Chapter Twenty-One
Ezzy stands before her name has finished echoing around the hall, her hands smoothing out her uniform like she's about to defend a thesis, not walking toward a slaughterhouse.
I look over at Finn, and I see it in his face—same as mine.
That sick, cold feeling twisting through our guts.
I don't know what's more painful, the fact that she doesn't realise what's coming, or that we do.
But as she goes to move, his arm snaps out and catches her.
Not rough, but fast, too fast to be anything but fear.
“Finn, it’s fine,” she says, as if she’s comforting him.
But his hand remains clenched around her forearm, jaw moving like he’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out.
“You know the rules.” She gently pulls from his grip.
“And I don’t have any issues with Elijah.
At worst, I’ll get a few bruises. Rowan always says I need to toughen up. ”
Finn knows, of course he does, a Citadel boy through and through, raised on these rules, drilled on what happens next. He knows he can’t stop her. Not without making it worse. She gives him another quiet look, a small smile, just a flicker of reassurance she doesn’t quite feel. I’ll be fine.
For a second, he doesn’t move. His fingers stay curled around her like his body hasn’t caught up to his brain. Like if he just holds on a moment longer, he can change the ending.
But he can’t.
So he lets her go, slow, reluctant. Her smile stays locked in place, but as she walks past me, I catch the curve of her cheek, the tension she’s trying to hide in her jaw.
She’s nervous.
Of course she is. I see it in the way her fingers twitch at her sides, the way her shoulders pull tight before she forces them down.
My throat tightens as I swallow hard, she doesn’t know what he’s planning, but she knows enough to be scared.
Scared of the bruises. The humiliation. But she thinks that’s the worst of it. And fuck, I wish she were right.
She doesn’t know what’s coming. But I do.
And I’m letting her walk straight into it.
Other than Bren, she's the only person who has ever looked at me like I was worth something. Like I could be better than the person I’ve always run from. And now? Now she’s going to die for believing in me, for helping me.
Bile rises from my stomach, nails almost cutting the skin at my palms now from clenching so tight, I want to grab her and scream don't go.
But my magic slams behind my ribs—erratic, hungry.
Threads wound so tight I can barely breathe without risking a spark.
Crawling up the back of my skull, seizing every thought, unravelling my focus until all I can do is sit there, frozen, as I watch her walk toward the mat.
All sunshine and softness. Straight into the mouth of something that’s going to devour her.
I want to throw up.
All this time, I’ve been avoiding her. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Because I couldn’t bear to lie to her. And still, somehow, I’ve dragged her into this.
Sweet, naive Ezzy. Drawn into the mess of Lyra Bloom.
The chaotic Scraplander girl with too many secrets.
A thorn in everything pure. I knew I should’ve stayed further away.
Kept the walls higher, locked the doors tighter.
Maybe that’s how you protect people—by never letting them close enough to get hurt.
Beside me, Finn’s head is in his hands now. Elbows on his knees, bouncing fast. Like the speed of his movements might make this go quicker. Like maybe if it ends fast, it’ll hurt less.
Fuck, I need to get her out of this. I need to do something. This isn't fair, this isn't just. She doesn't deserve this; it was meant to be me. But I don't know how to fix this, not without breaking any rules or having my magic explode.
On the mat below, Ezzy steps up beside Elijah, her bright blonde hair and sparkly pin catching in the dim light. Shoulders squared, movements precise, like she’s following choreography she’s rehearsed a hundred times, calm on the outside. Composed even. But her fingers still twitch at her side.
She gives Elijah a small smile.
He doesn’t react, just stands there, still and blank, like he’s been given one job.
End her. End me.
“Okay, cadets. Please begin.”
No.
No, no, there’s got to be a way out of this. I just need time—I just need—
Elijah moves.
Fast. Clean. No warning.
I look away before the first punch lands, but sound hits hard anyway, vibrating through me. A sickening, dull thud that lands in the pit of my stomach and won’t come out.
Ezzy gasps.
Bile and magic twist in tandem, snaking up from deep in my gut like they want to split me open. I grab the bench and grit my teeth, jaw locked tight, choking it down.
No. Not here. Not now. I don’t get to panic. I don’t get to lose control. I need my head sharp. I need logic, not this mess of magic and emotion. I need to be the one holding the reins if I'm going to figure out a way to save her.
But my Threads are pounding so fast my head feels like it's going to explode any second from the pressure.
