Chapter Fourteen #2
Beside him, Strannt’s smile spreads slow and sour as he watches Ryven walk toward him, like he’s already working out where to crack him open and how to stack the pieces after.
“You’re fucking lucky Veirmont isn’t here,” Lucien adds, louder now, dragging all our attention back. “Last cadet who showed up late... no one’s seen them since. Veirmont doesn’t just follow the Codex. He breathes it.”
I risk a glance at Ryven. For a second, he meets my eyes. His mouth tightens around his toothpick, but he looks away. Yeah. He knows. He’s not getting near me today, not with Strannt breathing down his neck.
“Don’t worry, Bloom,” Lucien adds, not missing a beat.
“You won’t be alone today either. Veirmont’s made it very clear you’re only his to enjoy.
So I’ve been strictly ordered to make sure no one gets to play with you before he does.
” He tosses a loaded glance at Ryven, then lets it settle back on me.
Slow. Smug. “Guess that means I’ll be your shadow for the day. ”
Fuck. So much for staying low and avoiding trouble.
Movement flickers ahead—Beth turns, flashes me that same slow, bitchy smile. My jaw locks. Magic flickers, dull and distant thanks to the bloody duck.
I want to say something—hell, even an eye roll would feel good. But I don’t. Because attention is currency here. And I can’t afford the cost. Not today. Not with all three of them already eyeing me like I’m the day’s main event.
So I grit my teeth, face forward and follow Lucien as we head out.
The smell hits first—fresh-cut grass, crushed mint, chimney smoke.
It clings to the Air Realm’s alleys, cool, sharp, surgically clean.
Every stone scrubbed, every line too straight.
Just like it’s always been. Like the whole realm was built to convince you everything’s fine.
Polished lies and curated comfort, that’s all this place is.
Still, it’s funny how fast some things change. Last week I was here stealing Spice for Rhiann, apples for Bren, walking these same streets like I didn’t have a care in the world.
Now I’m marching for the same system that bled us dry, wrapped in their colours, pretending I belong.
What a joke.
Air catches in my throat, tight and bitter. Lucien’s behind me, I can feel him. That stare. Heavy and constant, like it’s crawling up my spine.
I just want to be back home, over that wall, away from his eyes, and out of this goddamn white uniform.
But wanting doesn’t change anything.
My fingers curl tight around the strap of my pack. Three more weeks, stay in control. Avoid attention. That’s the plan. That's the deal. That’s the only way through, to leave with the journals alive.
“Keep up,” Strannt snaps from up front as Ryven drags his feet beside him, shoulders hunched under the weight of a crate of cabbages, of all things.
At least I don’t have to worry about Ryven today. Strannt’s made him the group mule—loaded with gear, reports, and produce like this is some sad market run. You can tell he’s one second from losing it, but his jaw stays locked tight. Too proud to complain, too smart to push back.
Just behind them is Beth, she’s clearly enjoying the show, but she keeps glancing back at me with that same cold and dismissive look.
What the hell is her problem? We’ve barely spoken, and somehow she’s already decided I’m the enemy.
Elijah tries to be more subtle, but I still catch the quick side-eyes. Not constant, just enough to make it clear I’m on his list for god knows what, too. Maybe just existing...
One of Ryven’s cabbages slips loose, hitting the ground with a wet thud. He stoops to grab it, face flushed, beside me Rowan snorts under his breath like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all week.
A woman in silk sidesteps it and dips her chin as we pass, elegant, practiced. Not fear, more approval. Like we’re ornaments in some parade she helped fund. A few passing men do the same, tailored coats, polished shoes, eyes bright with admiration.
But not all of them are so nice.
Further down, a one-armed baker—his right sleeve pinned tight against the stump—keeps his gaze narrow and locked on me, shoulders stiff. Not fear in his eyes, not awe either. Just quiet, deliberate contempt.
I know, because I know that look. I’ve worn it more times than I can count.
Only now, I’m the one it’s aimed at.
My throat pulls tight, like I’ve swallowed glass. Shoulders hitch a fraction before I force them level again, like my posture alone can defend against what I’m wearing.
I want to tear this uniform off, scream that it’s not me. But I don’t, I can’t, because the second I flinch, the second I break patrol—Lucien will see it.
So I lock it down, pull the reaction tight inside me, and keep walking.
As we turn down a narrow side street my boot catches on something soft. Tattered flyers litter the cobblestones, scattered like the autumn leaves. Rowan bends to pick one up, expression unreadable as he turns it over in his hands.
SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOUR?
LOYAL CITIZENS REPORT.
THE CITADEL PROTECTS.
No whisper goes unheard. No act unseen.
Rowans eyes flick to mine and for a second, I swear he looks exactly how I feel—like he’s not buying this bullshit either. But it’s gone too fast to be sure. Whatever was there, vanishing, but he still holds my gaze.
“So, you mentioned your mum before,” he notes as we pause outside a fishmonger’s stall, where Strannt has planted himself—circling, demanding permits, sniffing fish like a weasel that smells treason under the ice. “But what about your dad? He never tried to keep you out of this?”
Behind us, Lucien exhales hard and drops on to a nearby barrel. One hand grips the stone at his neck, thumb dragging over the edge in slow, restless loops. Not idle. Not calm. Just pressure building, louder with every second Strannt fucks around.
Turning back to Rowan, he’s still looking at me, I swallow hard, and for a second, I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t meant to share that much after the Demonstration, I was a total emotional mess. Hell, I nearly told them about the fire...
