His hair’s longer than I remember—thick curls gone wild, matted with dirt and sweat. A fresh scar splits across his brow, raw and red, like it hasn’t even finished healing. He’s leaning against a fruit stall, two of his crew flanking him, and there’s no point pretending I haven’t seen him. His grin’s already locked on me.
“Well, look at this,” he shouts, voice curling around the square like smoke. “Our very own Lyra Bloom, inwhite.”
He pushes off the tavern wall a little too fast, catches himself with a stumble, then keeps coming—boots crunching over the cracked cobblestone. Drunk. But not slow, just sloppy in that dangerous, unpredictable way. My breath catches on the next inhale and Ezzy shifts beside me, half a step back. Smart.
“Didn’t think even you’d stoop that low,” he says, stopping just short of me. His eyes sweep the uniform like it’s something filthy. “But here you are. All official. All obedient.” He leans in. “How’s it feel, being owned?”
My spine locks. “Keep walking, Kael.”
“Ohhh, why would I do that when you still owe me, remember?” He sneers. “Ash-dried dragon scales.”
The officer beside me snarls and steps forward.“Harassing a Citadel official is grounds for arrest.”
“You gonna arrest me just for talking now? Go on. Show ‘em what the Citadel really does to the Outerlands.”
My jaw tightens, but I take a step forward. “Back off. You don’t want this?—”
Something clinks against the stones. One of Kael’s drunk friends fumbles in his coat and a small packet tumbles free, bursts open across the cobblestones in a spray of yellow powder.
Spice.
The officer’s eyes narrow, voice slicing through the growing crowd. “Contraband!”
Kael doesn’t move, but his drunker, stupider friends do. The short one slams his shoulder into the nearest officer, knocking him off balance. The other reaches out, Threads sparking faint and crooked at his fingertips, and a cart tips like it’s been shoved by invisible hands. Fruit spills across the stones, rolling wild under boots.
The officers freeze for a heartbeat before rage flares hot across their faces.
“Illegal Threadwork—Outerlander filth!” The dark-haired one snarls, his voice cutting like a blade. Power crackles over his hand. “You’ll regret that.”
He lunges, seizing Kael’s shorter friend by the collar and slamming him into a stall hard enough to splinter wood. The other officer wades straight into the spilt fruit, blade drawn, swinging for the other one whose Threads are still sparking at his fingers.
Ezzy, Finn, and Rowan stay back, pressed tight against the edge of the tavern. And Kael? He just smiles, drunk and unbothered, because now it’s only him and me.
“Cadet Bloom—take him!” The dark-haired officer snaps back at me, already breaking into a run after Kael’s shorter friend.
My stomach plunges.
Kael shifts like he’s about to bolt, but he’s drunk—steps too fast, body lurching sideways. That single stumble is all I need. I catch his arm, wrench it behind his back, shoving him forward until his chest hits the stall.
“There it is,” he snarls. “Our little traitor. Citadel white suits you.”
Tension curls up my spine, my brows pull tight. I hate him, always have. But he’s anOuterlander. My blood, my people. And he’s not wrong. Right now, I feel like a traitor.My grip falters, just a second, but that’s all he needs. He slams his heel into myshin and wrenches free, spins, and shoves me. I hit the ground hard, breath punched from my lungs as he bolts into the crowd.
“Enjoy the leash, Bloom,” his voice calls back.
“After him!” one of the officers barks.
Shit. Before I realise what I’m even doing, I’m following—pushing through stalls, skidding around the square, heart in my throat, chest rising fast. I round the corner?—
And slam straight into someone.
I stumble back, hand snapping to my dagger, instinct, then freeze.
Not Kael. Worse.
Stone-still. Arms loose at his sides. That battered jacket I know too well, those boots worn down from years on Ashvale stone, and those eyes—those goddamn warm, safe eyes that always see straight through me.
Bren.
