Chapter Nineteen
Magic rushes up my spine, flaring like they want to answer for me, but I shift in my seat, fingers digging into my thighs, grounding myself, keeping them locked down just a bit longer till I can find Finn.
Because, shit, I know she means it. Every word. Every String. The one about wanting me dead? True. The one about Ryven? Also true.
But that last one...
Respect.
She means it. And that’s a problem.
Up until five minutes ago, I had Beth boxed up and labelled: Innerlander brat with a vendetta, probably because of something Talen told her, definitely looked like she wanted to throat-punch me every time we crossed paths.
I don’t know what her angle is. Maybe this is just who she is, too blunt to fake it. I could shut her out, stay quiet, keep pretending the safest move is distance...
But she seems close to Talen, I’m sure she knows things I don’t. And I need answers. Answers I’m not going to get by being on the outside of every conversation.
Doesn’t mean I like her, doesn’t mean I trust her. But I need leverage, information, allies, even unlikely ones. So I test her.
“I think you have a resting bitch face,” I say as a string slides off my tongue.
Rougher than hers. A little crooked. But still true.
She grins when it hits so I follow it up with another.
“But I won’t tell anyone I saw you take a shortcut through the tunnels, that you skipped interrogation. ” Another string.
She arches a brow, but doesn’t deny it.
“I think you still smell like the Outerlands.” Her nose wrinkles, then she grins. “But I won’t tell anyone I saw you run.” String.
This time I smile. “I don't think I dislike you,” I reply. String.
Beth’s grin widens, slow and sly, like we’re playing a game no one else understands.
We keep talking for the rest of class. She’s still sharp-edged and sarcastic, but she doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t pretend.
She tells me her mother died when she was a kid. Raised by a stepmother who, by the sounds of it, makes Beth look like the nice one. Didn't think that was possible, but the Truth String held.
I don’t get it. Not really. She doesn’t seem like the type to share anything with anyone. I’ll take it though, if it means I get answers. I just have to keep her talking, to manipulate her so I can get what I want.
But the guilt crawls in. Sour and harsh at the back of my mouth, my Threads rise with it, magic hot and restless. I exhale through my nose, grounding again, trying to stay calm but it’s Ezzy all over again, pretending to connect while quietly digging for leverage.
But this isn't Ezzy, it's Beth. I can use her, right? Although compared to Ezzy, if Beth ever found out, I have no doubt she’d gut me then and there. I haven’t even seen her Threads yet, but something in the way she holds herself tells me I don’t want to.
And still, the other option is to keep my walls up and lose a potential resource?
No, I need answers. It's not about just my survival anymore; it's about the dragon. Something was off; something was wrong. The Outerlands needs to be ready, Bren needs to be ready. If I'm getting out of here in a few weeks, then I'm not only taking the journals but answers too.
So I offer her something back, just to keep the conversation balanced, just enough to keep her talking. Simple safe stuff, like Bren. The dragon’s eye. Nothing that links back to the bigger picture. I keep Merrin, the journals, the truce, quiet. Those are mine.
She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask follow-ups. Just takes it in like it’s not unusual at all. And then she gives me something I was curious about.
Talen.
Information I might be able to use, just enough to step near the edge of his trap. Just enough to let the Nightrose notice me. Take the bait. That’s how the jaws close. That’s how I get the answers I need.
Turns out the reason he was staring at her in the courtyard during the Initiation Brief on my first day is that their families have apparently been trying to arrange a marriage for years.
“They’ve been at it since we were kids. Political nonsense, house alliances, treaties, blah, blah, blah.”
I mean—he’s perfect for her, controlled, strategic, unshakable. Bitch face to match. But still…
“You’d marry Talen?” I question, eyebrows raised, biting back a feeling that definitely isn't jealousy.
“If it helps keep the borders stable and keeps my parents happy? Sure. I could do worse.”
“But he killed a cadet... On the Demonstration floor. Snapped his neck like it meant nothing.”
“The boy was already gone.” She shrugs. “Spine shattered. Bleeding out. No healer could’ve reached him in time, he was in pain.”
“You say that like mercy justifies it.”
“I say it because it’s the truth.” Another String.
“Talen didn’t enjoy it. He just did what needed to be done.
” She pauses. “That’s the problem with him, he’s always the one willing to do what no one else will.
Anyway,” a quick smirk, “he’s not even my type physically.
