Chapter Twenty-Seven
One weekend. One fucking weekend. That’s all I had left. One more fake date with Talen, grab the journals, see what answers I can get, stay under the radar, and disappear—clean. Quiet. No more blood. I was so damn close.
But one second I’m holding a sketchbook and the next, I’m thrown into a fistfight with half the Citadel watching.
Strannt’s weaselly eyes gleaming at me, bloodthirsty, and Talen shirtless, towel on one shoulder, arms crossed—grinning on the sidelines like he’s been waiting for this.
But I can’t look at him. Not when Strannt steps forward.
“Try not to cry when you hit the mat,” Strannt sneers.
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know if I can take him. Because I don’t know the rules anymore. The Codex says no combat outside of Demonstrations, unless it’s training. I guess Talen thinks this counts as training, but one look at Strannt and I know he sees it too. This isn’t practice.
Fuck, none of this was supposed to happen, I was almost out.
Is this all part of his plan? Talen said he wanted me alive but now he’s planted me here like a pawn on his board, and I walked right into it. My fists curl, and Strannt grins like he smells fear.
“Come on, Bloom.” He challenges. “Thought you Outerlanders liked to fight dirty. That’s what your kind did to my father, wasn’t it?”
He moves before I can respond—quick, hard. I twist, barely dodge the first strike, but the second slams into my ribs. Pain detonates in my chest like a spark catching dry leaves. I grunt and stumble back two steps, boots slipping.
The crowd erupts. Not in surprise. They wanted this.
“That one’s for him.” Strannt snarls.
My pulse kicks up, pulsing behind my eyes.
Fuck. I could just drop, let him win, walk out bruised, humiliated—but at least I’d be alive.
Or I could stop hiding and remind them I’m not just surviving.
I’m dangerous. This won’t be clean. Or fair, but neither was what they did to Ezzy, and she deserves someone who will fight back.
Strannt steps back, grinning. He’s quick, I’ll give him that. But sloppy. Loud feet. Magic’s made him soft. Grew up training in the Citadel, where Threads are sharpened like swords, and he fights like someone who’s never had to survive without them.
But me? I’ve bled on cold stone. Fought with fists and fear and broken ribs. In the Outerlands sparring isn’t a sport, it’s survival.
Strannt’s got form but I’ve got instinct.
I sink into stance, muscles coiled and ready. The old burn scar on my left hand flares. But I wait. Not yet.
Strannt charges again, weight too far forward. I duck under his hook, and he stumbles from the momentum.
The room’s loud, boots, shouting. But Talen’s voice finds me anyway. “Stop playing nice. He’s not going to.”
Chest rising hard, I glance toward the edge of the mat, toward him. Stupid. Just for a second, however, it’s enough. Strannt’s fist hammers into my ribs again—harder this time. Wincing I stagger back, it’s not enough to break anything, still, I’ll feel it tomorrow.
But he lingers in the follow-through, and this time I manage to seize his wrist. Jaw locked, I twist. Step in. Elbow clean and hard into the meat of his back. Strannt grunts. Real pain blooming under the bravado.
He comes back wilder, swinging with loose precision. I see it now. His rhythm falters, his chest rising too fast. He’s not controlled. He’s angry.
Pulling in a hard breath, I catch his next strike again, redirect it—his skin slick, forearm hot under my grip. My fist drives into his ribs with a satisfying crack. Something gives.
He gasps. Doubles over.
And I follow.
Palm to his chest. Then a clean hook across his jaw, bone meeting bone.
The beat behind my ribs quickens, but his is faster. Still, he doesn’t yield. Of course he doesn’t.
He just snarls and drags himself up—bloody-lipped, face blotched with rage, sweat dripping from his brow like oil. "You’ll have to do better than that," he growls.
I see it in his eyes, the refusal. Not just to lose but to lose to me. An Outerlander.
My body screams to finish it. Despite the duck, my Threads start to flare under my skin—feral, lashing just beneath the surface. I know I could end it. Easily. One strike. A neck angled too far. I know the pressure points.
But I don’t. I won’t let him pull me into this.
Instead, I circle him, lungs working hard but steady. Then he lunges. Sloppy. Tired. I catch the momentum, twist, and drop with him—arm tight around his throat, legs locked around his ribs.
He thrashes, gasping.
One more hit. Maybe two. And he won’t get back up.
But I give him the chance.
“Yield,” I command, loud enough to carry.
Let them all hear it.
“Fuck you,” he gasps.
God, his ego’s a black hole.
