My fingers move fast, skimming the top pages, flipping through them one by one for information, something that may help me—Frequency Drift in Thread Vibrations During Multi-Thread Confluence Events,Mirroring Elements and Their Alchemically Reactive Compounds.
Half the terms barely register. Homework, maybe. Or research. Either way, nothing I can use.
Turning, I look back at the bed behind me, aside from the dip where I was sitting, it’s untouched. A grey wool throw folded tight at the foot, no wrinkles and no creases, and beside it sits the room’s only window, small and deep-set, the glass thick enough to blur the outside. Looks more like the kind you'd fire arrows from than admire the view through.
My legs feel steadier now, still shaky, but less like jelly and more like mine again. The dizziness fading, whatever they hit me with, it’s starting to wear off. Still, I drop on to the edge of the empty bed, not to rest, just to breathe, to think. My hand lands on my thigh?—
—and I freeze.
Fuck. No dagger.
Of course they took it, but the realisation still hits hard, a burning twist low in my gut. No blade. No magic. Nothing.
Panic surges, lungs rising too fast, threatening to scatter my thoughts, but I force it down and and scan the floor. The chair’s flimsy, half-rotted. The boots, soft leather, worn at the toes. Useless. I need something solid. Something sharp. Something I can grip if it comes to that.
But there’s nothing.
I pull in air that tastes sharp and thin, tension rippling through me as I turn to the window, eyes sweeping for other options. Maybe a loose stone. A gap in the frame. A way out. I lean in, press my palm to the glass. It’s cold, solid. The frame’s thick, wood set deep into stone. I push once. No rattle, no give. I check the edges for latches, hinges, even a hairline crack, but nothing.
Fuck, Lyra, what have you gotten yourself into
With a sigh, I drop my hands to my lap and let my gaze drift beyond the glass, to the world outside.
Mountains.
It’s the first thing my eyes catch, their endless ridge-lines rising in layers, snow-capped peaks catching the light, blues and purples bleeding across them as the sun starts its early afternoon descent. A low haze softens them, but there’s no hiding their size. Or their sharpness.Which means they're not the Northern Peaks—the ones I see on the horizon back home, distant and pale. These are taller, meaner. Blue-white and brittle, which means I must be looking south.
A chill skates down the back of my neck, settling between my shoulder blades like a weight I can’t shake. I’veneverseen this far before.I've neverbeenthis far before and I don’t know whatwaits for me here. That’s the part that's gnawing at me, not the being caught. It’s thenot knowing.
Because where I come from, when they catch you doing something you shouldn’t? They don’t waste time, you don’t wake up in a room like this. They throw you to the Peaks. Hand you a dull blade, shove you north toward dragon country, and let them sort out whether you were worth anything.
So what the fuck am I doing in what appears to be astudent dorm?
The wool blanket itches beneath my fingers as I shift, straining for a better angle at the window. I’m high up, five flights, maybe more. Below, the Citadel grounds stretch out in chilling, silent order. Nothing green. No trees. No grass. Just layers of bleak grey stone and bare courtyards split by cobbled paths.
A low wall curves around the edge, and beyond it—water. Wide and dark, encircling the Citadel like a noose. A perfect, unnatural moat. No bridges, no boats in or out. Just isolation.
To my right, one of the four Veins spills out from the black water below, carving a path from the Citadel like a slash across the land. It winds through the Innerlands, slicing between two realms like a line on a map no one dares cross. Farther and farther, until it disappears into the Ravine.
And beyond that—Home. The Outerlands. It’s faint and blurred by distance, but it’s there. And I’m not.
My shoulders sag. I press my forehead to the cold glass, breath fogging against it. For a second, I just let it all hang there—weight sinking into my spine, chest tight with regret.
God, you knew this would happen. You knew that if you gotcomfortable. If you dropped your guard, let people in, let Bren...
Click—
The door handle turns, and the hinges groan as the heavy wood swings inward.
I’m on my feet in half a beat, blood thudding in my ears, stance already braced. No magic. No blade. The left leg of the desk looks weak, so if it comes to a fight, that’s the one I’m snapping off first.
But the man who steps through isn’t an officer. He carries no weapons and has no armour, just robes. Deep red, trimmed in gold stitching that catches the light.
He’s tall and straight-backed, hair white as snow, skin lined and weathered, but his movements are precise. Clean. Not slow with age, refined. Andthoseeyes. I know those eyes, it’s the same piercing blue gaze that pinned me at the wall.
For a moment he just stands there, watching me. Then?—
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, Lyra.” Smiling now, almost gentle. Almost friendly. And somehow, that’s worse. I was braced for pain, threats, maybe torture. Not… civility. “But I have to admit,” he continues, the smile never slipping, “you made a far more dramatic entrance than I expected.”
