“No.” His jaw flexes. “You give up everything. No contact with anyone. No one knows what happens inside.”
“Let us welcome our latest Initiates,” Serrane calls.
The crowd sighs, actually sighs, and then... movement. Slow and obedient. A handful of cadets stand up and walk toward the platform like they’ve been called home. One of them has bright red hair. Easy to spot. He’s the same cadet Finn faced in Offensive Magic earlier this week.
It’s strange, the Innerlands banned religion the moment the Treaty was signed. In the Outerlands, some people still cling to it, but it’s fading fast—hope burning out one prayer at a time, though we still use some of the words.
And yet here, right now, in the heart of the Citadel, it looks suspiciously like worship. Serrane standing on that platform, white robes glowing, and everyone staring at him like he’s their god.
I try to block him out, focus on counting the cracks in the stone floor, but he just drones on for another hour. When it finally ends, the new initiates file off the platform behind him without a word.
Beside me, Ezzy, Finn, and Rowan get up and head for lunch like this is all completely normal. I don’t have the mental energy to question it, so I just follow.
It’s the usual—stale bread and bland broth—but ever since Ezzy casually mentioned they lace the food with birth control, I swear I can taste it. Chalky and clinical.
Before I’m even halfway through, Rowan’s already pushing up from the table, eyes shifting out the door towards the Rec Hall, clearly on some self-assigned mission to get Ezzy back on her feet. She doesn’t argue, just follows with that tight smile she wears when she’s too tired to pretend she’s fine but doesn’t want anyone asking. As always, they invite me to come.
I hesitate for a second. I could go, pretend everything’s fine, watch Ezzy train like nothing ever happened. But I can't stomach seeing her on the mat again, not yet anyway. Only two weeks left. I can survive that. They can survive that.
Besides, I'm exhausted, and I have mydatewith Talen in a few hours. So I make an excuse and keep my distance.
Back in the dorm, I grab Mum’s journal and drop on to the bed. I manage a few lines before my eyelids start to drag. Just a minute, I tell myself. Close them for one minute.
But the Citadel hums steady through the walls, low and constant like it’s rocking me under, and I’m gone before I can stop it.
The dry tasteof sleep coats my mouth as I blink into dim light. The room’s darker than it should be, sun already sliding low. How long was I out?
One glance at my watch and my stomach drops. Shit. I’m late. Due to meet Talen at five, and it’s already 5:05. I freshen up and sprint up to the fifth floor.
How am I late? I’m already handing him the chance to play games with me. The one thing I can’t afford. I need answers, and I need them now.
My lungs are burning by the time I reach the top of the stairwell, but two doors wait opposite me—one on the right, one on the left. No markings. No clue. Fuck, which one?
Behind me, the sharp tap-drag of a cane echoes off the stone. Spinning on my heels, I glance back—Strannt and his father, Weasel Senior, deep in conversation, heading up the steps toward me. They haven’t seen me yet, but the last thing I need is to get cornered by either of those smug bastards. Panic kicks in. No time to think. I grab the handle on the right and shove through.
The door slams at my back, cutting off the stairwell. I’m left on a small balcony with a low railing overlooking the Citadel moat and the eastern sprawl of the Realms below. Sunset spills across it—orange fire on stone, shadows stretching long. To my right, a narrow open ledge hugs the wall before curling around a turret. To the left—nothing but empty air.
What the...
Wrong door. I picked the wrong fucking door.
A growl scrapes low in my throat as I slam the heel of my hand into my forehead—once, hard—like I can knock the stupidity out of it. Typical, so bloody typical, Lyra.
Maybe Strannt and his dad are gone, maybe I can slip back in, try the other one.
I grab the handle, twist, nothing. Try again. Still nothing. Locked.
No. No, no, no.
I can’t be stuck five floors up with no way down. No way out.
Think, Lyra.
My watch ticks mockingly. 5:15.
Jaw tight, I rattle the handle again. Slam my hand against it. Nothing. My Threads begin to itch under my skin. Maybe I can force some air through the lock... but out here, with no space, one wrong surge and I’ll blow myself straight off the side. No I need anoth?—
“You’re late.”
