Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“Yeah,” he replies finally. “All younger. My mum raised us on her own, so—”
Suddenly his voice cuts out mid-sentence, mouth still moving, but nothing comes out. He frowns, clears his throat, tries again.
“—on her own, so I was the only guy in the house growing up.” He pauses. Shakes his head once, like he’s trying to brush it off.
Finn doesn’t seem to notice. Just snorts softly. “Could’ve used some of that. I had five brothers. Our house smelled like sweat and blood and whatever we were burning that day.”
“Yeah, well, it has its—” Bren’s voice gone again. Clean. Mid-word. His brow pulls tight. Like he’s trying to shove the sound out by force.
I snap my head to Talen. His right elbow is propped on the armrest, no dagger in his hand now; instead, his fist is closed tight, grin even tighter. He catches me glaring and just lifts his brows in a silent ‘what’?
I should let it go, pretend I didn’t see, and keep the upper hand by staying quiet.
The package of journals sits barely two strides away, taunting me.
So close. If I lost control now, I could lose them with it.
But silence means letting him get away with his games.
And this time? He’s doing it in my space.
Bren’s voice cuts back in again, like a signal stuttering back to life. “—its pros and cons.” He coughs. Blinks. Shakes his head. “What the—?”
That’s it. I shove back my chair and walk straight across the room.
Talen doesn’t move. Just watches as I grab his arm.
My hand tight in the fabric just above his elbow.
He doesn't protest, not even a raised brow, he just lets me haul him to his feet like this is all part of some game he’s already winning.
As I drag him towards the door, he reaches back and grabs both of his daggers, sliding them into place without slowing. We pass Rowan, but I don’t look at him as I swing the door open and haul Talen out.
The door doesn’t catch. I don’t care, I leave it ajar as a shiver licks up my spine; it’s colder than I expected. Darker, too.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice cuts the silence as I let go of Talen's arm. “Why are you really here? What’s your deal with Bren?”
His mouth curves, but there’s a tension to it, rougher than I’ve seen. “Other than the fact he’s an Outerlander who’s been taking down my men?” The words hit hard, but before I can answer, Talen leans in. “He likes you.”
“Of course he likes me. He’s known me since I was like 5.”
He tilts his head, movements edged, unsettled. “Oh, we both know it’s more than that.”
My throat goes tight. “No, it isn’t. And how the hell would you know anyway? We’re just friends. We fuck sometimes, that’s it.”
“Thorn,” he pushes, brow lifting as he steps in closer. “I’m usually good at picking up on people’s emotions, but with him? I don’t even need to. And I know you’re not stupid—you see it too.”
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s wrong. Bren and I... we have an agreement. No mess. No strings. We’re not... that. We never were. And why the hell does he even care?
The question is louder than I expect. He’s acting like it matters. Like Bren matters. Like I matter. And I know it's been him delivering the Spice, it has to be. He’s acting like someone who gives a shit.
My brain does the math—quick, sharp, clinical. There’s no logical reason for him to care unless— No. Absolutely not. I snap the thought in half before it finishes forming.
There’s no version of Talen Veirmont that cares about anyone else, at least not without conditions. Or consequences. And even if, if, he did, I wouldn’t care. I couldn’t. I don’t.
He’s dangerous. That’s what he is. And he’s done nothing but mess with me since the first day in the courtyard—twisting truths, forcing my hand, dragging me into games I never asked to play. Tried to kill me. Controlled me. Made me his pawn. And now he gets to stand there like he gives a shit?
No. I’m done with the mind games, the questions, and the answers he never gives. I’m home now, I’m staying, and I don’t have to see him again.
“I’m tired,” I say, voice flat. “I’m going to sleep. So unless you plan to sit there and watch me snore like a creep, you can leave.”
His reply comes rough, quieter than I expect. “Would that make you happy if I left?”
“Yeah, it would.” I keep my expression blank.
His jaw ticks, shoulders tight, chest rising too fast for the calm mask he usually wears. Then, clipped: “Fine.”
It's strange, something’s off, in his voice, in him. Out here, beyond the wall, beyond the Veils, he seems different. Less composed. It throws me, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I hold my gaze and fold my arms. “Ezzy, Finn, Rowan. They’re not going to get in trouble for this, right? It’s not their fault, they were just helping me.”
His expression hardens. “I already promised you on the ledge—I won’t touch them. But they better not be stupid enough to abandon their patrol again. I’ll take them back to the Ashvale outpost now. They stay there until morning, then I’ll see them back to the Citadel myself.”
I exhale slow, tension unwinding from my spine. “Good.”
“Good,” he echoes, but the smirk doesn’t come back. “The journals are inside. Tell the others to meet me at the outpost—” He turns and walks off before I can answer.
I shift toward the door, ready to go inside and Bren’s already there. Leaning in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick past me, toward where Talen disappeared, then settle back on mine. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” I huff. “They’re leaving.” I shift my weight, and a strange tingle runs through my feet, like pins and needles. Weird. I must be more worn out than I thought. I need to sit down.
