Chapter Forty-Seven #3
“I heard it was your boyfriend who handed you over.” Strannt sneers, opposite me. “Went to the council, said you tricked him into some fake relationship. Claimed he ended it the moment he found out. Then added you were stealing books from Officer Green, too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Don’t flinch, don’t react. But everything inside me is screaming because I’m such a fool. To trust him. Talen.
This is why he never gave me real answers—because he was already acting against me. It was all a lie. Every word, every touch. I thought he was trying to help me, but he was just helping himself. Helping Merrin, Serrane?
The cart slams through another rut, and pain punches through my shoulder, sharp enough to knock the air clean out of me—and something else loose with it.
Because even now, even after everything… part of me, somewhere deep down in the mess of it, still wants to believe he didn’t do it. Didn’t hand me over.
But how can I? I saw him, I saw him push that blade into Ezzy’s side and let her drop to the ground.
And it's my fault, I handed him the fucking knife. I didn’t just fall for a lie. I fed it. I let it crawl into my bed. I let it hold me, tell me I was safe. I should’ve known, maybe I did know. He even warned me.
My stomach twists so hard it hurts. For a second, I think I might actually be sick—No they don’t get to see me break. So I force it down, dig my nails into my palms until the sting cuts through the spin in my chest.
Then, suddenly, the cart stops.
We’ve only been going about an hour, far, but not far enough to reach the Northern Peaks.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask, the words scraping out too thin, too close to fear. I hate it.
Strannt doesn’t answer. He goes quiet but the officer beside him just smiles—dark, expectant and I know that look. I’ve seen it before. I know exactly what it means. The door opens.
“Out. Now.” Orders the blonde-haired officer who was driving the carriage.
A jolt tears through me as he hauls me out, jacket splitting at the seams with a harsh rip. Cold air rushes in, biting at the skin now exposed. Then he shoves me aside, forcing me to stand. I stagger but stay upright, wrists and ankles strain against the rope, breath tight in my chest.
Strannt and the bald officer follow, stepping out of the carriage and line up in front of me.
“Right, boys,” says the blonde one, his eyes dragging up and down me. “Toss a coin. See who goes first?”
Strannt hesitates. Then: “Sure.”
Three sets of eyes find me—but it’s not just the way they look that makes my fist clench. It’s what’s underneath. That slow, simmering hunger. Like I’m something they’ve already decided belongs to them.
Something cold settles in my gut. But I keep my face still. Don’t react, don't give them anything.
“Okay, heads and Strannt takes her,” the bald one smirks. “Tails, me and blondie here double team her.”
The coin spins in the air and hits the ground with a dull clink.
Heads.
“Fuck,” the bald one mutters. “Fine. Strannt, you’re up first.”
Strannt shifts forward, hands at his belt—then stops. “I’m not ready yet. You two go first.”
“Dick not working?” The blonde one barks. “Fine by me.”
Belts unbuckle with every step they take. Two against one, bound hands and feet, a bruised body, no magic. My muscles twitch, instinct screaming to fight, to run, to do something. But I can’t. And they know it. They’re laughing now.
My brain scrambles—fight, fight, fight—but my body already knows the truth. If I fight, they’ll beat me until there’s nothing left. Until I’m begging them to stop. If I don’t, if I just go still, they’ll think they’ve won. Both means losing. Both are hell.
I bite down hard again on the inside of my cheek, taste blood, anchor myself to the sting.
If I can’t stop this, maybe I can choose how to survive it. So I pull back. I fold everything that’s mine—my thoughts, my name—and lock it deep inside where they can’t reach. Let them touch what’s left. The rest of me is already gone.
The blonde one leans in, I can smell the sour sweat on his skin, the bite of his breath.
“Don’t worry darling.” His voice gleeful. “You won’t remember a thing because you’ll be dead by this evening anyway.”
A breathless jolt flares under my ribs. Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.
He grabs for my belt—
—the air shifts.
A sudden gust, heavy and loaded, presses down over us.
“What the…” the bald one mutters, pausing mid-motion.
For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breath—mine, his, theirs.
Then suddenly, behind me.
THUMP.
