Chapter Thirty-Five #2
I turn as Talen steps up beside us. His gaze catches mine, flaring for a split second before he forces it away. His jaw’s locked, shoulders pulled tight like he’s holding something back.
“This is our group for today?” he asks Lucien, voice tense, clipped at the edges, almost angry.
Lucien lifts both palms in mock surrender, flicking his chin toward Strannt like, don’t blame me.
Talen doesn’t even blink. His mouth presses thin, brows drawn. He looks at me again, then exhales hard through his nose, like just seeing me is a problem. For a moment, he hesitates, chest rising hard. Then:
“Fine,” he bites out, clipped and cold. “It’s already locked in. It has to be today, let’s just get it over with.”
Talen doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns and starts toward the tunnel. Boots sharp against stone, no glance back.
I shift my weight, the beat under my ribs louder than it has any right to be as my eyes flick to the curve of his back, the way his shoulders don’t drop even as he walks away.
Do I go after him? Do I pull him aside? Just say it, what the hell happened yesterday? Did you feel it too? But what if he didn’t?
What if it was just me? Just some glitch in my Threads, or worse, some pathetic projection of what I wanted? No, I know he felt it, I know he did. That look, flushed, stunned, like every pulse of want crawling through me hit him just as hard.
But by the way he just looked at me, the edge in his voice, the way his mouth tightened the second he saw me. He’s not mad about the assignment, or Strannt. He’s mad I’m in it. He’s pissed I’m here.
Whatever it was, whatever he felt, he clearly did not want it.
Not like that. Not like I did.
I need to know what the hell is going on. But god, it’s so fucking embarrassing.
Like… how do you even start that conversation?
“Hey, so, remember yesterday when I got really turned on watching you fight topless? And then somehow you felt it? Like, literally felt it? And now you know exactly how I feel about you—even though it’s very fucking obvious from the way you just looked at me that you don’t feel the same?”
Yeah. No, thank you. Just the thought of saying it makes my stomach twist, my face burn. I can’t. Not now. Not ever.
The Weasel shifts ahead, then turns and drags his eyes over me before heading down the Tunnel, like he’s already waiting for me to slip and have an excuse to come for me. I keep my eyes forward. Just get through the day.
The morning air has warmed up by the time we step into the Air Realm—enough that the short sleeves of the white uniform don’t bite anymore. The breeze is soft, carrying the faint scent of blossom.
Up ahead, just past the other cadets, I catch sight of Talen. Shoulders still high, jaw set. No sign of that usual looseness in his stride. He’s braced, holding tension like he’s hoping no one notices, but I do.
Finn stays quiet beside me. Probably doesn't want to risk the conversation swinging back to Ezzy—and how he clearly needs to stop sulking and sort it out.
To my left, the street opens wide—buildings in rigid rows, stone paths scrubbed so clean they barely look real, everything exactly where it should be.
All the Innerland Realms blur together like this.
Before Merrin brought me in, I’d only ever snuck into the Air Realm.
I thought maybe the others would be different.
But I’ve been to all four now, and they might claim different territories, but the bones are the same—same layout, same symmetry, that uniform neatness that reeks of Citadel control.
It’s like the Treaty stamped them out of the same magical blueprint, carved the wildness right off the map.
The only real difference is how they dress.
Subtle shifts—deeper blues in the Water Realm, longer sleeves, finer fabric.
But the people underneath? Still the same.
Most glance away, some nod or give a stiff bow.
A few hold my gaze too long, and I know that look, resentment.
I used to think only the Outerlanders hated the Citadel.
But the more time I spend in the Innerlands, the more I see it. Same tension, it’s just buried deeper.
We round a corner, feet thudding against polished stone, and a flash of deep red catches at the edge of my vision.
Painted low on a nearby door—small, deliberate—the symbol, the crest of Aurelia.
I’ve been seeing more of them lately. Not all in plain sight. Some tucked behind planters, carved into lintels, scraped into alley bricks where light barely reaches. Not many, but enough.
And I’m not the only one.
In the glass window, I see Strannt’s reflection shift. He’s seen it too, eyes narrowing, mouth pulling tight. Annoyance, maybe. But there’s a flicker of something else underneath. Confusion. Like he doesn’t know what it means.
He catches me staring and narrows his eyes before turning away, moving to join Talen and Lucien, who have stopped outside a small baker’s shop. It’s closed. Windows shuttered. And on the door, again, another Aurelian crest.
