My fingers curl tight at my side, nails pressing into my palm until it stings. He doesn’t know anything about her. She didn’t make a mistake. She left this place and she was right to.
“Are we done?” I ask, jaw tight.
Merrin only nods, then moves to open the door. I’m halfway through when his voice follows. “The truth is a… precarious thing around here, Lyra. Sometimes silence is the only way to say it.”
I don’t turn. Don’t give him anything. I just walk out, because whatever he means by that, I don’t care. I’m done with these Citadel games.
The walkthrough the tunnel feels longer than it should—maybe because our packs are heavier for the overnight stay, or maybe because Finn’s now sulking after Ezzy laid it on a little too thick with Brian, the pale, lanky guard at the entrance.
She leaned in, twirled her hair, told him all about the toxic flora and fauna book she picked up from the library, and in return, he treated us to athrillingupdate on his research project.
I nearly died of boredom. Something on vibrations, energy shifts and Threadfields—half the words slid right past me. Ezzy nodded like it was fascinating, even gasped when he mentioned he’d pieced some of it together from old books his family collects, which only made him blush harder.
We keep walking, but no one’s spoken in twenty minutes; the only sound is Finn periodically cracking his fingers, quick little snaps that echo back off the damp stone.
The officers don’t help the awkward silence—one leading, one behind. Neither talks. The one in front hesitates at the first fork like he’s not sure where we’re supposed to be going, and the one at the back keeps sneaking looks at his folded assignment list, like the words might rearrange into better instructions if he stares long enough. Not exactly confidence-inspiring.
By the time the tunnel opens up, the sun’s already high and my stomach’s making threats I can’t ignore. The West Bridge connecting the Innerlands and Outerlands stretches wide ahead, smooth stone gleaming.
It feels wrong. I’ve never taken the bridge before. Just the rope, my rope, slung over the Ravine. This thing makes it lookso easy. Like Ashvale’s just… accessible. Open. But the truth is, it never has been.
Citadel guards flank each end, dull white uniforms dulled further by travel dust. They monitor the flow, eyes sharp, hands always near weapons. It’s mostly goods being carted out—Spice, metals, fabric, the Innerlands love to hoard. Barely anything comes in. Just one pathetic cart with crates of dried rations. Not enough to feed a street, let alone a town. Definitely not enough to matter.
As I look across the bridge, the smell rolls in—smoke, damp, and sour, the stink of distant fires catching in the back of my throat. Ashvale. God, I forgot howbare, how wild it feels here. For a second, I almost smile—because this is it. I made it. I’m home. Then I glance down and a tight twist pulls in my stomach.
The Citadel whites practically glow against the gravel, too clean, too wrong. I’m about to walk into Ashvale dressed like the fucking enemy. The thing that left them to die. They don’t know about Merrin’s deal, or the nights I spent clawing my way out. All they’ll see is the uniform. And they’ll be right to hate me for it. Hell, I hate me for it.
But I don’t get a choice. Not if I want to make it home. I drag in air that tastes like dust and force it down, locking on to the only plan that doesn’t end with me gutted in the street—blend in.
Stay with the group. Stay close to Ezzy. If I keep my head down, maybe I pass for just another cadet. At least until I make it to Bren’s. At least until I can tear this thing off and burn it.
“Keep moving, cadet,” one of the officers snaps behind me.
Ezzy glances back, grin wide, too bright for a place like this. She doesn’t notice my hesitation, doesn’t notice the sweat slicking my palms.
She just bounds over, grabs my hand, and tugs me forward. “Come on,” she calls, all sunshine. “You’re nearly home.”
The morning drags,every street stretching longer than the last. Hours of trudging, head down, trying not to be noticed. But the officers make it impossible—boots pounding against cobblestone, orders barked harsh enough to sting, the scrape of shutters slamming as they shove through stalls and doorways, sniffing for trouble. A glance too long. A muttered curse. Doesn’t matter. Any excuse will do.
One officer yanks a old man from his cart and slams him against the wall, accusing him of shorting rations. The man’s hands go up, palms open, he doesn’t resist. Doesn’t matter, a fist cracks across his jaw anyway.
I want to drag the officer off, shove myself between the kicks and the blood. My hands twitch with it. But Merrin’s voice cuts through.
Midnight, and you’re free.
If I give them a reason, they’ll toss me back over the wall before I get close.
So I stay still. Get through the day. Get to Bren’s. And maybe I’ll figure out how the hell to explain the last month.
As we walk, the uniform digs in heavier with every step, stiff collar biting, fabric suffocating. It screams outsider, marks me as theirs. But the streets under it? The smells, the grit of gravel, the sour smoke clinging to stone—they feel like home.
Only… It’s not the same.
Faces are tighter. Shoulders more hunched like everyone’s bracing for a blow that hasn’t landed yet. Posters crowd the walls in layers. More than I remember. Names, faces. Missing. Gone.
By midday, our oh-so-critical patrol route turns into investigating a disturbance on the north side of town.Which, naturally, is three drunk idiots shouting in a square outside a tavern. Should be easy. Until I see who one of them is.Kael.
Shit.