If I share too much, I risk making myself vulnerable.
But if I don’t, I could lose potential allies.
And Rowan, there’s something about him. The way he watches without prying, just quiet and curious.
Pale skin, white-blond hair falling into his eyes, soft in a way that reminds me of Ezzy.
Maybe it’s stupid but I don’t pull away.
“Well…” I say, “he wasn’t around much... considering he died before I was born.” Rowan opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can apologise. “Don’t. It’s fine. I’m fine. It was a long time ago, scars healed. Besides, he was an Outerlander and apparently a total prick.”
A sharp bark from behind cuts through the moment, Lucien’s voice edged with impatience, shouting at Strannt to hurry the fuck up. Strannt waves him off without looking, all puffed-up authority, claiming his father told him to personally inspect this guy’s stall like it’s some top-secret mission.
I take the interruption for what it is, a clean exit ramp before I end up handing Rowan my entire life story.
“Anyway,” I mutter, shifting gears hard. “What’s your deal? With the Citadel, I mean. Why’d you enlist?”
He pauses, brow lifting. Then, with a shrug: “I never wanted to enlist.” No self-pity.
Just fact. “Believe it or not, I wanted to work with kids. Still do. My mum was a teacher. I figured I’d follow in her footsteps.
Basic magic, teach little ones to read their Threads.
I always thought I’d stay out of this stuff, live somewhere quiet, adopt some children of my own. ”
His voice catches, just for a second, almost too soft to notice. Then it’s gone.
“Ezzy’s my cousin.” He continues. “But she’s more like a little sister to me.
My parents also died when I was young, her family practically raised me.
We grew up together. She’s always had her eye on the Citadel’s Threads research program.
Brilliant with her magic since we were kids, flawless academic track record. So I wasn’t worried about that...”
He exhales once, eyes flicking towards Strannt.
“It was everything else, everyone else. I tend to think more... long-term than her, unless it’s grades.
But the Citadel isn’t just tests and lectures, it’s ruthless.
And Ezzy… she still thinks everything broken can be fixed.
” There's a subtle crack in his voice. “So I enlisted the same year. To keep an eye on her. Help prepare her. Make sure she actually graduates.”
Beside us, Lucien throws another jab toward Strannt, voice laced with frustration. We both flinch; I’d nearly forgotten he was even there.
So that’s how Ezzy’s survived this place. With all her sunshine smiles and textbook optimism. Rowan.
For a moment, I don’t move, caught off guard by how honest he is. With me. An Outerlander he owes nothing to. I don’t get him. That kind of openness... it throws me off balance.
“Why are you telling me this?” I question, eyes narrow.
He just shrugs again, casual, confident. “I told you, I’m a good judge of character. And you seem… honest. Blunt, yeah, but honest. And you’ll do right by Ezzy.”
Guilt creeps in fast, thick and sour in my chest. I look away before it starts writing itself across my face. Grasping for the nearest conversational exit, I blurt, “So, what’s her deal with Finn?”
A corner of his mouth lifts “That’s... complicated.”
“So they’re fucking?”
He drops his head back and laughs, an actual laugh. Full, real and startling. It’s the first time I’ve seen him crack that stoic shell since I got here.
“No.” He grins. “And that’s the bloody problem.”
“Strannt!” Lucien’s shout cracks through the alley like a whip. “Enough with the fucking fish! Either you’re done or I make you done!”
Strannt—who’s still holding a fish like it might confess a Treaty Infringement—stiffens, shoulders jerking like a dog yanked by his owners leash. Whatever smug retort he had brewing dies fast.
“We’re moving,” Lucien’s already waving the group forward, and just like that we’re cadets back on patrol again.
Because for half a second, I’d almost forgotten.
What I’m wearing, what I’m doing here. What I’ve agreed to become.
Rowan walks behind me, quiet again, but something’s shifted.
I don’t just tolerate his company anymore, I actually seem to enjoy it.
And not just because he’s still a convenient wall between me and Lucien.
Didn’t see that coming. Liking him, even a little? Yeah... that’s new. Maybe today won’t be complete shit.
We keep walking as the alley ends and we spill into a wide, sun-bright square. Market stalls crammed edge to edge, canvas flapping, herbs dangling from twine.
Strannt’s already across the other side, running his mouth at another poor merchant. Voices rise, hands start moving. Lucien shoves past all of us, sharp elbows and sharper curses, muttering to someone behind us about keeping an eye on us while he cleans up Strannt’s shit—again.
I take a step forward but the smell hits hard. Rosemary, lemon peel and clove. Too familiar, my stomach turns, I know this place...
Three stalls down from the apothecary, and there it is. Same crooked awning. Rust-red canvas, faded at the edges. Shelves lined with bright powdered Spice, all gleaming like they’ve been waiting for me.
I’ve never come from this direction before. Didn’t realise we were so close.
“Everything alright?” Rowan asks, noticing my hesitation.
“Yeah... maybe a stone in my boot or something. You go ahead, won’t be a minute.”
Rowan watches me a second longer than I’d like, but then gives a small nod and turns to follow the others into the square, toward the shouting match that's quickly turning physical.
I take a breath, trying to gather myself. But the smell’s hard to ignore—same stall where I stole two apples last week. One for me, one for Bren...
I step back before I can stop myself.
Then the air shifts. Smoke. Leather. The scent wraps around me as a tall, dark shadow slices across the stone, swallowing the light.
“Going somewhere, Thorn?”