Chapter Thirty-Two #3
He nods to the chair beside him, a quiet invite. I don’t move. Just stay planted in the middle of the stage, like keeping the space, the table, between us might help.
It doesn’t.
“So how does this work, then?” I ask, tone flat. “You train me while we fake date. Do we flip a coin for which one comes first?”
His grin lingers, then he drops his feet from the table and leans in.
“Two birds, one stone. We use our dates for training, lunches here, every day.”
“How romantic.” I reply.
“Figure the less time we have to spend together, the better. Especially after Ashvale.”
My eyes narrow, studying his face, but that unreadable mask is back, locked in like it never slipped.
I know he felt it, the same way I did, the same way I still do.
But clearly, he’s sticking to the version where it never should’ve happened.
Which, fine. That’s exactly what I’m supposed to be telling myself, too.
It was a mistake. I can’t trust him. Yeah, maybe he’s attracted to me, that part’s obvious, but wanting to fuck someone and using them?
Those aren’t mutually exclusive. He’s only helping me, saving me, because he wants something. I just haven’t figured out what yet.
But do I ask him about the urchin? It doesn’t add up—I’m still not convinced it was him, yet part of me still wonders... And if it was, I sure as hell don’t want him knowing I found it. No, better to keep that card in my pocket until I know exactly what game we’re playing.
“So helping me train is just another way to keep me alive till you get what you want?”
“I don’t want you dead, Bloom.” His voice calm as ever. “Thought I’d made that pretty fucking clear by now. But yes, there are things I want and you being alive is part of that.”
“And let me guess, you’re not going to tell me what they are.”
“You’d be correct.” He leans back slightly, arms crossing across his chest.
“Because you won’t? Or you can’t?”
His jaw tightens, and something shifts behind his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. I’m not surprised. I already know how this goes. No point pushing, he’s made it clear he’s not going to give me anything straight.
“We’re here to train, not talk.” He unfolds his arms. “Unless you’d rather keep using that sad little duck of yours as an emotional support animal?”
Why did it have to be him? If I say yes, I’m handing him leverage.
If he’s using me—and I still don’t know that he’s not—what’s to stop him from twisting whatever he teaches me?
Steering me toward something I shouldn’t be doing, something he wants?
I could say no, try to find someone else, but he’s a Senior Officer, and I’ve seen what he can do with his Threads.
Hate to admit it, but… It’s bloody impressive.
And I want answers, and at this rate, I won’t survive long enough to get any.
If someone calls me during Call Week and I lose control.
.. sure, maybe I’ll take them down, but I’ll take myself out too.
Plus, it’s not like I want anyone else around here knowing I can’t control my Threads—that I’m one bad day away from blowing a hole through the wall.
If word gets out about the duck, I’m not sure I'd even make it to Call Week.
And even if I turn him down, I still have to fake date him; might as well make the most of it. Better to spend the time actually learning something instead of sitting in awkward silence, pretending I don’t want to shove him off a ledge—or drag him into the nearest supply closet.
I want answers, I want revenge, but first I need control over my magic.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Teach me.”
Talen tilts his head. “Is that you asking, or issuing a threat?”
I exhale. “Teach me… please.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say as I cross the room and drag the other chair out. I shrug off my pack, drop it at my side, then sit—keeping the table firmly between us.
Talen watches me do it, just for a beat, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t comment. I guess he’s fine with something staying between us. Maybe he wants the distance just as much as I do.
“I assume you had some basic training to do what you can. Impressive—for an Outerlander.” Talen props one ankle over the opposite knee.
“My mum trained me, but only till I was seven. She was an Innerlander, that's how she knew.”
“Why’d she stop?”
I glance down at the scar on my left hand. “She passed away.”
He pauses, then. “What about your dad?
“Died before I was born, probably for the best, Mum said he was a total prick. An Outerlander who didn’t belong in her world.
Guess they were never meant to last, too different” I shrug, “Anyway mum was all I needed, we were... close.” The words catch before I can stop them, throat tightens. “Really close.”
“I’m sorry, I know what it’s like to lose par—”. He exhales, tight and short. “—family.”
Parent? Maybe he meant brother... still, I offer him a small, dry smile. One that says me too without making a thing of it.
His hand twitches, barely noticeable, as if he’s about to reach across the table for mine. But he stops, folding it back into his lap like it never moved, then clears his throat.
“Okay, well… let’s start with what you already know?”
I shift in the chair, pressing my palms flat against my thighs. Keep my eyes locked on my hands, anywhere but his.
“Well, um, we’re all born with Threads, but they stay dormant unless someone teaches you how to listen. Most Outerlanders never get that far.” I risk a glance up. Just to see if he’s even listening, he is, but no smirk, no mask—just quiet focus. I keep going.
“Mum used to say it’s like a violin string, we all have them.
The difference is, Innerlanders get the bow.
” I shrug slightly. “All Innerlanders have at least one Thread active, learned to hear it, use it. Most Outerlanders though stay dormant. Doesn’t mean we don’t have them, just means we were never given the chance to learn them.
Every now and then, someone picks up the basics—some dodgy backroom teaching, if you’re desperate enough to risk it.
But it’s rare, and it’s never enough without proper training. ”
My jaw tightens before I even realise it. The words shouldn’t hit this hard, never given the chance, but they do. Because it’s true. People like Talen got trained, got access, got power. People like me? We got rules, borders and silence.
I dig my nails into my thighs, steadying the tightness in my chest, because it's him, the one I kissed, he’s the one who works for the system that kept all of this from us. I should hate him for it.
I do.
Or—no. That’s not the problem.
I hate what he represents. What he stands for. Everything the Innerlands built on the backs of the rest of us.
But him? Do I hate him?
Yeah, I know he saved my life, but that’s easy to explain.
