Chapter Thirty-One #3
She groans, tipping her head back. “No, it’s not a good thing.
I mean... yeah. I guess I like him. Stars, I don’t know.
” Her voice drops. “But his family would never approve. He’s got, like, four brothers—all of them high-ranking officers stationed in the Air Realm—and they treat him like he’s supposed to be the next great war hero or whatever.
And I met his parents once. It was obvious. I’m not their type. Not even close.”
“And you think he cares about that?”
She shrugs, arms folding across her chest. “Sometimes he’s so warm, and then other times he just... pulls away. I don’t know what he wants.”
“Oh, Ezzy. Come on.” I bump her shoulder. “He likes you. He’s just got shit going on in his head. You need to actually talk to him about it, not kiss and run.”
She makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan—her lips pull thinner, still unsure. But then something shifts. Her eyes catch on something past my shoulder and widen, I turn to see Rowan and Finn walking towards us.
“Oh, hey guys,” she calls, smiling like nothing’s wrong, “sorry we ran off, needed to catch up with Lyra. You know, Talen stuff.”
“No fair. I want the Nightrose updates too,” Finn grins. “But you can fill us in at the Rec Hall. We’re gonna train for a bit, hang out. You coming?”
Ezzy nods, but then glances to me, waiting.
I could say no, last semester I would’ve—made some excuse, gone back to my room, buried myself in mum’s journal and pretended I didn’t need any of this. Pretended I didn’t need them. But this time it’s different. I do need them. And more than that... I like them.
“Sure,” I say to Finn. “But I’m not promising I won’t kick your ass.”
He laughs. “After what I heard you did to Strannt, I’m pretty sure you could.”
That night, I lie in bed, sore from sparring, mum’s journal balanced open in my lap.
Ezzy’s combat still needs work—her footwork’s sloppy, balance all over the place—but I promised I’d help her tighten it up.
The guys are good, sure, but they don’t understand the way a woman moves—where we’re weaker, and where we’re stronger.
A few small adjustments, and I know she’ll sharpen fast.
We’ve been talking for hours. Now she’s curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, her voice trailing off mid-sentence about Finn’s smile.
She’s been tying herself in knots over him all night, and I just kept listening, tossing in the occasional shove of advice so she wouldn’t spiral too far.
I want them to figure it out already; the two of them make sense.
She asked how I knew Talen was a good fit, how we got together despite, well… everything.
Guilt caught in my throat. I promised no more lies, and I wasn’t about to start, so I swallowed hard and tried to scrape together anything true.
Said that although I'm meant to fear him, hate him, he's done nothing but help me, save me, since I arrived.
Even if his version of help means forcing me to face my fear of heights or pushing me to beat the shit out of Strannt.
Ezzy nodded like it all made perfect sense.
Which should bring relief, but watching her agree, like it was the simplest thing in the world, left a tightness in my chest. Because every word I used to convince her was the same truth I’ve been trying to ignore.
And hearing them out loud only made it harder to keep control over what I already know I want. Him.
Her breathing evens out, soft and steady, and the room finally quiets. I should sleep too, but my mind keeps drifting back to Talen, the Snare Urchin. So I bury myself in mum’s journals instead, let the words drag me somewhere else.
Read between the lines. That’s what Merrin said.
I do. I’ve skimmed over almost every page looking for any link to what's going on, but whatever he thinks is hiding here—if anything—it’s not for me to find.
Page after page, it’s just mum. Honest. Unfiltered.
Raw in a way I wasn’t prepared for, and always so certain of her opinions when it comes to Merrin, every mention of him is clipped, polite enough to pass, but there’s a chill under the ink. Like she never trusted him.
I don’t get it. Why give me the journals if they paint him like this? Unless… maybe that is the point. Maybe that’s what he wants me to see. Or question?
The lamplight blurs the ink, mum’s bold handwriting cutting across paper like it always has. But the meaning—whatever truth hides here—slips through me until eventually I let the book drop and give in to sleep.
Frost crunches under my boots as we cross the courtyard, breath crisp in the morning air. First class of the new semester: Thread Theory with Professor Holloway.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Finn notes, glancing sideways at Ezzy.
She gives him a tight smile and shrugs. “Just tired.”