"Here. Your tea’s getting cold." Bren slides the chipped mug across the table toward me, his fingers brushing mine for a second too long before pulling back. The steam curls up between us. Burnt mint and something vaguely floral, one of Nessi’s weird blends.
I don’t drink it, my mouth tastes a little sour, so I just wrap my hands around the mug for the warmth.
I thought it’d be worse. The leaving part.
All week I’d been bracing for some drawn-out, awkward goodbye—too much eye contact, Ezzy crying, me standing there like an idiot not knowing what to say. I even half-prepared a speech in my head. Something simple. Grateful but not pathetic.
But Ezzy just hugged me like I’d be back next week. Like this was a short trip, not an ending. Finn smiled and said something about seeing me soon, and Rowan gave me one of those unreadable looks of his—half challenge, half secret—and then just… moved on.
They think I’ll be back. Because of Talen, to visit. Because they think that’s real.
No one said goodbye. Not properly. Not like they meant it.
And I didn’t correct them. Didn’t tell them the relationship with Talen was fake. Didn’t say I was never coming back. I let them believe whatever made it easier. For them. For me. For all of us.
But I’m mildly offended that they think I’d actually date someone like him, because what the hell does that say about me?
I set my tea down and look at Bren, careful to keep my tone casual. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight? And maybe tomorrow? Just until I find another sofa to crash on."
He doesn’t hesitate. "You know you’re always welcome here. As long as you need." Then, quieter. “Some of your stuff’s upstairs. In a box. Things you left around… I got it from Rhiann and Nessi. I, uh—" His voice dips. "Couldn’t bring myself to throw it out."
I don’t say anything. Just swallow hard, like that’ll push the feeling down far enough it won’t show. His eyes meet mine again, warm, stupidly soft. The kind of look that makes it harder to breathe.
“God, I’m so glad you’re back. That you’re here.” He reaches across the table, fingertips skimming toward my hand. I pull away, not sharply, just enough.
“I’m just tired," I say. "That’s all. I want to get washed. Out of these clothes."
He nods, like he gets it. But I see the tension in his jaw. “Of course. We have time. All the time to talk.” Then he adds, quietly, “But I do want to talk, Lyra. We need to.”
I stare at the tea. The way the leaves have sunk to the bottom like sediment. “I know.”
After I’m washed and changed, I curl into Bren’s armchair.
The rough wool cover scratches against my cheek, carrying that faint mix of him, scorched iron, stone, and the kind of calm that tempts you to stay.
The chair’s too small to stretch out in, but it’s safer, cosier, than anything I’ve had in weeks, and for the first time in a month I feel myself start to let go.
My magic isn’t breaking loose, but it’s twitchy, buzzing from the day, and my feet tingle, so I dig through my bag until my fingers close around the duck.
The moment I hold it, Finn’s Threads, laced into the grain, steady the pull in my chest, grounding me in a way nothing else does. I pull it out, turning it over, thumb brushing the rough, broken wing. Ezzy’s gone, and this is all I’ve got to remember her by.
The thought sits heavy, but I set the duck aside before it digs any deeper. Beside the chair, the package of journals waits. I pull it closer, tear through the string, and slide one free. The packaging smells faintly of him. Talen.
Alinor Bloom, Second Year Cadet, Entry #73
I told myself I could fix it from the inside. That if I stayed long enough—kept my head down, followed orders—I’d find the fault lines, the cracks in the truth they fed us. But the longer I stayed, the harder it was to tell where their lies ended and mine began.
There’s something beneath it all. I don’t know what. But I’ve seen the patterns. The disappearances. The buried records. Merrin's orders that never made sense.
And then I met him.
An Outerlander.
Different from me in every way that mattered—born under a different sky, raised in a system they taught us to fear—but there was something there I couldn’t deny.
Something that cut through the lies sharper than anything I’d found inside these walls, and if I was wrong about him, what else am I wrong about?
That was the shift. The moment I couldn’t pretend anymore. Whatever game they’re playing, I wouldn’t let us, either of us, become pieces on their board. So I ran. I chose to survive. I chose the one fight I still had a chance of winning: him.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but when I start to stir, it’s still dark. And there’s a sound—low, distant. A hum, like a tune played too far underwater to make out.
I shift, slow, cheek dragging against scratchy fabric as I blink my eyes open. Wooden beams hang above me, warped and familiar. Bren’s place, his lumpy old armchair.
Somewhere outside, something creaks, a voice, maybe… But it doesn’t matter, I’m here, I’m home.
My thoughts continue to slur together, slow and soft like my brain hasn’t decided whether to wake up yet. Limbs heavy, spine warm. I could fall right back under.
But then a light flickers behind the curtain. Orange. Too orange.
I blink again, slower this time. A breeze slips through the cracked window, cool on my skin—but the air’s off. Thick. I breathe in and it catches, clings to the back of my throat. Bitter, burnt.
Smoke.
The blanket falls to the floor as I stand up.
The hum sharpens, growing louder now. Not a hum.
A siren.
Dragon siren.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs as Bren’s voice rips through the room,
“Ashvale’s burning. They’ve breached the whole fucking town.”