Fine. This time, I don’t wait. I twist, muscle tensed, shift my weight, and drive my elbow straight into his temple.
His body goes slack.
I let him drop.
He’s not dead. Not even broken. Just unconscious, and tomorrow, he’ll wake with a headache and a dent in his pride, but he’ll be fine.
The crowd shifts with him. Where before they were loud—cheering, hungry to see me bleed—now the noise dulls.
Not silence, not exactly, but the sharp edges have gone.
I block it out anyway because when I look up, I only see him.
Talen.
Still standing on the sideline, arms crossed, still looking far too pleased with himself.
I don’t think, just move. Shoulders tight. Threads still humming like they’re not done yet. Boots slam against stone as I storm toward him.
“What the fuck was that?” I shove him, hard, right in the chest, but he doesn’t move. Solid as stone. “For someone who says they want me alive, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
Moving my weight, I go to shove him again, but he catches my wrist and steps in, close enough I can smell the sweat and salt on his skin.
“I’m all for foreplay,” he murmurs, voice low against my ear. “But if you keep shoving me like that, people might start to think you don’t like me.”
I look around. The room’s thinning out, cadets drifting toward the exits, but not fast enough. A few still watch from the benches, pretending not to.
Talen keeps hold of my arm, holding me there while his infuriating, infectious smile spreads across his face like he hasn’t done a single thing wrong.
“Anyway.” His shoulder lifts. “I thought you’d be grateful.”
“Grateful?” I jerk my arm back. He lets go without a fight, like he was done anyway.
“I knew you’d take him, just like I knew you would take down Ryven during your first Demonstration. And I figured you wouldn’t mind a little payback, for Ezzy. I saw the way he set her up. You just needed someone to give you a little... push.”
Wait. Ryven? I thought he put me against him to kill me.
I want to push back—snap, shove, throw something. Anything. But I don’t. Because my Threads are stirring, fingers twitching, one wrong move will set them off. And I’m too close to getting out of this place. Too close to risk blowing everything now.
“You should really figure out how to control that.” Talen’s gaze drops to my hand. “I keep telling you, the duck won’t save you every time.”
Then he steps in close, and holds something out. My pack. In all the drama, I didn’t even realise I’d left it behind. I force my hand to still, and take it from him.
“Let’s go, Goldie!” Lucien calls, already halfway to the doors.
Talen barely reacts. Just lifts his chin like he’s finishing a conversation I was never really part of. “Have fun on your training assignment tomorrow.”
I manage to speak. “I doubt it. Knowing my luck, I’ll get paired with Ryven and his twisted crew.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks off, easy as anything.
I don’t move right away. Can’t.
My skin’s buzzing, Threads shifting under the surface, pressing harder now that I’m alone.
So I crouch down, drag the flap open. Fingers move inside quick and close around the duck. I hold on.
Tight.
Winter’s coming. You can taste it in the air—clean and dry, with that faint sting of frost that burns on the inhale.
The kind of cold that sinks straight into your ribs if you’ve already got bruises there.
Mine throb with every drag of air, still tender from yesterday’s fight.
But I still smile. Strannt’s expression when I floored him? Worth every second of pain.
Beside me, Ezzy groans as Finn sneaks another glance at Beth across the courtyard, and Rowan, predictably, doesn’t even look up from his book.
Our packs sit heavy at our feet, stuffed for our overnight training assignment to the Outerlands. I'm glad it's the four of us, but it’s too clean to be a coincidence. Almost definitely Talen’s doing, no idea why he’d bother.
I didn’t see him this morning. Not that I care.
He’s probably gone already. Probably won’t ever see him again.
Hopefully won’t ever see him again.... Unless it’s from a distance.
Like, across a market square. Through a crowd.
Preferably while someone’s punching him in the face. Yeah, that’d be nice. Cathartic.
Two officers flank our group. Luckily for me, Strannt isn’t one of them, small victories. These two are your standard-issue, machine-built officers. No personality, no spark, just walking protocol. Neither speak, which honestly suits me just fine.
Another cold breeze drags down my throat, but I don’t tense.
My shoulders drop, and I let the breath out slow.
Because god, I’m going home. I made it. Can’t quite believe it, even now.
One final training assignment, and by tomorrow, I’m out.
Free. No more uniforms. No more eyes on my back.
No more pretending I belong in a place like this.
Rhiann, Nessi, Bren, my mum’s journals. They’re all waiting for me.
And yet, there’s this feeling. Low in my chest, strange and unsettling.
Not doubt. Not regret. Just... tight. Because I’m leaving them.