Except she’s not. He tries to keep talking, but Ezzy’s voice keeps tripping over itself, half-sentences and awkward smiles, and Finn hasn’t got a clue what to do with it. He tries to brush it off with Rowan, but Rowan’s still pissed at him for snapping the wing off his latest dragon model.
Beth’s outside the hall when we arrive, draped over Lucien like she owns him.
She flashes me a bright smile, friendly, easy.
Last semester, I spent most of Holloway’s lessons dozing off.
But this time, it’s different. I need to pay attention, I need control over my Threads before they control me—and I can’t afford to get dragged into more fights before Call Week, no more chaos, no more mistakes, so I smile right back.
The lecture theatre smells of chalk and cold stone, and our seats creak loud in the emptiness as we drop into place, too early, thanks to Ezzy.
She’s already lining her quills up in front of her like it’s some kind of ritual.
Finn’s tapping out a rhythm on the desk, restless, while Rowan’s buried in a book, shutting the rest of us out.
I’m just starting to settle when something smacks my ear, a pencil. I turn, looking up. Ryven. Toothpick between his teeth, his crew spread out beside him. Really? A pencil?
“Heard your home burned down,” he drawls. “What a shame. Serves you Outerlanders right, trying to bond with dragons. How fucking stupid can you be? Must be all the inbreeding.”
Don't rise to it, I tell myself, he's not worth it, staying away from drama this time. Still, my fist curls tight as something flares up my spine.
Ryven smirks. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did. Our little Demonstration. Elijah hasn’t either. Hurting his sister like that? Let’s just say we’re looking forward to Call Week.”
My Threads twitch under my skin, restless. The duck’s in my bag, but I haven’t used it yet today. Part of me wants to let them loose right here, knock that smug look clean off his face. But that’s last semester’s Lyra, and she didn’t get very far.
More cadets funnel into the rows between us, chairs scraping, voices rising in overlapping bursts, but I can still see Ryven’s face poking through. Fuck him. I turn back around to face the front and grab my pack. My hand finds the duck, and I squeeze hard enough to bite back any urge.
“Ignore him,” Ezzy murmurs beside me. “They can’t all Call you. You can only get Called once. And you’ll be ready if anyone does. You’ve already kicked Ryven's ass.”
I half-smile, but if I don’t get a handle on my Threads soon, I’ll still be a walking disaster by Call Week. No hiding, no excuses. Today, I listen. I learn.
“Can I borrow one of those?” I nod at her lineup of neatly arranged stationery.
Ezzy blinks, surprised, then grins as she slides a flowery purple notebook towards me, complete with a matching pencil wrapped in ribbons. Great. Exactly what I needed, my notes looking like they belong to a six-year-old at a tea party. Still, I take it, smiling.
“Good morning, everyone.” A dry voice breaks the rising chatter as Professor Holloway sweeps in, deep-blue robes trailing across the floor.
His matching hat droops with him as he walks, the soft fabric folding slightly as he steps up to the lectern.
His observant eyes flick over us, but the wrinkles at the corners soften them, make him appear warm.
“I hope you all had a good break and are ready for the next few months ahead. There’s a lot to cover, so let’s get started. ”
He sets a heavy book on the lectern and flips it open before turning his attention back to the room.
“By now, you’ve all learned to use Truth Strings, some more successfully than others.
” Holloway says, a flicker of dry amusement crossing his face.
“And yes, I did notice a few of you attempting to pull Strings from one another. That will never work. Remember, the moment you ask, the magic unravels. Truth Strings must be offered freely, never requested, never coerced.”
A student raises a tentative hand. Holloway inclines his head.
“So… hypothetically, if a friend of mine was cheating on their exams and when the topic came up, they didn’t offer a Truth String—the professor couldn’t force one, right? But the fact they didn’t provide one… would that prove they were guilty?”
“Well, not really,” Holloway’s mouth quirks.
“You might assume that anyone eager to be believed would use a Truth String at every opportunity. But that logic backfires. Because the moment they don’t, especially when it counts, it becomes conspicuous, suspicious.
That’s why most of us use them sparingly.
Only when the truth must be undeniable. So yes, their absence can raise questions, but it’s not uncommon.
And it certainly doesn’t equate to guilt. ”
The student frowns, still chewing on it. “What about a partial truth? Like… if my friend hired someone to cheat for him, could he say ‘I didn’t cheat’, could he bind it with a String?”