Chapter Thirteen
Home. That’s the lie I tell myself, just for a breath, I let it settle over me, fragile and warm, like if I hold on long enough, it might stick. That I’m somewhere else, somewhere safe.
But it doesn’t hold.
Not when the rough pillow beneath my cheek is damp—sweat from a night spent turning over and over, chasing sleep that never came. No dreams. No rest. Just the dark weight of everything that happened yesterday clawing at my ribs.
Beneath the blanket, my body aches, from Ryven, from him. I try to ignore it. Pretend it’s just a pulled muscle. A dream. Nothing real. But every time I move, it pulses, sharp and certain, like the memory of his touch is etched into my skin.
Looking for comfort, I drift my hand across the mattress, but already knowing what isn’t there—no Bren, no warmth, no teasing grin to soften the edges. Just cold air and empty space.
And if my body still isn’t convinced I'm not home, the smell of the room seals the deal—dust, old parchment, that faint mildew tang that clings to everything here. But underneath it, something softer. Floral, too sweet to belong.
My eyes snap open.
Grey stone ceiling. Large wooden door. Two desks. And Ezzy—currently perched on the edge of my bed, legs bouncing, sparkly hairpin still in place.
Yeah, a Citadel dorm. Fuck. I’m still here.
“You came back,” her voice cracks, mouth twitching like she’s fighting a smile, and losing. Then, more serious: “What happened?”
The words slice through me, jarring and sudden. Shit, what do I say? I just want to get through today without screwing up more than I already have. Survive the fallout from last night, but do it without losing Ezzy’s trust in the process.
She helped me last night. She didn’t have to, but she did.
And I need people here to survive, but right now, I don’t know which answer gets me there.
The rough blanket catches on my skin as I sit up, dragging it around my shoulders to buy some time.
I could just tell her. About Talen—the Nightrose. That I saw him in the tunnel last night, and instead of killing me, he offered a truce and that I’m still half-convinced he’ll gut me anyway. Be honest for once, start this thing off right.
But the lie’s already there, forming on my tongue like muscle memory. And yeah, I feel like shit about it. But Talen made it clear: if I talk, I die. And if he found out she helped me? Maybe she could too.
I don’t want her tangled in this. Don’t want her poking around, thinking she can help. I just need her to back off before either of us get hurt. So what choice do I have?
“I hit the Wards and couldn’t get through,” I lie, voice tight. “Played it safe and came back.”
Ezzy hesitates, just for a second. Her eyes narrow, but then her expression shifts, soft again.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I know how much you wanted to get home.
Out of here...” She glances away, then back, trying for casual.
“I guess that means I’m stuck with a roommate for the rest of the month.
.. But I’ll get over it.” A forced shrug, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
“Just, are you not going to try again?” Her voice lowers. “What about Talen?”
“Well, Merrin said one month. Then I get the journals and I’m gone.
How hard can it be to survive here for a month?
” I try to sound optimistic. I don’t pull it off.
“And as for Talen—” I drop my voice, eyes on the floor, not on hers.
“Maybe he’s all talk. He’s had chances to kill me, hasn’t taken them.
So I’m calling his bluff. I’ll just stay out of his way, keep my head down, and get through this. ”
The blanket scratches as I tug it tighter around me, like it might shield me from the guilt pressing into my ribs. Lying to her face shouldn't feel this easy.
My eyes lift, she’s looking at me, head tilted. Does she believe me? She doesn't look convinced...
Fingers twitch, the rhythm in my chest kicking sharper as that low hum gathers beneath my skin. raw magic that’s been recharging, building overnight, starts to edge closer to the surface. Shit. I grind my teeth and dig my nails into my palms, willing the pressure rising in my chest to settle.
“Is it always this bad in the morning?” Ezzy asks, watching me fidget with the blanket like it’s a distraction I don’t realise I’m using.
"Only when I haven’t had a chance to release it," I say, shifting under the blanket. "It builds overnight, always has. As long as I let it out first thing, I’m fine. But if I don’t?
Let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be around when it hits the edge.
Learned that the hard way, a couple of one-night stands who didn’t leave fast enough.
" A tight breath escapes me. "But here? There’s nowhere to go. Can’t exactly slip out and quietly throw a bunch of magic into the sky without someone noticing and realising just how out of control I am.
And I sure as hell can’t wait until the next time they call me for a Demonstration.
