Chapter Eighteen
Lungs tired, ankle burning, I burst into the lecture theatre—already packed by the time I get there. I’m still half-running when I hit the doors, chest tight, heat prickling down my spine.
It’s the first Thread Theory class of the semester. Ezzy probably sprinted down here at dawn, armed with colour-coded quills, already halfway through next week’s reading, while I, on the other hand, overslept.
I'm running late, sure, but the only thing that matters right now is finding Finn and getting a new duck before my magic finishes what yesterday started and turns me into a walking time bomb.
The itch is deep now, the kind that starts beneath the sternum and builds slow.
Weird thing is, even though my magic’s waking, it feels... sluggish. There’s definitely a tantrum brewing, it always does, but it’s not the full-blown meltdown I expected after yesterday’s firestorm.
My ankle throbs as I step deeper inside, scanning the crowd for Finn. Definitely not ideal for Non-Magical Combat this afternoon.
Like all the halls, the room fans out in steep amphitheatre rows. Everyone’s in fresh black uniforms, it smells like pressed laundry and old books, with just a trace of leather and nerves.
Ten rows up, right-hand side, I catch a flash of Ezzy’s hair. But no Finn. Shit.
Hate to admit it, but I actually kind of missed her this morning. Talking too fast, asking too many questions, filling up the space with something other than my own thoughts. Would’ve helped. Would’ve been grounding. Especially after last night’s nightmares.
Same as always, him, me, the tunnels. Except now it’s more vivid. Like my brain’s decided it’d be fun to start stitching fantasy to yesterday’s memory.
A spark flares deep, my Threads, pressure building. But no, now that I’m awake, I get to take the reins.
So I shove the images back and grab for something solid.
The note in my pocket.
Left by my bed this morning, folded neat, six plain words: We need to talk. After class. No stars, no hearts. Just Ezzy’s careful handwriting, stripped of its usual enthusiasm. That’s what makes it worse.
What the hell am I supposed to tell her? I’ve already lied about the truce. Talen made it crystal clear—tell no one. But Ezzy’s not stupid. She’ll ask. About yesterday, about the dragon.
Does she get the edited version? Just the bits that sound like training accidents and bad luck? I don’t even know what any of it means yet. And I don’t want to drag her into something I can’t untangle. Rowan said she needs protecting. But if I say nothing, and it gets her hurt?
Maybe she won’t ask... I just keep my mouth shut long enough, just enough, so I can figure it out before she even realises. No lies, just avoid the truth... She’ll forgive that. Right? She has to.
A hard knock to my shoulder, sharper than necessary. Ryven. Toothpick wedged between his teeth, grin already loaded with trouble. He doesn’t go around me, just goes through me. Then stops, just long enough to drag his shit-eating eyes over me.
“I got plans for you later, Outerlander.” His mouth curls. “And lucky for me I’ve got a front row seat.”
A hard pull clenches through me, magic spiking sharp.
God, I want to take that toothpick and shove it through his eye. But I don’t. Because I need to find Finn. Because I need a new duck. Because I need to trap Talen and drag some answers out of his beautiful fucking mouth.
I swallow hard. Smile.
“Can’t wait.” I reply. “Hope your plans go better than yesterday. Beth had you squealing like a kicked hog.”
Ryven steps forward, my fist curls, then—
“Oh, what a pleasure, welcome, Cadet Bloom.” The voice is dry as parchment.
I turn back to the doorway behind me to find an aged professor in deep blue Citadel robes and a long, draping hat of soft fabric, the same colour as the robes, stepping through.
He’s short, bone-thin, and honestly looks like one stiff breeze could knock him into the afterlife.
If someone told me he was one of the stone fixtures lining the hall, I’d believe them.
Movement behind me, Ryven slipping off, coward.
“Such a pleasure to finally meet Alinor’s daughter.” The professor’s eyes are bright despite the lines carved deep into his face, the soft folds of his hat dipping as he inclines his head. “Merrin told me you accepted his little... proposition. I was glad to hear it.”
I shouldn’t be surprised he knew my mum. The man looks like he’s been teaching here since the walls were built; he probably taught her himself. But if he knows about Merrin, does he know about the journals? Has Merrin told anyone el—
“I remember her at your age,” he goes on, like old people do when they think they’re being charming. “Brilliant. Fearless. Unstoppable.”
I shift my weight, magic stirring under my skin. I don't want this right now. I want to move, find Finn and sit down before I draw any more unwanted attention.
