Chapter Eight #2
“Now that I have your attention...” Talen doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to, the words carry anyway, clean and controlled.
Like a blade slid between ribs. I go still.
So does everyone else. “...I think I’ll keep it a while longer.
Because let me make myself crystal clear.
..” His fist tightens, and the tension pulls tight with it, like he’s squeezing the air itself.
“...While Professor Quinn’s teaching style may be more lenient, it does not mean you get to forget where you are.
Or who you answer to. This is the Citadel, and you follow the Codex.
You will show Professor Quinn—the esteemed Offensive Magic instructor he is—the respect he’s owed.
And if you cannot do that,” He pauses, tilting his head as a slow curl tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Well then you’ll answer to me. And I promise you, I am not as lenient. ”
A rush of gasps ripples through the theatre the second Talen steps back and opens his hand. I suck in fast a breath without meaning to.
Fuck.
One class, survive today, figure out tomorrow. That was the plan, right? But god, I don’t know how. Even Quinn’s gone pale. I thought I could stay low, stay quiet, find Talen’s weakness. But that illusion shattered the moment he silenced a hundred cadets with a flick of his finger.
There is no weakness.
No loophole.
Everything tightens at once, Threads surging beneath my skin. Fierce and bright and too fucking close to detonation. Logical thoughts scattering before I can catch them.
Well, fuck it. If I’m going down, I’m taking a piece of him with me. He doesn’t get to walk away clean. If he thinks he can bleed the Outerlands dry and not feel it, he’s wrong. I’ll make sure he feels every damned ounce of pain his precious Spice tax costs us, cost Rhiann.
“Today’s Demonstrations will push you,” he continues as he starts pacing the platform, and although we’ve got our voices back, the room stays frozen, no one dares use them.
“You’re second-years now. We expect more.
Demand more. We’re preparing you for what’s waiting beyond these walls.
Out there, no one cares what Realm you’re from.
No one cares how clean your strikes look in a classroom.
” He looks us over, slow, like he’s already decided who’ll break first. “So today you’ll face cadets from other Realms. Today we will have mixed Demonstrations. ”
A ripple moves through the room, quiet gasps and the rustle of shifting bodies break the silence. A few whispers flicker but die just as fast, no one wanting to draw his attention.
“Let’s see what happens when you stop playing safe.” He taunts. “Let’s see what happens when your Threads meet something new.” He pauses, letting it sink in, his crooked smile tugging at the left side of his mouth. “Now, who’s ready to go first?”
No one moves. Even Finn’s managed to stop fidgeting, hands clenched tight on his knees like he’s holding himself still by force.
Then finally, Quinn clears his throat and this time the class actually hears him. "Cadet Malric. Cadet Renn. Front and centre now please.” Talen doesn’t look at him, but Quinn rushes on. “Malric is our top Earth student. While Renn, Water, is highest in precision. A balanced match. A strong start.”
Malric gets up first, like he’s been waiting for this—tall, broad, built like he could break bones without trying. Renn, on the other side of the room, rises slower, thinner, slighter. He looks like he should be buried in books, not on a combat platform.
I catch Quinn watching them, eyes bright like he's proud of his balanced match, like he doesn’t see how uneven this looks. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. But then again, Ezzy, she definitely isn't the type who can throw a punch either. But apparently, she’s one of the best in this class...
“Oh, this is so fucked.” Finn leans over, voice low. “Malric’s been waiting to tear Renn apart since that Ravenscross assignment last semester. Made him look like a total fool in front of those officers... bet he’s been dreaming about this.”
Ezzy just rolls her eyes and shoves him back. They both look calm, like this is routine. Like watching cadets tear each other apart is just another Monday afternoon.
Me, on the other hand? I’m currently sitting here one second from breaking... Magic crawling beneath my skin—tight, itching, impossible to ignore. Talen might not even have to kill me, I might just explode right here.
No, keep it together. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, let out a slow exhale, and shove every ounce of focus toward the platform below where the two cadets now stand.
“I shouldn’t need to remind you.” Talen turns to the two cadets, voice smooth as glass.
“That once a Demonstration begins, there’s no interference.
Not from cadets. Not from officers. Not from any professors.
You stand alone.” He lets it hang for a breath.
Then: “And while you’re not required to strike to kill… it isn’t against the rules.”
Malric’s grin spreads slow and mean, hands rubbing together like he’s already planned how this ends. Renn swallows hard. The colour drains from his face, but he holds his ground, barely.
“Begin.”
The word has barely left Talen’s mouth when Malric moves—fast and brutal, closing the gap between him and Renn in a blink, muscles twitching as his Threads surge forward from his fingertips, invisible but charged.
Stone groans underfoot as his magic digs in, anchoring to cracks like hungry roots. Grit and dust answer him, rising in the air—small particles pulled loose, twitching as he shapes them into razor-thin shards.
A collective gasp cuts through the theatre, tight and breathless.
Renn jerks back. Fingers clawing at the air, scrambling for moisture, any trace he can gather. From breath. From sweat. From the air itself. Beads shimmer around him, thin and unsteady.
But he’s too slow.
Malric throws and the first shard hisses as it tears free, cutting the silence like a scream. It slices straight through the watery shield, exploding it on impact. The fragments scatter like rain.
Renn grunts, raw and broken, as he stumbles back, water dripping off him.
Malric doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flinch.
He just pivots, jaw clenched, sweat already tracking down his temple. Threads surge again.
Another shard. Then another. Each one rips from the wall with a sickening shriek of splitting stone and whips through the air.
Renn cries out. A choked sound, more shock than pain, but it turns real fast. He tries again, arms dragging wide as he strains to condense the air, to pull more water. His whole body’s shaking now. The shield forms, but shatters again under Malric’s next throw.