" The thought turns sour in my mouth. "God knows what would happen if I waited that long. "
Ezzy hums under her breath, heels tapping the floor as she scans the room. Then her eyes spark wide.
“Wait... hang on,” she drops to her knees beside the bed, tugging her pack forward and unzipping it with a determined grunt.
“I know it’s in here somewhere…” She digs faster, muttering to herself, then lets out a frustrated huff and flips the whole pack upside down.
Pens and quills spill out across the floor in a tangle of chaotic colour.
“Yes! Here it is,” she calls, breathless and triumphant, holding something out in her open palm.
I stare at it. “You’re kidding.”
Ezzy drops down beside me with a huff, the object still clutched in her hand.
Small, wooden, and clearly hand-carved, a fucking duck.
My brow arches, I can’t help it.
“Finn made it for me last semester. I get really jittery before exams, and sometimes my Threads act up. He made me this, it really helps.”
I stare at the duck. Has she gone mad?
“He’s stupidly talented,” she continues, oblivious to my judgement. “Give him a knife and a block of anything, and he’ll carve a masterpiece. This is what he really wants to do. But his parents shoved him into the Citadel, like all his brothers.”
I squint at the bird in her hands. “You think a wooden ornament is going to help me control my Threads?”
“Oh, stars, no. Not the duck. That’d be ridiculous.
” She laughs. “No, it’s the magic. The magic inside that Finn threaded into it.
That’s his real skill. It doesn’t drain you or mute anything.
It just calms the edges, keeps your Threads from turning.
.. feral, when they’ve been bottled up for too long.
” She grins, eyes wide and bright as she holds it out towards me.
“I used to lose it on him and Rowan every exam cycle. No one got hurt, but... they definitely started avoiding me. This fixed it.” She shifts closer. “Try it.”
I eye the duck, it’s ridiculous, a carved bird isn’t going to fix me.
At first I hesitate. I don’t want to owe her more than I already do. She helped me last night and she’s still here. That should be enough...
“Ezzy…” I shake my head, fingers laced tight to stop the twitch. “You don’t have to try and fix me.”
“I’m not.” She says it soft, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Just try it.”
This is so bloody stupid. But she’s watching me like it might work. Like I might work. And I’m just so damn tired of feeling like a ticking bomb.
So I reach out and take the duck.
It’s warm. Warmer than it should be. The wood fits straight into my palm like it’s been waiting and then the moment my fingers close around it, everything… shifts. Not a jolt. Not a dramatic snap of magic. Just… a quieting. Like someone exhaled deep inside my chest and took my storm with them.
The pressure that’s been building behind my ribs softens. My thoughts don’t race. My Threads don’t claw and for the first time in hours, days, I feel still.
I blink and look down at the wooden ornament, its carved feathers rough under my thumb.
It's stupid. It’s ugly as sin, but it’s working... Fuck, Finn is good at this.
“It won’t last forever,” Ezzy says beside me. “Maybe a day, max. Best to keep it close.” She pauses. “It’s an easy fix for now. Learning to actually control your magic? That’s probably going to take longer than a month.”
Yeah, no kidding. Not that I think I’ll ever actually get control of it. Still, I take a breath, eyes locked on the duck like it might vanish if I stopped watching it.
She didn’t have to help, didn’t have to be kind. And I’ve done nothing to deserve it, especially not this morning.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Of course. It’s what friends do.”
I nod once.
The duck’s warm in my hand, my Threads are quiet. But the lie between us? It’s already starting to itch, and I’m not sure how long it’ll stay buried.
Every day for the rest of the week, I wake up and grab the fucking duck. Not because I believe a chunk of wood can save me. Not even because it soothes the storm snarling under my ribs—though it does, in ways that still surprise me.
I grab it because it’s the one thing I have control over right now.
At least last week I knew what I was dealing with, danger I could see. Danger I could measure and try and react to.
This week? Nothing. No direct confrontations. No follow-up. No word from anyone. It’s too quiet. And quiet, in a place like this, doesn’t mean safe. It means I don’t know what’s coming. And not knowing is worse.
So I grab it. Wrap my fingers around the worn, ridiculous shape. Feel the wood settle against my palm like a sigh. And breathe.
The first day, it barely touched the edge. I needed it three, sometimes four times—just to keep from boiling over. But by Thursday, two small grips in the morning seemed to keep the worst at bay.