The ground cracks. A deep, bone-low vibration rolls out beneath me—slow and thunderous—ripping through the earth and into my legs, my spine, my skull, nearly knocking me off my feet.
The two officers stumble back, hands dropping from their belts, eyes wide and wild. Behind them, Strannt’s gone pale, colour draining so fast he already looks dead.
None of them move.
Then another sound. Low. Deep. Ancient. A growl rolls through the air behind me, thick as thunder and heavier than breath. It settles in my bones as heat builds at my back—dense, pressing—coating my skin like a warning.
I don’t dare turn. I don’t even breathe.
“Don’t move,” one of the officers whispers, voice tight. “If you don’t move, they can’t see you.”
Strannt glances between them and the dragon, eyes flicking fast. One second. Two. “Fuck that,” he snaps, and bolts.
The other two watch him for a second, then break in the opposite direction, fumbling as they run. Their trousers slip loose around their legs, boots tangling in fabric.
Behind me the dragon inhales—air drawing back, pressure mounting and the heat behind me surges.
Shit—
I drop to the ground just as the world ignites.
Flames tear overhead, licking the back of my neck. The smell of burning hair hits—quick and acrid—just as the heat surges past, sweeping across the open ground toward the officers.
They turn—too late.
The blast hits, swallowing them whole. In a blink they’re gone, nothing left but scorched earth and two collapsing piles of ash.
To my right, Strannt’s still running—small, desperate, a flicker against the pale horizon.
Then I hear it again.
Another inhale.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I roll on to my back, heart hammering against my ribs. Maybe I can get under the carriage. Maybe—
I start shuffling backward, wrists bound, shoulders screaming.
But then I look up.
God.
It’s massive.
Dark orange scales, eyes like molten gold—burning, too bright to look away from.
It looks beautiful, furious. Ready to strike again.
I was already heading to the dragons. Already marked to die. But lying here, with this thing breathing over me, I finally understand—I’m not ready.
It inhales.
Fuck. This is it.
THUMP.
Another impact, close, the ground shaking. I flinch, turning my head left as a second dragon lands, blue-scaled, its wings spread wide, silhouetted against the rising sun.
Someone slides down its back—effortless, fluid—and hits the ground running.
I know that stride. That posture. A hard hitch snaps through my ribs and I shuffle back harder, bound feet struggling against the dirt, trying to put space between us, but it's useless; there’s nowhere to go.
Lucien steps forward, hovering over me. His eyes flick from my face to the torn fabric, the bruises, the dirt.
Behind him the orange dragon growls again—loud, deep. Another inhale. Ready to strike.
Lucien spins. “Don’t you fucking dare touch her, Calyxar.” He orders, turning to face the dragon head-on. “Here—okay, here. Look.”
He fumbles and pulls something from his pocket—a familiar gold coin catching the light. He holds it up toward the dragon. But its eyes are still fixed on me. Narrowed. Hungry. Breath rising hot behind clenched teeth.
“Fuck, I swear this is getting harder,” Lucien mutters, shaking his head, then louder, sharper. “Come on, Goldie, Look. Here.”
Beside me, the blue dragon lets out a growl of its own—rough and warning. Calyxar’s head snaps toward the sound before finally dropping its gaze to the circular gold object in Lucien’s hand.
A beat of silence.
Then his chest rises—slow, deep—and something shifts in the air. Not wind, not sound. Just pressure, Threads.
The orange dragon's wings draw in, tight to its back. For one beat, everything around it shifts, shadows stretch, sound thins.
Magic prickles under my skin, everything in me pulls tight.
I don’t see it clearly. Can’t. The shape folds in on itself, collapsing down fast, like the space around it just gives out.
One blink and the dragon is gone. But in its place—something else stands.
I don’t move, can’t breathe. Stillness stretches, my brain won’t catch up, refuses to.
It’s not possible.
It shouldn’t be.
But when he lifts his head—when those eyes meet mine, dark hazel, rimmed in gold—my voice barely makes it out.
“...Talen?”
To be continued...
Read the next chapter for Talen’s point of view on what happened in Chapter 28 at Bren’s house before the Ashvale fire.
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