He needs me alive for something, whatever game he’s playing, I’m part of it.
But running Spice across the border for a sick kid he never met, knowing full well what would happen if he got caught.
No glory, no gain... and I haven’t actually seen him Reassign anyone. Is it all just talk?
I look up and, stupidly, my gaze drifts back to his—dark hazel, rimmed in gold, steady on mine. His mouth presses into a line, not tight, not cold. Just… still. Like he’s holding something back.
Remember, who you are, who he is, he’s a Citadel officer.
Part of me wants to shove the chair back and walk out. The other, darker part, just wants to lean in and see what happens if I don’t...
“I like that analogy,” he notes, cutting clean through my thoughts. “So she taught you how to listen to them?”
I blink, the quick rise under my ribs refusing to ease. No—focus. No matter what he is, I’m here to learn how to get control of my magic, not let my emotions run the damn show. I look back down at my hands, take a deep breath and continue.
“Well… Mum used to say my bow was already there. That she didn’t have to do much because my Threads were always loud. Screaming, sometimes. It wasn’t about waking them up, it was about keeping them asleep. And that’s always been the problem.”
“Interesting,” he says. “Did she teach you anything else before she… passed?”
“Umm… yeah.” I shift slightly. “That active Threads are like vibrating strings of magic? There are four types: Earth, Fire, Air, and Water. They can stretch outward, allowing us to manipulate certain things around us.” I glance up, just for a second.
He’s still watching, listening. “And I know they’re tied to emotions, but I’m still not sure how that works. ”
“Yes. And that’s the problem, you’ve learned just enough to be dangerous.
” He doesn’t soften the words. “You can hear your Threads. Use them, but you haven’t learned how to control them.
Right now, it’s like you’re dragging blades behind you on rusted chains—lethal, sure, but loud.
Clumsy.” His eyes flicks to my pack. “And you’re leaning on that duck like it’s a shield.
It’s not. It’s a delay tactic. And it’s screwing you over. ”
“How is it screwing me over?” I snap, brows pinched. “It’s helping.”
Talen leans back slightly, gaze tracking mine across the table.
“Okay, imagine two chests.” He taps two fingers lightly against the wood between us.
“One is you. Loaded with magic—bright, chaotic. Threads vibrating so loud, they start overflowing. You try to seal it, but pressure builds until it blows. Violent. Messy. It empties you out. Well, at least mostly, otherwise, you’d be dead many times over by now.
But you’re left vulnerable until it refills. ”
“So basically, I’m a walking bomb?” I mutter.
His mouth twitches. “Pretty much...” He taps again, softer this time.
“The second chest—same Threads. But calm, controlled, wound tight like a coil. You can pack ten, twenty, or fifty times as much in there without risking a detonation. And when you need them, there are so many you’ve always got reserves left to burn. Never left empty. Never left exposed.”
“How much can you store?” I ask.
“Let’s just say… more than enough,” he replies, keeping his expression blank.
“Look. Our Threads are vibrating reservoirs of magic, constantly splitting and replicating into more. The more you store, and the stronger they vibrate, the more power you can release. But if you also can’t control that power, or direct it properly, you’ve still got a problem.
” He pauses, gaze steady. “They move with emotion. That’s good, we want that, but if your feelings are driving them wild, you’re not in control.
Right now, you let your Threads build and build until something triggers you—and boom.
One big emotional outburst.” He leans forward slightly, voice lower now.
“That’s not power. That’s a leak. You’re not building strength, you’re bleeding it and leaving yourself empty, vulnerable, when you could be so, so much more. ”
Maybe it’s the information. Or maybe it’s just his voice, deep, precise, impossible to tune out. But before I know it, I’m leaning in towards him too, like his words are pulling me forward.
“So what do I do instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me as his chest lifts slow. Heat pricks at my neck before I can stop it and for a second, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes, but then it's gone as he leans back.
Idiot. You’re here to learn control, not melt every time he opens his damn mouth. I force myself back upright, spine stiff.
“You need to learn to knot your Threads,” he replies, calm. “It’s something all Innerlanders are taught young, so early most people don’t even think about it anymore—it just becomes instinct.”
“So if I learn to knot... I can store more magic. Use it better. And I won’t go around blowing things up?”
“Yes. A well-knotted Thread is like a blade held tight in its sheath, controlled and ready. Every knot you tie is a weapon, and when you want it—when you choose—you unknot it. You decide when it strikes.”
He pushes back his chair. For a second, I think he’s leaving, but instead he crosses the space and bends down in front of me. Too close. My lungs forget how to work.
“Tomorrow, come to training before you use that bloody duck and we’ll start with knotting. But today… Today we deal with your emotions.”
Warm breath hits first—leather, smoke, all of it wrapping around me—then his hands move, steady and careful, cupping either side of my face.
My stomach flips, sudden and unwanted, because now I know what those hands feel like when they’re not being careful.
I know what he tastes like, sounds like, pressed against me in the dark with his mouth on my throat, groaning against my skin.
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but that's all it takes. Everything seizes tight in my chest, jaw clenches and a jolt of magic flares sharp through my Threads.
Suddenly the air between us snaps. He drops his hands fast, already moving—pushing back and bracing against the table behind him.
“That was a bad idea.” He says. Voice rough, strained, like he’s trying to shove the moment back down his throat.
“Yeah. The worst,” I mutter, forcing the words out as I sit up straighter, trying to pull my body and my breathing back under control.
Shit, that was close. God—even my Threads seem to want him. I need control. Don’t let him be the thing that makes you fall apart. You came here to learn, not to relapse.
“Better if I do it from here.” He adds, still leaning against the table, hands curled tight around the edges like it’s the only thing holding him in place. Then: “Okay, when you’re ready, close your eyes.”