Chapter Twenty #2
What does is my magic. My Threads are already near boiling point and if they call me down…
I don’t think I’ll be able to contain them.
All I want is to sit here, stay off the mat, and hold it together—without shaking, without snapping, and without letting a single thread slip. Especially not in front of them.
Finn shifts over to make space as I slide in beside him, forcing a breath and unclenching my hands. The crescent marks from my nails are so deep now, they might as well be permanent.
“Sorry I left you back there...” He cracks a finger. “You two looked like you were having marriage issues. Thought I’d give you some privacy.” He lets out an awkward laugh.
Ezzy elbows him, hard, her sparkly hairpin catching the light as she turns.
“Be serious, Finn,” she snaps. “We all know what Veirmont, the Nightrose, is capable of...”
“I know, I’m just saying, if he wanted to kill her, I’m pretty sure he would’ve done it by now.” He turns to me, no trace of a joke in his face, just calling it like it is. “No offence.”
“None taken,” I reply, remembering how easily Talen snapped that cadet’s neck. How easily it could have been mine. Beth said he was putting him out of his misery, doing what no one else would. But still. It was too fast. Too easy. I’ve got no chance against that.
Ezzy scoffs at Finn, then turns toward me, studying my face. She opens her mouth—
Shit, I know what’s coming. Questions. The kind that sound gentle at first, but they dig.
Maybe I just let her ask. See what she wants to say.
Maybe she won’t push too far.... I could skim around the edges, twist the truth just enough to stay safe.
But I saw the note she left me this morning. She wants to talk. Like talk-talk.
And I don’t have the control for that right now, not when we just learnt how to spin magical strings of truth from our mouths. Not when my Threads are twitching under my skin, barely restrained—held down by a pulsing ankle and my last scraps of willpower.
I don’t want to lie to her. God, I hate that I even feel like I have to. But until I figure out what’s happening—what Talen is really playing at—I can’t risk her getting pulled into it. I don't want anyone I care about getting caught in the crossfire.
I need to redirect. Fast. Get her talking about anything else, anything but Talen, or the interrogation cell, or dragons.
“Why are there no female officers or professors around here?” I blurt.
Finn snorts. “None are good enough.”
Ezzy’s head whips around to him. “Oh, that’s rich. Didn’t stop you from drooling over Beth’s brilliant abilities the other day.”
And they’re off. Perfect.
They keep bickering—snarky comments flying fast—but somehow, between the insults, Ezzy manages to lecture me on the Citadel’s gender benefits.
Apparently, most women, if not all, end up as researchers. She says that the Citadel wants to help cultivate harmony. Stability. So if you’re female and in a relationship by graduation, you’re encouraged to settle down and have kids.
They even incentivise it, housing, childcare, a neat little future with soft corners. But you don’t get to be an officer. You don’t teach. You get steered into research, praised for your nurturing priorities, and left to raise the next generation of soldiers.
A shiver slips down my spine before I can stop it, magic flaring, anger prickling just beneath my skin. I try shifting in my chair, the cold wood biting into the back of my thigh, but it doesn’t help.
Ezzy thinks it’s thoughtful, of course she does. The Citadel’s poison always goes down easier when it tastes like stability. Said it helps keep families together. Said it’s about protecting what matters.
But really it’s about control. Breed loyalty, raise obedience. Indoctrination by bloodline. Because the offspring? They’re already guaranteed places at the Citadel the moment they’re born. Raised inside the system, shaped by it from the first breath.
But not before graduation. Oh no, until then, they don’t want any accidents that could get in the way of their process. So they ever so kindly spike our food with birth control... I practically choked at that one.
Finn jumped in with a cheeky grin to let us know he wasn’t complaining about that rule, but Ezzy wiped the look clean off his face by pointing out he’d need to actually be sleeping with someone to get them pregnant.
“That’s why we have the Union Clause,” she says, turning away from Finn.
“It protects vital relationships. So after graduation, people can stay together and have families, without getting split up. It’s one of the oldest rules, and one they’ll never break.
Once you’re in an open, committed relationship, they won’t separate you.
They can’t.” She smiles a little, eyes distant, like she’s seeing it already.
The house. The safety. The neat little life she’s been told to want. “It’s kind of... romantic.”
Romantic? It’s a breeding program, livestock control. A way to ensure loyalty from the womb. God, but she doesn’t seem to know the difference.
