Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Yesterday was the usual working meditations, and now it’s Sunday morning—no sermon with Serrane today, so we’re heading to the Rec Hall. The boys said Ezzy’s made real progress, and I’m curious to see for myself.
Ezzy’s purple pencil flicks between my fingers as I walk. I’ve been twitchy all morning—skin too tight, thoughts slipping sideways.
Maybe I should skip the Rec Hall and find an empty room, lock the door, and take the edge off the way I actually need. But that would require privacy, and privacy in the Citadel is a fucking myth.
“How’s training with Beth?” Finn asks beside me, voice casual.
I jump, nearly drop the pencil. Right. Words. Talking. Not fantasising about sneaking away and getting myself off like a fucking teenager.
I swallow hard and shift the pencil in my hand.
“Well… I can knot my Threads better now, thanks to Talen,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Ezzy and Rowan are walking ahead, but I don’t need her overhearing us talking about Beth.
She’s still wound tight after lunch—Rowan gave me an update on the dragon migration data, and Ezzy caught enough to know we’re still poking around where we shouldn’t.
She didn’t say much, but the look was enough.
So bringing up Beth? Yeah, not the smartest move.
Ezzy doesn’t trust her, mostly because she’s still jealous that Finn thinks she’s hot.
Things between them have thawed a little, but they haven’t actually talked about the kiss.
And I’m not about to make it worse by throwing Beth’s name into the mix like a lit match.
“I haven’t needed the duck all week.” I continue talking as we walk, “But when I use my Threads, they’re still too mixed up with whatever I’m feeling, erratic, unstable.
And unknotting’s a total mess, so I can’t reach my full power.
” I shrug. “Beth says I’m making progress.
I try and apply her advice, but... I don’t really feel it yet. ”
“Hmmm,” Finn raises a brow. “I mean, yeah, unknotting can take time, it’s a very personal thing, different for everyone. I like to visualise a corset.”
“A corset?” I ask, raising a brow.
"Yeah, you ever tried to open one with one hand?" He grins. "That’s how I picture it. You don’t rip, you ease the laces just right, and boom. Everything relaxes."
“Great. Now all I’m going to think about during your Demonstrations is you mentally undressing imaginary women in your head.”
“Who said imaginary?” He winks. “But if you’re not breaking any more windows, I’d call that progress.” He bumps my arm with his elbow, grinning. “And hey, look at you, finally ditching the duck.”
“Yeah. I guess...” I huff, giving him the kind of smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“How does it even work?” I ask, still flicking the pencil between my fingers.
“The duck? Lacing? Talen said something about frequencies, I didn’t really get it, but still.
.. it's impressive. You’re good at it. Even Talen said so, and he’s not exactly generous with compliments. ”
Finn’s grin stretches, clearly pleased I asked.
“Took me years to figure out,” he says as he walks beside me, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing lightly against the stone floor.
“Been training every break I got from here, even got an apprenticeship lined up after graduation... though my parents’ll probably kill that idea.
” He glances over, then shrugs. “Anyway. I laced Threads into it, my Threads, but the trick is to set them vibrating at a specific frequency. Different frequencies trigger different effects. Like any emotion, stress spikes your Threads, but the duck carries the same pattern, so when you touch it, they cancel out.”
“Oh... So that’s why Talen kept calling it a delay tactic,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “Eventually I’d just boil over and explode, because it wasn’t actually absorbing my magic.”
He nods. “Exactly. Nothing’s drained, nothing transferred. The vibrations just meet and level each other, and your Threads settle back down.”
Talen did explain it, sort of, but Finn’s version makes way more sense.
Talen also said it’s the same way Merrin can mute Threads.
He doesn’t absorb them or take them in, just neutralises, balances their vibrations out.
Same with sound. Talen’s Threads can sync with the vibrations in your voice and the air, but instead of just cancelling them, he can redirect them. Focus them. Amplify them.
Ahead of us, Rowan pushes open the Rec Hall doors. Ezzy slips inside, Finn right behind her. But Rowan hesitates.
I slow as I reach him. “What’s wrong?”
“Umm... I forgot I have homework. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up later.”
Before I can even answer, he turns and walks off. Fast. Too fast. I’ve never seen him that unsettled, then I step inside, and see why.
Daniel—the guy Rowan’s been hooking up with—is on the mat, sparring with another Cadet.