“I’m sorry about the fire. Such talent, taken far too early. And I’m sorry she left you so young. But what a beautiful woman you’ve become. You’ve got her eyes.” A pause. “Let’s see if you’ve got her gifts, too.”
Gifts? Is that what we’re calling it now? Wonder if she ever sat in this room, hands shaking, teeth clenched, fighting the same itch to burn it all down.
Fingers tap against my thigh, restless. I’ve never been one for sentimental speeches, especially when I’ve got better things to do than get pulled into a heart to heart with a talking relic.
“Thank you,” I murmur, already shifting my weight toward the aisle. “But I should really find a seat before class starts.”
He seems to catch the edge in my tone, but he just smiles, genuine, no expectation behind it, and nods before turning to step on to the raised platform.
I don’t move, not right away. Just keep searching the room until I finally spot Finn, he’s tucked at the very back with Rowan, holding one of Rowans books above his head like a child begging for attention.
Rowan, naturally, acts like he doesn’t exist. Eyes on the page, calm as ever, like there isn’t chaos unfolding two feet away.
“Good morning, second-year cadets.” I jump at the professor’s voice behind me. He’s already at the lectern, his blue soft, slouched hat settling unevenly against his shoulders, book open, addressing the class. “I’m Professor Darwin Holloway. Please take your seats, and we’ll begin Thread Theory.”
The room starts to still, then a small, deliberate cough cuts through the quiet. I glance back. Holloway’s looking at me, so is everyone else.
Magic jolts, flashing down my arms like live wire under the skin—sudden and too close to snapping.
Shit, don’t lose it now. Not here. Not now.
Not with the whole damn room watching. Eyes scanning fast, I clock an empty space near the front and move.
I move before I can think, fast, focused.
My bag hitting the floor with a heavy thud as I drop into the seat hard, lungs still ragged from the hallway sprint.
.. and everything else I’m trying not to feel.
Then I turn.
And there she is.
Perfectly perched to my right, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect sneer already forming. Beth Scar slicing clean from brow to eye, like someone decided even her flaws should be beautiful.
Perfect. Fucking. Perfect.
“A brief note before we start.” Holloway’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, dry. I’m not even sure the back row can hear him, but he doesn’t raise his voice; heads still turn, bodies lean forward. “Many of you will have heard by now of a dragon breach in the Air Realm yesterday.”
Low murmurs break out across rows, my gut twists. I glance toward Ezzy, then Finn and Rowan.
Do they know I was there? Has Rowan told them everything? But the crush of students blocks everything. Just heads and uniforms and flickering tension.
“I do not have the full details yet,” he goes on, calm like he’s reading a shopping list. “However, I’ve been assured Professor Merrin will address any questions this afternoon.”
The murmurs swell, louder now, unease rising, same as my Threads, hot and restless, clawing up my throat like they’re desperate to remind me what I’m trying to forget. Black plates, jagged and shifting, sliding out of the dark. The smell—sulphur and blood scorched into metal. And that eye.
Dark. Endless. Hollow.
A shiver rips through me before I can stop it.
I don’t look at her. But I feel Beth’s eyes on me, sharp as blades, just like that scar of hers. Fuck. She saw the dragon, she saw me run. Will she tell anyone? Has she already told anyone?
“I am told, however,” Holloway continues, “that there’s a simple explanation and no cause for panic. So until then I’ll need your full attention, because today we begin our study of Truth Strings.”
A breath, and then just like that, the room settles. Holloway says it’s fine, so apparently the giant death lizard that tore through the Air Realm yesterday is nothing to lose sleep over.... Sure. Why the fuck not. Weirder stuff has been happening around here. I shouldn't be surprised...
“Now,” he says, pacing the platform, blue robes trailing behind him, every step as calm as his voice.
“Last year, you would have been introduced to the foundations of Threads, how each of us is born with them, though they remain dormant unless we learn to listen. You also would have learned that our Threads connect us to elements in the physical world. That they allow us to influence them. Shape them. And that depending on the Realm of your birth, you each hold a natural affinity towards one: Air, Fire, Water, or Earth.”
His voice never rises, but the quiet carries. No one speaks. Even Beth is still. But I can’t focus, my mind’s too loud, my magic worse.
“At the Citadel,” he notes, “we begin by honing that single dominant Thread. In time, some of you may learn to listen to a second. Very few will ever hear a third. Professor Merrin is among those rare exceptions.”
A hand lifts from the centre row. He turns and nods in approval, for them to speak.