Beside me, Finn’s hands are now tearing at his hair, fingers digging into the messy black strands like pain is the only thing keeping him upright. But his legs, always in motion, have gone still. No bouncing. No movement.
Another crack, another hit.
I don’t see it. Don’t want to.
But I hear the scream, the way air leaves her lungs—shrill, panicked, a noise no one should ever have to make.
Magic sparks, but I lock everything down in one hard clamp, because I can’t lose control. Not here. Not in the Rec Hall. Not with eyes everywhere. Their eyes. His eyes.
This isn't how I save her. Is it?
All I wanted was to sit here. Stay off the mat and hold my Threads together. But it’s not about me anymore. Not about what I want. Not when she’s the one down there, because of me—
Another sickening thud. Another cry. Another wet crack that turns my stomach.
My fingertips start to burn, heat pulsing under my skin—my magic trembling on the edge of exploding out of me.
I can’t just sit here and let this happen, but if I let it go… I don’t know what it will do...
Last time, it wasn’t just Ryven who my magic hurt. It wasn’t just Elijah's sister. It was me. And if anyone catches me interfering, I’ll be reassigned.
That’s the rule, right? Once a Demonstration begins—magical or physical—there is to be no interference.
But if I don’t… If Ezzy dies because I was too afraid to act? I won’t survive that either. Not the guilt. Not the knowing.
I have seconds. Seconds to choose—her life, or mine.
Maybe this time I can control it.
Maybe no one will notice if I step in.
But deep down, I know the truth... that once I release my Threads, there is no pulling them back in. Still, it's the only thing I have...
I risk a glance up. Elijah’s pacing toward Ezzy and I catch a glimpse of her face.
God, no. She’s figured it out. The fear's there now, clear, cutting through the calm she wore like armour. She’s connected the dots.
She knows what this is. And she’s alone down there, with no one moving to stop it. I have to do something, anything—
Elijah lifts his leg. I look away. Ezzy cries out again.
This time, her sound rips through the air and lands hard in my body, like it doesn’t belong to her anymore. Like her pain has been transferred, hammered straight into my ribs. But it’s not just pain I feel.
It’s her fear.
Raw and hot and crawling under my skin like it’s mine, and finally, something inside me ruptures. A pulse surges from deep in my gut—heat and pressure flaring under my skin, pounding like a second heartbeat. The air tastes like copper, and my vision narrows, tightens, tunnels.
No control. No logic.
Just instinct.
Just magic.
Just Ezzy’s cry—and the way my Threads answer it.
The pressure that’s been building all day finally detonating—not clean, not quiet. It tears through me like a tendon snapping, like bone grinding against bone. And suddenly, my magic isn't contained anymore. It’s furious, like wildfire with nowhere to burn.
Maybe they’ll catch me.
Maybe they’ll break me.
Fine, let them.
Just as long as it's not her.
I draw my hands in tight, every muscle braced to hold the storm back for one more second. Just one. Then I fix my eyes.
Not on Ezzy, curled in the corner.
But to Elijah.
His face is still blank, cold, untouched. Like Ezzy’s pain isn’t even real to him. Then I start to uncurl one finger at a time, shaking, deliberate, desperately to keep control. But my Threads respond instantly, not gentle, not subtle. They slide out into the air thick and heavy.
Stalking. Hunting.
My hands tremble under the weight of it, magic crawling down my arms like fire beneath the skin. I grit my teeth, force my thoughts into a narrow channel.
Not everyone, just him.
I’ve done this before, aimed for something impossible. The Ravine. The rope. The wall. This is no different, really, except now, I only get one chance. One shot.
As controlled as possible, I start to will my Threads forward. Not his throat. That’s too obvious. Too fast. No, I aim for the empty space between his ribs. The place where breath lives. And I squeeze.
Every second is a war. The magic wanting to lash out, wants to burn, to break, to unravel everything. But I won’t let it, I squeeze again. Fingers tense like claws at my side.
Elijah falters, just for a second, his step stutters. A normal eye might not catch it—but I do. Hands twitching at his chest, like he's trying to steady his lungs. He coughs. Once. Twice. Not enough to stop the match. But enough to give Ezzy some time.
I lock my jaw, the tension running through my whole body as I hold my breath and squeeze again—coaxing the Threads tighter around his lungs, twisting them like a rope, aiming clean. Precise. Focused.
But they don’t listen.
Under the pressure, they start to grow, expand and multiply. And not just toward him. Toward her.