“Look who it is,” Finn interrupts, leaning across me and nodding toward the mat below.
Ryven strolls in like he’s late on purpose, toothpick dangling from his mouth, flanked by his buddy from yesterday—Elijah, and the girl I nearly choked to death during my first magical Demonstration. The one who, of course, turns out to be Elijah’s sister. Because why wouldn’t she be?
Ryven strolls right up to Strannt. And they laugh. Chatting, grinning. Like they’ve been friends for years.
What the hell?
Yesterday on patrol, they looked ready to strangle each other. Now they’re joking around like old drinking buddies? It doesn’t make sense.
Strannt shifts, just slightly, turns halfway toward the stands and lifts his hand and points. Ryven follows the gesture, his gaze trailing up until it finds mine.
Oh fuck.
No, no, no. They’ve teamed up. They’ve decided to make up and bond over a shared interest—me.
Are you fucking kidding?
The sting returns, sharper this time as I clench, nails cutting into skin like I’m trying to hold the fury in place.
I know exactly what this is, they’ve rigged the matchups for today’s Demonstration. I can feel it. They’re going to randomly pair me with Ryven, let him settle the score. No magic this time, just bare hands, just the mat. And he’s counting on my bad ankle giving him the edge.
Great. My magic’s on the verge of exploding, and now I have to face off with Ryven. Again. With Merrin and Talen both watching.
Okay. Breathe, I can get through this. If I keep the magic locked down, if I don’t snap, I’ll be fine. He’s counting on me being weak. But I watched him yesterday, I saw how slow and out of breath he was when I ran. He didn’t even make it to the square. Beth, yeah, she was fucking fast, but Ryven?
Usually I'd take those odds, under normal circumstances, I’d have this. But these aren’t normal circumstances.
My Threads are already too close to the surface, scratching inside my veins, tugging, coiling, ready to blow.
And this fight?
It’s supposed to be non-magical combat. No Threads, no exceptions. Except mine are already bleeding through. And if I step on to that mat—if I take one hit too hard, push one movement too far—I don’t know if I can stop them from breaking loose.
That’s what scares me. Not Ryven. But what happens if the magic wins. Because if it slips out, if it surges, it won’t just take him down. It’ll take me with it. And maybe everyone standing too close.
“Everyone, please take your seats,” Professor Strannt, Weasel Senior, calls from below as he steps into the centre of the Rec Hall, his Citadel’s signature blue robes a stark contrast against the red mat beneath him.
A cane taps softly with each step, his gait off, uneven. Must be from where his son said he was ambushed by Outerlanders.
Behind him, I spot Ryven and his little entourage, front row, obviously. While Strannt peels off toward the door, where Merrin and Talen are mid-conversation. They stop talking the second he arrives.
“Now, before we begin,” Professor Weasel says, leaning on his cane, “I’ll hand over to High Chancellor Merrin to address any questions regarding the rumours of yesterday’s dragon sighting.”
Rumours?
Are we talking about the same event I barely survived?
Merrin strides on to the mat, his deep red robes the exact colour of the dried blood staining the ground beneath his feet.
“Thank you, Professor Strannt,” he begins, voice calm, almost bored as his eyes roam over us. “By now, I assume most of you have heard that during a routine Air Realm patrol there was an incident involving a dragon.”
Murmurs ripple through the room as Merrin clasps his hands behind his back, pacing the edge of the mat like this is just another lesson. Like, I didn’t almost die yesterday.
“It appears the creature was a black juvenile Daggerhorn, likely disoriented during a migration from the Southern to the Northern Peaks.”
A few cadets nod. Beside me, Ezzy lets out a soft, thoughtful ahhh, like the pieces suddenly click for her.
“As for the Veils,” he continues, “because it was so young, it had not yet developed significant power. That is how it slipped through undetected.”
Bullshit.
That thing nearly took down half a block of the Air Realm.
“Any damage caused was simply the creature attempting to take flight,” he adds. “Officers have already been dispatched to assist with repairs. No one was injured, and no citizens approached the creature.”
Like hell no one was injured. If Talen hadn’t stepped in... If he hadn’t distracted it... And I saw its eyes. It wasn’t lost, it wasn’t confused, it was hunting, targeting. That tailor’s shop, the sign on the door.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t a juvenile or even normal. I grew up in the Outerlands. I know what dragons’ eyes are meant to look like—silver, gold, blue, even red. But black? Black means death. And no one’s saying a goddamn word about it.