I’d much rather book out Lucien for a night, if you know what I mean. ”
Yeah, I can definitely picture the two of them going at it… and immediately wish I couldn’t. I shake my head, banishing the image and find something else to talk about quick.
By the end of class, something’s shifted. Beth still unsettles me. She’s blunt, unreadable, and I’d be a fool to think she suddenly wants to make friendship bracelets and whisper secrets.
But, I think I get her now. And worse, she might get me, too. Not just in the surface-level way—but in that quiet, uncomfortable way where someone sees your mess and doesn’t flinch.
And that’s dangerous.
Because when I sat down across from her, I was ready to use her.
She had information, and I was willing to trade civility for it.
Still am. I need answers more than I need allies.
But I wasn’t ready for the rest of it, the honesty, the strange, brutal comfort of trading truths with someone who doesn’t pretend they’re fine.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what she wants from me, or if I’ll ever trust her enough to give her anything real.
But whatever it is, I need to keep it alive. She’s useful. What she said about Talen, I don’t know what to do with that yet. But it’s something.
Plus, she still scares the shit out of me. If she ever decides to tell anyone I ran, I’m screwed. So for now, I’ll keep playing. Keep her close. Keep her talking.
Better a blade at my side than at my throat.
At lunch, I finally catch up with Finn and Rowan in the food hall, lining up to get our daily dose of stale bread and bland broth. Ezzy stayed behind with Holloway, something about extra-curricular Thread credits or something.
I’d be glad to see her, honestly. But I’m also relieved I don’t have to, not yet, at least. Because she wants to talk, and I’m still figuring out which pieces of the truth I can let her see… and now, thanks to Holloway’s lesson, which ones I need to bury so deep even I forget they ever existed.
Plus with my Threads this pissed off, buzzing just under my skin like they’re itching for a fight, I’m not sure I could lie to her anyway. But finally I’m with Finn. I just need him to make me a new duck, fast, before the magic inside me breaks past the seal and tears something loose.
Finn’s tray lands on the table with a loud bash, broth sloshing on to Rowan as he drops into the seat beside us.
My mouth opens, ready to ask about the duck, but I don’t get a word out before he launches into a full-blown interrogation.
Rowan must’ve told him I came face to face with the dragon, because Finn’s already firing off questions like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he stops talking.
How close I got. How big it was. Did it breathe fire? Did it blow anything up?
“The only dragons I’ve ever seen are Rowan’s stupid little models,” he says, barely pausing for second, “so I need you to describe everything.”
He’s halfway through asking about the teeth when Rowan finally looks up, jaw clenched. Something charged passes between them and suddenly they’re at each other’s throats.
I try to keep up, but it’s a mess of half-snarled words and overlapping accusations until I catch the gist: Apparently, Finn thought it’d be a brilliant idea to use a Truth String this morning to confess that he swallowed one of Rowan’s collectible model-sized dragon teeth.
Not lost. Not misplaced. Ingested.
Rowan had a full labelled set, and Finn, in a moment of what he described as “boredom and dental exploration,” decided to play surgeon. Now a rare model version of a tooth from a Red-spined Nosehorn, mint condition, is somewhere in his lower intestine.
When I ask why, Finn cracks his knuckles and shrugs. “Just a routine cleaning that went a little wrong.”
“A little wrong?” Rowan snaps. His face goes red, actually red, I’ve not seen him this pissed yet. But he doesn’t stop, just barrels on, and they’re off again, voices rising, talking over each other, saying nothing that helps.
Shit, I don’t have time for this. Not their bickering. Not the spiral. And definitely not the way my Threads are clawing now, scraping at my insides like they’re eager to throw themselves into the mess too.
So I cut in—voice tight, polite, barely hanging on—and ask Finn if he can make me a new duck.
His gaze drops from Rowan to my hands, still shaking under the table. Brow lifts and says the carving won’t take long. Hell, he could toss me a block of wood now if I don’t care how it looks.
But Lacing it with his Threads... that’s the problem. That takes time. Few days, maybe—three, if Rowan ever shuts up about the bloody dragon tooth.
He asks if that’s okay.
I could tell him no fucking way. That I need it now. That every second, my Threads buzz harder—heat curling under my ribs like a warning flare.
But I don’t want them to see how close I am to losing it.
Don’t want to admit that something as stupid as a missing bird is the only thing standing between me and a full-blown magical breakdown.