Chapter Thirty-Five #3
“No,” I say, chin up, feet planted, chest rising too fast, too hard. “I’m not moving.”
“Don’t make me do this.” Talen threatens.
Behind him, I catch a look at Finn. Tense, jaw tight, shaking his head, telling me to let it go.
But I don’t move. And I don’t look away.
Talen sighs. Long. Controlled. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.
Before I can respond, he moves quick, one hands clamp around my arms. The pressure shocks me—tight and unrelenting, nothing like he’s touched me before. Not soft, not gentle. This is soldier grip. Enforcer grip.
He yanks me up, spinning me away from the door like I weigh nothing.
I can’t break his grip—his hold is too strong—but my legs are free. I shift fast. One sharp move and my knee slams up to his groin, not hard enough to cause any damage—but enough to hurt. He stumbles, cursing under his breath, grip slipping just enough for me to wrench away.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I spit, backing up, dragging in a breath.
His eyes flash, not with rage, but something else. Like he hates this just as much as I do, but not enough to stop it.
The other cadets step back, tension rolling off them. Even Finn. No one wants to get in the middle.
Talen’s attention snaps back to the baker, now unguarded by the door. “Luc,” he calls, voice tight. “Take him.”
Lucien moves, but Strannt’s already there, grinning like he’s been waiting for permission. He grabs the baker, pries him off his daughters, and hauls him out into the alley.
The baker’s fingers twitch in his grip, weak Threads flaring just once, but Strannt’s magic slams down faster. Cleaner. The movement dies before it can become anything more.
“Hand him over, Strannt.” Talen calls. “We’ll take him from here.”
“Finders keepers.” Strannt replies smug, “I think I'll add him to my tally for the month. Your list is getting too long.”
Too long? How many people has Talen Reassigned this month? Who is he?
A steady tapping approaches behind us as Talen’s fingers twitch at his side. He looks to the baker, then to Strannt, the gold in his eyes flashing bright. He takes a step forward—
“Officer Veirmont. Officer Thornviel.” A dry voice follows that same slow tap of a cane on stone. “What seems to be the issue here?”
I spin as Professor Strannt, Weasel Senior, steps between us, blue robes dragging, expression unreadable. He glances toward his son—still gripping the baker by the arm—then past him to the doorway, where the man’s two daughters are still pressed back in the shadows.
“No issue, Professor.” Talen replies smoothly. “We’re detaining this citizen for questioning and Reassignment, assuming Officer Strannt is willing to hand him over.”
The Weasel’s dad smiles, all smooth edges and polished charm.
“Looks like Officer Strannt has things well in hand, and I’m more than happy to escort our guest back to the Citadel myself.
After all, Officer Veirmont, we would both be taking him to the same place.
” He casts a glance toward the baker, still pinned, still silent, still white.
Talen’s jaw tightens, but then nods. “As you wish.”
Professor Strannt smiles again, shifting his weight on to his cane.
Behind him, the baker jerks hard against the Weasel's grip. Elbows flailing. Half a second of panic, wild and stupid—like he suddenly remembered he’s not supposed to go quietly.
He doesn’t get the chance. Strannt’s elbow drives into his temple, brutal and efficient. The man drops like a bag of flour.
For a second, the professor reaches like he’s going to drag the body—fingers fisted in the collar, arms tensed.
But then he sighs and flicks two fingers.
The baker’s body lifts. Not far—just enough to float a few inches above the ground.
Limbs limp, head lolled to the side like a broken doll.
Then they turn, calm as ever, and disappear down the alley. The body drifting after them.
Crying erupts from the doorway, the two young girls scream, one tries to run after him, the other drops to her knees, crawling across the stone, but Talen moves, fast, catching them both, locking his arms around their flailing limbs. They thrash hard. Sobbing. Clawing.
“Take the cadets back to the Citadel,” he snaps to Lucien, as the girls in his grip start to calm under his touch. “I’ll deal with this shit-show.”
Lucien nods and steps up beside me, grabbing my arm—firm, no warning. His jaw clenches. So does his grip as he turns, leading us away.
Behind us, just barely audible.“Fuck,” Talen mutters under his breath.
The walk back through the tunnel is tense. No one speaks. It’s silent except for the sound of footsteps echoing off stone, like we’re all pretending we didn’t just watch a man get ripped from his daughters.
Lucien’s still got a grip on my arm. Not hard, but present. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll run.
In front of me, Finn glances over his shoulder. I feel it. That sideways flick of his eyes, waiting for me to meet him halfway.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Because if I look at him, if I see pity—or worse, disappointment—I’ll lose it. Right here in the fucking tunnel.
Air doesn’t come right, my chest feels too tight, like my ribs are shrinking in around my lungs.
I just want to get through the routine interrogation and make it to my room before I break apart. But the way Lucien is holding me tells me there's nothing routine about what’s waiting for me.
Shit.
I thought I was past this. Thought I could watch the Citadel’s bullshit from the inside and stay calm, stay quiet, play their game while I find answers.
But this is what loyalty looks like, right? White uniforms dragging fathers away while their daughters scream.
He was supposed to be different. That was the whole lie I told myself, right? That under all that Citadel white, he was still one of us. Still human.
But that’s not what I saw in his eyes.
That wasn’t hesitation.
That was calculation. Duty, clean and cold.
And, god, I kissed him. Let him in. Dropped my guard like an idiot.
I’m furious at Talen, but worse, I’m furious at myself. For pretending he could be anything other than exactly what he is.
I blink hard, trying to shove it all down. Push it into some corner of myself I can deal with later, but it keeps slamming back up into my chest.
