.
But instead, I keep watching.