Chapter Sixteen #2
But I don’t move. My body stays locked, bracing for a second strike that never comes. No claws. No crushing weight. Just the ringing in my ears and the frantic pulse tearing through my chest—too fast, too hard, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact I’m still alive.
God, I should be dead.
But I’m not.
Because something turned it away. Which means someone saw. And someone decided I was worth saving, or worth keeping alive? But I have no idea who’s powerful enough to do that. Or why.
“Lyra!” The shout cuts across the ruined square, followed by the frantic slap of boots against broken stone. Rowan. Relief flickers through me. He skids to a stop in front of me, flushed and breathless.
Then Lucien steps in, and just like that, the flicker of relief dies.
“You okay?” Rowan blurts, eyes scanning me. “I saw it land in the square and then I saw you just sitting there, holding your ankle. I tried to run to you, but the fire, the smoke. Stars, I’ve never seen a real dragon before.”
Shit, does he know I tried to run? Does Lucien?
Threads pulse under my skin, angry and loud, fighting not to be forgotten.
But I can't let it show, and I can't reach for the duck. Not while Lucien is watching me like I’m made of secrets he’s dying to crack open.
So I gather a steady breath and force everything down as hard as I can.
I just need to get up, get the hell out of here and somewhere private, a room with a door, before I blow and I need to get there before Lucien, or anyone else, realises I tried to run.
Pain sears up my leg the second I push weight on to it, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. I sway, ankle useless. Rowan catches me before I hit the stone, grip steady.
“Thanks,” I mutter, barely above a whisper. I lean against him, but it’s not enough. I can’t walk like this.
Lucien steps in, close enough to block the way forward, The stone on his rope necklace swings lazily with the motion.
“Let’s go, Bloom.” Lucien. extending a hand toward me.
Not an offer, a command. “I want to get back to the Citadel, before that thing decides it’s not done.
” My eyes flick from his face to his hand.
“I won’t bite,” he huffs, “I gave Veirmont my word—no one touches you but him, remember.” Then a smile. “Even if I wanted to.”
Well, that’s comforting, but I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want him seeing this. Ankle fucked. Magic barely caged. Still, I can’t walk, and I can’t stay here. Not with that thing possibly circling back for round two...
Pride, pain, or getting dragged. Pick one.
I take his arm, he winks, I don’t bother hiding the eye roll.
Smoke thins as we move through the wreckage, I’m half-limping, half-dragged.
Rowan braced under one arm, Lucien under the other.
Every step sends another bolt of pain lancing through my leg.
My Threads don’t like it, they stir hard, scratching under my skin, agitated and raw, like they’d rather burn me than be ignored.
But I grit my teeth and keep moving.
“Bloody hell.” Rowan’s eyes widen as he looks around the destruction. “How did that thing even get through the Veils—”
“There you fuckers are.” Strannt materialises in front of us, cutting off our path like he owns it. I shift to glance behind him—no Elijah, no Beth, no cabbage-laden Ryven. Maybe one good thing came out of today, maybe Ryven got fried. One can dream.
“Shit, did you see that thing?” Strannt barks, weaselly eyes wide with faux bravado. “I mean, I heard they were massive, but that was a fucking beast... Still, nothing compared to what my father’s seen.”
“Glad to see you too.” Lucien replies, his grip still firmly on my arm. “I was starting to worry after I saw you running off from behind that fountain. Figured maybe you pissed yourself and ran home to change...”
Strannt’s lips twitch, eyes narrowing as his mouth pulls thin. He wants to push back, but Lucien’s still standing tall, towering over him. One look, and Strannt takes a step back.
Then he sees me. Half-limping between them, magic thrashing behind my ribs, pain stamped across every step.
I must look easy. Weak. A perfect landing spot for whatever’s left of his pride.
“Oh. Bloom, you didn’t die.” He sneers. “What a shame. I thought dragons had a special taste for Outerlanders...”
Rowan flinches as my grip tightens on his arm—steadying my balance, steadying the magic clawing to get out. I should keep my mouth shut. Should just get out of here, find some privacy, grab the duck. But I’m too fried to care.
“Funny,” I snap back, no filter left, no control. “I heard they prefer officers. Preferably ones with big mouths and small...” I let my eyes drag down his body. “...hands.”
Rowan stays quiet, but beside me Lucien chokes on a small laugh, brows lifting ever so slightly in something close to approval.