Finn glances back again, mouth parting like he’s about to say something. Maybe to comfort me. Maybe to lose his shit. I don’t know—and I don’t want to find out, so I grit my teeth, drop my gaze, and keep walking.
Because they took that man, killed him, and left his girls, and if I let myself speak, I’m going to start screaming, and I’m not sure I’ll stop.
Echoes of shouted orders build as we near the circular interrogation chamber, officers barking commands, boots scuffing stone. The whole place feels louder than usual, which is saying something.
We fall in line behind a pack of cadets waiting to be searched. Strangers from other groups—some trying to look tough, others trying not to shake. Lucien breaks off to join the officers, but not before shooting me a look that’s all warning: Don’t run. Don’t even think about it.
I narrow my eyes but don’t say anything. Not like I’ve got anywhere to run to.
One by one, the cadets are pulled into side rooms—steel doors yawning open, then slamming shut behind them—but the sound still leaks out through the grated window, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Across the chamber, I catch a glimpse of the Weasel, grinning at me like he’s already won something I didn’t know I was playing for.
My stomach knots as the jittering beat behind my ribs kicks back up, fast and uneven.
Shit.
Ever since Talen and I started our little fake dating stunt, no one’s tried anything in the cells. A pat-down here, a few too-long stares—but nothing worse, but by the look on the Weasel's face, that's probably about to change...
Ezzy’s been lucky too. Not sure if it’s her parents pulling strings or something Brian arranged behind the scenes. Maybe both. But if I ever found out someone touched her like I’ve heard they do? God, I’d kill them.
“Bloom.” An officer calls out. “Cell Eight.”
Bile creeps up the back of my throat as I catch the Weasel watching me—eyes too sly, too still.
Hell, he’s planning something. I know it.
I’ve checked the Codex. They can’t Reassign me, not while I’m in a partnership with Talen.
But there’s nothing stopping them from punishing me, hurting me.
I’m not protected from pain. And what if Talen ends it after today?
What if he decides after today that this little performance was enough?
Would they Reassign me then? Would they throw me to the dragons?
Maybe I should bolt? But where would I even run? The Citadel stretches in every direction—stone, steel, doors that only open one way. They’ll catch me before I clear the chamber, and if I'm not in enough shit already, I will be then.
So I don’t argue. What would be the point?
I knew what I was doing when I stepped in front of that baker; I knew the risks.
But as I step into Cell Eight, all I can think is—what if I just destroyed the only shot I had at finding the truth?
I just threw away everything for nothing.
I didn’t save him, didn’t stop them. All I did was put a bigger target on my back.
The damp, sour smell of fear clings to the air, sharp and wet in the back of my throat as I step into the cell.
It’s colder than I expected. No table. One chair, bare stone walls, floor, ceiling and a metal door with a tiny grated window near the top—just wide enough to let a flicker of light seep through from the chamber outside.
I move toward the chair.
Behind me—tap. Cane on stone, steady, measured.
The door shuts, biting into place with a heavy click.
I turn.
Professor Strannt steps into the cell, leaning hard on his cane.
The limp shows in the way he stands—one leg stiff, weight dragging slightly as he shifts.
Same weaselly eyes as his son, narrow, greedy little things that never quite blink.
Only his are worse. Older. Harder. Watching me the way a butcher looks at a carcass.
I’ve seen enough looks like that to know when a man’s somewhere else entirely.
He’s not just seeing me. He’s back in the Outerlands, years ago, when he was ambushed and left for dead.
And now his gaze crawls over me like I’m one of them, hell, I am one of them.
Like I’m the debt come due. The thin curl of his mouth says he’s going to enjoy this.
A hard twist rolls through me, but I plant my feet. “Didn’t think professors handled interrogations,” I hiss, jaw tight.
He tilts his head, voice oily. “Well, I thought I’d make a special exception for you.” His cane taps once as he steps closer. “After all, you seemed so concerned about that baker today, the one who was Reassigned. I saw you. Standing in the doorway. Defending him.”
Fuck.
“I’ve been watching you for a while, Cadet.” His smile spreads thin. “And I can see why Officer Veirmont is rather captivated. You are… fascinating. Always in the library, aren’t you?”
I shiver as the thought scrapes down my spine. He’s been watching me, watching Rowan. I shift my weight, squaring a shoulder like I might shove past if he comes closer.
“There’s nothing wrong with being in the library,” I snap.
His eyes glint, amused. “True. And to be fair, I’m not really interested in the childish antics of a second-year cadet. A senior officer, however…” His cane drags as he closes the distance, “…would be much more interesting.”
The sour, papery reek of old ink wraps around me—underscored by the faint rot of someone who spends too long in sealed rooms as he stops in front of me. My throat tightens, air catching.
“You know,” he continues, voice low. “Truth Strings are fascinating things. I heard from Holloway that you’re doing rather well with them.
” The look in his eyes makes my stomach drop.
I already don’t like where this is going.
“As you would have learnt, Truth Strings cannot be forced or coerced. It would be useless to try and pull them in an interrogation.”
He pauses, tilts his head, letting the silence stretch.
“What he failed to mention,” he murmurs, “is that that isn’t entirely true.
For us—those who’ve honed our magic, trained our Threads properly—Truth Strings break the moment any coercion is detected.
” His smile sharpens. “But someone with… wilder magic, shall we say? Unstable. Raw. There are ways to make them slip. To force a String when demanded.”
His cane taps once against the stone. Then he whispers, almost with relish.
“Pain.”