Chapter Forty-Six
The Outerland air scrapes down my throat. Although it’s summer, the night’s dry and cold, biting deep with every breath. Still, I push harder—putting distance between us, between the rules, between whatever this trial’s about to ask us to do.
Fuck, we should’ve brought five. Six... The thought of any of them dying out here—let alone by my own hands—bile rises into my mouth, I swallow it back, thick and acidic. Doesn’t help.
I should’ve listened to Talen. But how the hell could I trust him? The memory presses too close; his hand, Brian's neck cracking. The silence after. I shove it down and keep moving.
I can do this. I do this. Can I?
I pass one of the cadets from Ryven’s team, half-hidden in shadow. But I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Just keep moving—further out, toward the peaks—until all the sounds behind me fade.
Then I stop, turn, and look around. Time to start circling back in.
A few broken shacks stand ahead, brittle silhouettes against the dust, surrounded by nothing but scrubland stretching in every direction—wide and empty.
God. Where do I even start? How big is this thing? A golden Relic. What does it even look like?
My heart’s kicking harder now, too loud in my ears. I drop low and start scanning the ground, fast and frantic, eyes darting over dirt and rock. Nothing. No glint. No shimmer. No sign of anything worth dying for.
I grit my teeth as I keep looking. They can’t ask this of us, but they have, and if I don’t find that Relic before Ryven’s team does. None of it’s going to matter.
So I keep moving. Faster. Shoving through low brush, crawling under scrub. My hands are raw, knees scraped open, dust coating the back of my throat.
Doesn’t matter. I keep looking, anywhere. Everywhere.
Far ahead, a flicker of movement—moonlight catches on blonde hair, Ezzy’s maybe, or Rowan’s. They’re moving slow, methodical.
Shit, this is going to take forever. And this Relic? Finding it? It’s luck. And I’m not going to die because of luck. Not after everything it took to survive this long.
What’s the strategy here? There has to be one.
They’re testing loyalty, sure—but skill too. Focus. Intelligence. Are we even doing this right? Just crawling through dirt like idiots? There has to be a way to tip the scale.
Magic? Threads? Something.
Think Lyra.
Floorboards groan underfoot as I step into one of the shacks—two rooms, barely divided by a crumbling stone wall, and a roof that probably lets in more rain than it keeps out.
An old cattle hut or something. As I move in deeper, a low moan threads through the stone—thin, breathy, almost human.
Just the wind, slipping through narrow cracks, whistling soft and hollow as it passes.
Something glints in the corner. I move toward it—fast heart, careful steps—But it’s just an old pot.
Rusted, catching the moonlight. I curse under my breath and kick it aside. The sound echoes louder than it should.
“So they haven’t killed you yet,” Ryven’s voice cuts through behind me.
I jolt—spin fast. Fuck, he must have been waiting in here. His hand shifts toward the blade at his hip.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, steady. “You’re not allowed to engage with anyone outside your team. Remember the rules?”
“Oh, but there’s no one here to see.” He smiles, stepping in. I feel it, his Threads, humming around him, alive and ready.
“Fuck off, Ryven. I’m warning you.” I start unknotting mine, magic building behind my ribs, bleeding down to my hands. Then—
A sound behind me. I whip around on reflex, but it’s just the pot, rolling a few inches in the breeze. Stupid, and too late. Ryven’s already moving, his Threads snap like a whip—ripping up a fistful of rocks and hurling them straight at me.
I drop, roll hard behind the shattered wall, stone exploding above my head.
“What the hell are you doing,” I yell, breath sawing in and out of my chest. He doesn’t answer, just hurls another blast of rock towards me.
Fuck. If I fight him, I’m breaking the rules. I get eliminated. Executed. Maybe my whole team too. But if I don’t—He’ll kill me.
And if I die here, could Ryven’s team still win? Then what happens to Ezzy, Rowan, Finn?
Footsteps echo closer. I look to my right, a hole in the wall where a window once was. Maybe I can slip out?
“What the fuck is your problem?” I shout. “You’re going to get us both killed. Hurt me, and you go down too, you fucking idiot.”
He doesn't answer. I wait. But this time, nothing. Silence now.
Did he leave?
I edge up, just enough to peek around the side of the wall—
Ryven’s still there. But he’s not moving. Not breathing. His arms are outstretched, fingers splayed. And his feet—They’re not touching the ground. He’s suspended, a full metre up, just hanging there.
What the...
Then—movement.
Behind him.