Crack.
One shard slices into his shoulder.
Crack.
Another punches into his thigh.
He screams this time, short and hoarse, then drops to a knee, gasping.
Malric steps in closer.
His fingers twitch, and more needle-thin splinters of dust and wood rip free from the cracks in the wall behind him.
They whistle through the air like broken glass hurled from a slingshot.
Renn lifts one arm, trying to block—
Too late.
CRACK.
He crumples. Gasping, soaked, blood running in thin lines from a dozen small cuts. One arm curled around his ribs, the other twitching uselessly at his side, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls.
Malric finally drops his arms. His Threads snap back into him with an audible whip of force. He staggers, just a step, chest heaving. Face pale, but his eyes gleam, cold, quiet and satisfied.
The theatre stays silent, waiting—and something inside me twists tight.
Someone should move. Someone has to. Help him, do something, anything.
Then Talen steps forward, unhurried and precise, stopping beside the body.
No flicker of concern. No interest. Just a flat, impassive stare, like he’s looking at something broken and mildly inconvenient.
A flick of his hand, and the air shifts.
Talen’s Threads slide into motion lifting Renn’s limp form from the ground like it weighs nothing.
His fingers curl and the air obeys without question.
Renn’s neck snaps with a wet, brittle crack.
His body crumples, drops, dead weight hitting the stone at Talen’s feet with a dull, final thud.
What the—
My stomach lurches, the bitter taste of bile rises in my throat. I’m going to be sick.
I swallow hard and tear my gaze away, searching for something, anything. Beside me, Ezzy staring straight ahead, face pale, lips parted, but not in shock—more like she’s bracing. Like she expected this.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper, voice cracking. “He just killed him. Just snapped his neck like it was nothing...”
“Yeah. Well. You should’ve seen last semester... that’s how I lost my previous roommate.” she replies, unfazed.
I look to Rowan. Finn. The rest of the class. Same thing. Blank faces. No surprise, no fear, just quiet acceptance.
What the hell is this place? I thought Ezzy was sheltered, untouched by pain, by suffering. But I was wrong, she’s seen it, lived it. It’s just been dressed up as tradition. As discipline. As honour. They don’t flinch when someone dies, they flinch when someone hesitates.
“Well?” Talen calls, turning to the room. “Who can tell me what went wrong?”
Hands rise, quick, and more than I expect.
Talen flicks a nod to a male cadet across the room.
“Speed, sir.” The cadet rushes; his body straightens fast—too eager, like he’s certain this is his moment to impress. “Malric was faster. That’s why he won.”
For a beat, Talen just watches him. Arms flexing as the talisman rolls over his knuckles—methodical, mindless—like his hands are moving on autopilot while the rest of him waits to be impressed.
Then, finally—
“No. Speed didn’t win that match. That’s the best you’ve got? You’re second-years. You should know better.” He cocks his head, eyes sweeping the room. “Who else?”
Another hand shoots up across the room. “Strategy, sir? Malric’s was better?”
“No. Wrong again.” His jaw ticks as he slides the talisman back into his pocket.
“Since none of you seem capable of the basic understanding of first-year Thread dynamics, let me enlighten you.” He paces the platform, eyes dragging over the room.
“Malric won because of his emotions. Or rather, because he controlled them. Renn lost because he didn’t.
He rushed. He let fear drive his magic. And when you let your emotions control you, your Threads will fail you. Every. Damn. Time.”
As he punctuates the last word his gaze snaps to mine. The hit of it punches straight through the breath in my chest, tight and sudden. Instinct says look away. I don’t. Can’t. Not with the way he’s holding me there like he already knows what’s crawling under my skin.
My breath catches, snagging on the sudden tension before I can stop it and my Threads flare hot behind my skin. Pulsing through muscle and bone like pressure hunting for a fault line.
Shit, he knows.
He knows I don’t have control.
I clench my jaw, try to steady it, hold it down, but it’s useless.
Fingers twitch against my thigh as the air around them starts to warp, shimmer. I shift in my seat, like the movement might bleed some of it off, might make more room for what won’t settle. But nothing helps and he sees it, the corner of his mouth already curling.
“Record it. Remember it. Don’t repeat his mistake.” He finally turns away. “Next pair.”
Quinn clears his throat, he tries to sound steady, but there's a flicker of nervousness as his eyes cut to Talen. “Umm, Cadet Ryven. Fire Realm, front and centre please.”
The skinny cadet with the toothpick, same prick who shoulder-checked me outside, stands and struts to the platform, cocky as ever.
“Now, who to pair him with…” Quinn hesitates, searching the room, shifting his weight as his fingers twitch at his side.
Talen leans in and murmurs something in his ear, The professor’s face lights up as his gaze shifts towards the back. Towards us.
“Ah, of course,” he notes. “Cadet Caelwyn...”
Ezzy shifts, steady, sure of herself. And for a second, I’m thrown. No fear. No hesitation, then I remember Quinn said she’s one of his best. But still—
“Yes, Cadet Caelwyn,” he continues, “since you were kind enough to introduce me to our newest student, let’s have her join us for this one. I’m very eager to see this potential High Chancellor Merrin speaks so highly of.”
Wait—
What?
The words hit like cold water poured straight into my lungs. Chest locks, breath won’t come. Threads twist, pulse—No. They scream.
Beside me, Ezzy stills. The flush drains from her face. She turns—wide-eyed, stricken—mouthing sorry like it might undo what she’s just done. Like she didn’t just hand me to the wolves.
“Cadet Bloom,” Quinn calls. “Please come join us.”