He’s tall, wearing a heavy Scholar’s robe,deep red, trimmed in gold stitching that catches the light as he moves. The officers' part for him like this was always the plan, like they were never in charge to begin with.
As he steps closer, his face comes into view. Pale and weathered, deep lines carved around his mouth and eyes, and a white beard trimmed clipped at the edges.
“You’ve caused quite enough excitement for one day, Miss Bloom,” he says, stopping a few feet away.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—those stay cold, calculating, like he’s already dissecting me.
”Now... if you’d be so kind, please come with me,” he continues. “The Citadel has been waiting a long time to meet you.”
Fuck, so much for no more issues today.
I turn and bolt.
CHAPTER THREE
It's thesmellthat hits first, thick with the scent of wet stone, mildew and a hint of damp paper. There’s a heaviness to it, like the walls have been steeped in it for centuries.
Then comes the cold itself, sinking into my cheek where it meets the floor, damp and biting, spreading across my skin, into my bones.
My head throbs as I blink open, deep and pulsing. Everything feels… off. Dragging one hand across my face, fingers trembling, I try to push myself up with the other. The room instantly tilts, my stomach lurches.
Fuck, I knew trying to run was a bad idea...
Laying back down, I press my palm flat against the cold stone and exhale as I reach deep. Just a flicker, just enough to feel my magic, my Threads, but they’re distant. Sluggish. I narrow my focus and try again, a little harder this time, jaw tight, will them to stir. To shift.... But nothing.
My heart kicks once, pulsing behind my chest.
Okay, don’t panic—not yet. But it’s wrong. Off.My magic has never been easy to control, but it’s never beensilent....
The floor still spins, but I push up again, moving through it to lean against the bed beside me. Once my stomach settles, I gather my legs, and haul myself upright. They barely hold. Knees give, joints groaning like rusted hinges, so I drop down on to the mattress.
What did they do to me? I don’t even remember, not properly. There’s a haze where the memories should be, like someone smeared oil across the inside of my skull. I remember running... but then it’s blank.
Fuck, I need a plan, where even am I? Where are the officers? It’s so quiet, nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just... silence pressing in from all sides.
I don’t know where I am, or why I’m still breathing, but I am. They haven’t Reassigned me, yet. Maybe they need something? Maybe that buys me time? A way out... I just need to figure out what they want before they ship me off to the Northern Peaks to keep the dragons at bay.
Three days. That’s how long you last—if you’re lucky. If you’re clever...
The room’s dim, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust as I look around. Small. Two desks, two cupboards, two beds. That’s it. Except for my pack, slumped in the corner like it’s already given up on any escape.
What in the ever-burning hells isthis?
I blink hard, like maybe I’m seeing double. But no. It’s not the magic. It’s not the throbbing behind my eyes.
It’s not a cell.
It’s not an interrogation room.
This place... it looks like a dorm, a student’s bedroom. Shared, maybe. Functional, but lived in. Whatisthis?
A knot tightens in my gut as I push to my feet and immediately sway, one hand catching the desk for balance. Everything tilts for a breath before it settles, I take a deep breaththen turn to the door. Big, solid wood, dark with age. It looks as immovable as it feels, but I try the handle anyway. Doesn’t budge.
Of course it doesn’t.
I jiggle it again anyway—metal clacking against wood, sharp in the quiet—then shove harder. The door groans under the pressure, but stays firm. No surprise there.
I exhale, then drag my gaze back to the bed across from where I sat. Blankets folded with surgical precision, boots aligned toe-to-heel beneath the frame. The desk beside it is covered in papers and books, stacked by size and arranged by colour, every edge aligned. But the notes? Cramped, messy, ink pressed deep into the page. Diagrams, half-sentences, scrawled equations. All of it edged with the kind of urgency that smells like late nights and quiet panic.