Finn and I stand back with the other cadets on the opposite side of the alley.
Just for a second, Talen glances toward me, and something flickers across his face, pain? Regret? But then it’s gone, turning back and slamming his fist against the door.
Nothing. He tries again.
“Open up. We know you’re home,” he orders.
Silence. Then the grind of locks turning, slow, reluctant.
The door creaks open. A man steps into view—late thirties, soft, warm eyes, missing an arm, the kind of hard-worked frame you see on bakers or smiths.
At his waist, two pairs of eyes blink up at us.
Girls, young. Seven, maybe eight. Around the same age I was when my mum died.
“Good morning, officers. How can I help?” he asks, smooth as ever. He doesn’t look surprised to see Talen, but I see it. The way his hand curls too tight on the doorframe. The tremor he can’t quite hide. He’s nervous.
The smell of fresh bread still drifts out behind him, warm and thick, and for a second I can’t connect it—the apron, the quiet shop—with what comes next.
“We have… suspicions.” Talen claims, voice cold, “that you have been engaging in unlawful activity. No proof is required, and by order of the Citadel, you are to be taken into custody and Reassigned.”
The baker at the door doesn’t say a word. He just looks down—at the two small shapes behind him, fingers clutching the edge of his coat. His mouth pulls tight, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t argue.
My stomach drops. What, no, no. He can't be, why?
Suspicion, not evidence, not proof, they have suspicions? They are going to kill a man, Talen is going to kill a man, take him from his daughters and send him off to fight dragons because of a hunch.
My Threads flare hot and strong, fist clenching. This man isn’t dangerous. He’s a shopkeeper, a father. He was just… living.
I stare at Talen's back, willing it to be someone else’s voice.
Someone else’s hands. Because I’ve never seen him do this.
Not with my own eyes. Rumours, whispers, what others said about him, sure.
But I thought they were wrong. I wanted them to be wrong.
Because I wanted to believe he was different, I needed to believe he was different because I started to trust him. God. I kissed him.
And now here he is, white uniform spotless, voice like ice, doing the Citadel’s dirty work without flinching.
Something cracks open in my chest, beating hard, flooding my veins, ugly and raw. Anger. Shame. Betrayal.
How could I have been so stupid?
The one-armed baker still doesn’t move. His eyes are on his daughters, arms out slightly, ready to shield them.
My breath snags, a hard tremor rolling through me.
“Talen,” I call, stepping close, “there are kids here. You can’t—”
But he doesn’t look at me, not even a flicker; instead, he steps forward, reaching for the man.
A shaky rush hits hard, I don’t think, just move. Finn grabs for me—fingers on my elbow.
“Lyra, don’t. You’ll get us all in trouble—” but I’m already past him, planting myself between Talen and the baker.
Talen startles, just for a second. His eyes flare, brows twitch up, then pull low and tight. The surprise fades fast, but what replaces it isn’t calm. It’s sharper, harder. Like he’s bracing. Like he’s already decided I’m a threat. The rush behind my ribs kicks harder now.
“Cadet Bloom,” he orders, the words clipped at the ends. “Step aside.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice breaking as my eyes search his, desperate to find the version of him I thought he was. “Don’t do this.”
For a heartbeat, something shifts. His gaze flicks between mine—left, then right, like he’s trying to decide who I am to him in this moment.
“Lyra, don’t.” His voice is low but firm in my ear. “You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m not your enemy. But keep going, and I will be.” Then louder, colder. “Step. Aside.”
Pulse racing now, I glance back. The baker’s still frozen in place, his one arm stretched wide to hold his daughters behind him.
He’s not moving. Barely breathing. One of the girls is crying, silent, tears streaking down her face.
The other just stares at me, wide-eyed, like she hasn’t decided yet if I’m the threat or the way out.
God, what am I doing. He’s only one man. One name. Just another mark on the Citadel’s endless fucking list. I’m so close to getting answers. If I don’t move, if I don’t step aside, I risk everything.
But if I do... he dies. Like my mother. Gone, just like that... And I know what it’s like to lose a parent. To be left behind, to grow up alone in a world that doesn’t care.
My breathing stutters into fast, hard pulls. Save myself... or save him, them.
I look back at Talen. His face still locked tight, eyes harder than I’ve ever seen them.
I let him in. Dropped my guard, believed he was something else. He’s not. He’s just a fucking Nightrose, a trap. A loyal enforcer for the system.