“You’re lucky,” Strannt mutters, stepping towards me, jaw clenched, voice dropping low. “If Veirmont hadn’t already claimed you for himself, that pretty little mouth of yours wouldn’t still be working.”
Don’t rise to it. Just ignore him. We don’t need another target on our backs—not after surviving a fucking dragon. Not after trying to run, trying to escape, and failing. Again. God knows who saw.
Three more weeks, head down, get the journals, get out. Then home, Bren, safety.
But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop...
“Try it,” I spit. “Let’s see how many fingers you get back.”
His weaselly eyes narrow, jaw clenched. I can practically feel his Threads twitching around him, itching to strike. Cowards like him always want to hit something smaller—until someone’s watching. Someone like Lucien. Who’s still braced at my side.
Strannt knows it. He steps back, but not before hissing. “You better watch your back. When Veirmont gets bored of you... We’ll see how brave you are then.”
The pulsing behind my ribs claws harder, but this time I clamp my jaw shut, biting down on the inside of my cheek. If I open it again, I’m not sure what will come out. Besides, Lucien’s already tugging at my side, signalling for us to start moving again.
Leaving the square, we slip down a narrow side alley. Shattered glass litters the path ahead, buildings on either side are scorched and battered, but somehow still holding.
All but one.
One shop is just gone.
Not damaged—erased. Nothing left but blackened beams, splintered stone, and a thick layer of ash choking the air. Whatever it was... it isn’t anymore. The only thing left that even hints that a building was ever here is a single red door, barely upright.
Same shade. Same strange mark etched above the handle.
The tailor shop.
It’s strange. The rest of the alley survived—scarred, yes, but still standing. If it had been a full pass, this whole stretch would be ash. Dragons don’t pick targets, they burn everything...
I look around, but no sign of the shopkeeper. No movement inside.
No sign of Talen.
So many pieces today, none of them fitting. It’s not all random. It can’t be. The dragon, its black eyes, the envelopes. This store, the same one Talen was just in. Something’s going on. I feel it crawling under my skin, heavy.
But I don’t get to stop and dwell. Lucien’s already hauling me forward.
Whatever this is… I’ll figure it out. But not now.
By the time we’re back in the Citadel tunnels, the taste of ash has almost lifted from my tongue, my Threads have settled, just, and my ankle’s loosened just enough that I shrug off Lucien’s arm.
Not because it doesn’t still hurt, but because I don’t want his hands on me a second longer. Pain instantly shoots up my leg, but Rowan catches me, takes the extra weight without a word. I flick him a small smile, he nods back as we keep walking.
God, I thought we’d be there by now, but the tunnel just keeps going. Same damp walls. Same thin air. Over and over. If not for the occasional drip of water or the uneven scuff of our boots breaking the rhythm, I’d swear we weren’t even moving.
But we are.
And every step I take lands heavier. Colder. Each one grinding a little more dread into my spine. Because as much as I want a room, a bed—five goddamn minutes to breathe—I’d still rather be anywhere than this hellhole.
I was so close. I nearly made it out.
If it wasn’t for that apple... and well, the minor inconvenience of a massive dragon showing up, I’d be long gone.
Over the wall, back home, to Bren.
But now? Now I’m being hauled right back into the bleeding heart of the Citadel, like some sick joke they couldn’t resist telling twice.
A jolt shoots up my ankle as it catches a rock, but Rowan’s grip stays firm at my side, keeping me upright. Still, I drop my head, focus on my steps, not the walls, not the stink of old magic—just the rhythm, just the ground. Easier to count steps than look at where we are. Or where we’re going.
Eventually, though, the sound of cadets and officers starts to echo ahead—shouting, boots on stone, doors slamming shut. The tunnel bends and the air shifts—more stale, more damp—then the walls start to widen. A few more steps, and we spill out into a broad, circular chamber.
Lucien keeps walking but Rowan stops short. I brace myself at his side.
It looks like a prison.
Thick stone walls curve in a full ring, broken only by heavy metal doors spaced evenly apart along its circumference.
A few low candles sputter along the edges, their flames throwing long, twitching shadows across the damp floor, just enough to catch the strained expressions on the cadets lined up along the walls.
Backs straight. Faces tight. Officers drifting between them, calling names, pulling them one at a time into the cells.
Everything smells sour. Old. Like mould, sweat and rusted metal.
Something in me kicks off-beat, Threads waking. Shit, what is this place? Are people being questioned? Is this about the dragon?