Rowan told me last week that things had gotten tense between them.
That awkward in-between stage: are we just fucking or is this something else?
And of course, neither of them wants to be the first one to bring it up.
I’m kind of honoured he’s sharing this stuff with me, though I was surprised when he told Talen he preferred men.
Being gay is not exactly something the Citadel encourages—procreation’s the priority, after all.
They want loyal, obedient bloodlines bred like war-stock.
But Rowan said he feels like he can trust Talen, said he knows he won’t say anything. I’m not sure how he can be so certain.
The Rec Hall’s packed, so we head up to a middle row to watch training and wait for things to quiet down. I slide in between Ezzy and Finn—who, surprise surprise, aren’t talking again.
Great. Just what I need. More awkward, smouldering tension between two people who should absolutely be sleeping together by now but aren’t.
Ezzy’s pencil is still in my hand, flicking back and forth between my fingers like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
Below, I catch sight of Daniel wrapping up a match with his training partner, both of them breathless and slick with sweat.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The pencil keeps moving. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to avoid the stiff, silent tension radiating off Ezzy and Finn on either side of me.
Not that I’m much better. My skin’s crawling with it, tight, restless, hot in all the wrong places. God, I need a night alone. Just one. Somewhere I’m not surrounded by snoring or surveillance.
Because if this pressure keeps building, I’m going to do something really stupid the next time I see—
Shit.
A flicker of light catches at the edge of my vision. I glance down.
The next sparring pair prepare to step on to the mat.
Lucien takes the centre first, tall, lean, all effortless dark lines.
The Rec Hall’s still dim, lit only by a few narrow beams of morning light creeping in through the high windows.
But it’s enough to catch the stone hanging at his throat, his necklace flashes with each step, sharp against the gloom.
And then—
Talen.
He’s standing by the benches, fingers hooked in the hem of his black training shirt.
I should go, the ache’s already bad. Pressure wound so tight under my skin, it’s a miracle I managed to walk here in the first place. But leaving would be too obvious. And I’ve handled worse than watching him spar, I can sit here, breathe through it, keep my head on straight.
Easy.
But then—slow, unbothered—he lifts the shirt over his head, arms stretching, shoulders flexing as the fabric bunches, sliding over the hard line of his torso before he pulls it free.
My mouth goes dry, and just like that, the final ounce of control I was clinging to slips.
Then he turns, and the matte-black scales of ink come into focus, spreading across his back—dense, like armour carved straight into skin. They follow the line of his spine, winding over bronzed muscle that shifts with every controlled movement.
My grip on the pencil tightens, it’s only been a week since I saw him last, but my body’s reacting like I’ve been starved for months.
As he steps on to the mat, and I notice a fresh gash along his side—red, ugly, just above his hip. My stomach tightens, a flicker of worry cutting through the heat. But he moves like it’s nothing and positions himself in front of Lucien with the same steady, lethal calm he always has.
Lucien circles first, testing for an opening; his usual grin in place. Both of them draw the attention of every girl in the room, but it’s Talen that draws every inch of mine.
It’s just a fight, just sparring, nothing to stare at.
Talen rolls his shoulders once, shakes out his hands, then raises them in stance—no hesitation, no posturing, just controlled, coiled readiness. The gash on his side pulls a little as he moves, but he doesn’t flinch.
I try not to look at the way his abs flex with every shift. I try. God help me, I really fucking try. Dropping my gaze, forcing it down, zeroing in on Ezzy’s purple pencil, still flicking between my fingers—tight grip, steady rhythm.
Totally fine. Just breathe. Just focus.
But my gaze snaps right back because apparently I have zero goddamn self-control, and Talen shirtless on a mat is basically the world’s most perfect mistake.
Movement pulls at the edge of my vision, Lucien feints left, then lunges right. Talen ducks the swing, fast—one arm sweeping under, the other coming up to block, his torso twisting just enough to make the muscles in his back pull tight and—
Nope. Not looking.
I glance away, exhale hard, but immediately look back.
Bronze catches in the light where sweat slides down his skin. Talen moves across the mat like it’s nothing—fluid, controlled—his chest rising with each shift, every motion wound tight with intent.
There’s a line of muscle that runs from his stomach to just below his waistband. My pulse surges because, fuck me, I want my hands on it.