Two figures. White robes and black hollow eyes. The taller one stays back, one arm missing, but the shorter one steps forward. Something tugs at me—his red hair, too vibrant beneath the moonlight, like I’ve seen him before. But the thought slips as he smiles, closing his fist and the air buckles.
Ryven’s body snaps inwards.
A sickening crack—ribs, spine, jaw—everything folding the wrong way, like something crushing the centre of him tight.
His mouth drops open. Blood pours from his nose as his eyes go wide—glassed over, gone.
Then he drops. Hits the ground like a sack of meat.
Behind him, the taller one tilts its head like a crow listening for a heartbeat. I freeze. Everything in me goes very, very still. Heart pounding in my throat.
For a moment, they don’t move either.
Then, without warning, the shorter red-haired one snaps his wrist, and a fist-sized chunk of masonry tears itself from the wall.
I drop fast and hard back behind cover. It detonates where my head had just been.
Stone shatters and rips past my face, grit slices my cheek. A breathless, thrum builds inside me.
Oh god. It’s them. The ones Rowan saw in Ashvale. The black-eyed ones who were there when the dragons attacked.
“What do you want?” The words tear out of me, sharp and too loud. “Why are you here?”
Floorboards creak—One of them stepping forward. A voice follows. Hollow, cold.
“You and your friends have been asking too many questions. Poking where you shouldn’t.” A beat. “He sent us to make sure that stopped.”
Another blast—closer this time. Debris rains down from the roof. Shit.
“Who sent you?” I call, but this time I don't wait for a reply; I move quick, rolling around the side of the wall, flinging my Threads wide. Air, water—anything.
But they twist back on me.
The stress. The fear. Talen, Ezzy, Rowan, Finn. Everything hits at once, and my magic snaps, slamming into the ceiling. Wood splinters above, and a beam gives. A roar of collapse, violent and deafening. I throw myself clear just as wood crashes down where I’d been a heartbeat ago.
Dust explodes into the air, thick as smoke, burning my eyes, coating my tongue. I cough hard, blinking through the haze, vision swimming in grey.
And then—A laugh. Dry. Brittle. Like dead leaves crushed underfoot. The tall one steps through the swirling cloud, unfazed, watching me choke.
“Or maybe you should join us,” he says. “I can feel it in you. The pain, the darkness. He can take that away. That conflict.”
“He took ours,” the short one adds, stepping lightly over Ryven’s body. “Separated light from dark. Now there’s no argument left. No noise.” He raises his hands, magic flickering like nerves exposed.
No. I know how to do this. A deep inhale, let the emotions swell, funnel everything into my Threads, drawing air, moisture from anywhere around me—and then release.
Hands outstretched, teeth clenched, I throw a raw bolt of wind-wrapped water straight into the short one’s chest. It hits hard—he flies back into the wall behind.
But the tall one’s already moving. His Threads lash forward—rock and air tangled tight—and slam into my side.
Pain punches through my ribs. I hit the ground hard, lungs seizing.
But there’s no time to breathe. The shorter one’s already up, cutting the distance between us, so I force myself upright.
Duck left, fling another blast of air. The tall one stumbles back a step—enough to buy a second.
I pivot, magic surging, and send a sharpened stream of moisture straight into the short one’s chest. It lands. Drops him.
But not for long.
A pulse of pressure slams into my side—fast, brutal—and suddenly I’m airborne. Crashing back against stone, ribs screaming. I suck air through blood in my mouth and push up, knees slipping on debris, but they’re already back on me.
No time to think now. Just move.
Hit one. Pivot. Hit the other. Dodge. Recharge. Throw again.
The shorter one moves like they’ve done this before. Too many times, trained. The taller one’s sloppier, magic leaking wild and impulsive, but even with one arm, they’re dangerous. He keeps pressure on me while the other lines up shots I can’t afford to miss.
It’s a rhythm now—one I’m losing. Their magic isn’t stronger, just... aligned. They work together. One pins. One hits.
And I can’t take them both.
My magic splits, each thread fighting for different targets and refusing to cooperate. Like trying to throw a spear with both hands in different directions.
Boots scrape over rock and wood as I duck, twist, hurl a thread of air like a whip—it lands clean against the tall one’s shoulder, tears a scream from his throat. But by the time I spin to finish it, the short one hits me dead centre. My ribs explode with heat. I stagger again, coughing hard.
Shit, I roll behind the wall, panting harder now. If I keep playing their game, I’ll bleed out. Slow but certain. I need to stop them together. One hit. Same time.
They close in, Threads crackling at their fingertips, steps measured and confident.
I reach out again. Dig deeper, whole body locked now. Come on. More air. More moisture—no, that’s not enough. I need more.