Standing just behind Merrin, dressed in his black training uniform that clings to every line of muscle, his face like carved stone, fist held tight. Shit, he looks so fucking good.
“Thank you, Officer Veirmont,” Merrin says, glancing back at Talen who then releases his fist. My throat instantly loosens. “I think we have their attention now.”
Merrin steps forward, arms lifting slightly, just enough to pull the room tighter around him.
“Welcome back, cadets,” he calls, voice cutting through the quiet. “I know the winter break seemed early, but we structured it that way for a reason.From this point on, your focus must be absolute. Expect increased training assignments, moreDemonstrations, Call Week, and higher expectations across every discipline.” A few heads shift in the crowd, but no one speaks.
“For those unfamiliar,” Merrin continues, voice steady, “Call Week is your formal right to settle grievances with any fellow second-year cadet. You may name your opponent. Once called, there is no refusal. No surrender. The confrontation continues until death. It is not punishment. It is not cruelty. It is purity.”
His gaze sweeps across the room like a blade.
“The Citadel does not advance the weak, or the disloyal, or the divided. Call Week ensures that only those who truly belong—those strong enough, devoted enough—remain. It is an honour to take part. And a greater honour to survive. After that, you’ll have your celebration. The Spring Ball. And we conclude the year with the Second-year Trials, which is designed to test your skills, your Threads, but above all, your loyalty to the Citadel.”
His words stick in the air, thick and cloying, like the taste of something spoiled that coats your tongue before you can spit it out.
Call Week, it's not an honour. It’smurder.
That’s what no one says. What they all nod along to. It’s not about strength or loyalty, it’s a ritual culling of the weak, a purge wrapped in ceremony.
Cold air bites at my palms, the skin still damp, sweat collecting beneath my nails as I curl my fingers tighter to keep them from shaking. I can’t keep looking at him—not with that voice still hanging in the air, not with that expression that’s already sorted us into who’s useful and who’s disposable.
So I turn, quick, instinctive, anywhere else. And of course, my eyes land on Talen. He’s standing behind Merrin like a weapon waiting to be drawn. Jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest—and of course I notice how solid they look, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the cut of his tanned forearms.It’s unfairly distracting, like he’s been deliberately engineered to make not looking at him a goddamn challenge. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to have those hands on me again...
The second I think it I instantly regret it, because too fast, too vivid, the memory floods in. The taste of his lips, the weight of his hips pinning mine against cold stone. Heat instantly pulses low in my spine. I curl my hand into a tight fist—nails digging deep, like pain might keep me in check, but it's no use, the feeling doesn’t fade, it builds—tight, sharp, rising with every inhale until suddenly, Talen’s head snaps towards me. His eyes find mine—quick and focused. It hits like a blow, my breath stuttering, cheeks flush, and I look away—too fast, too obvious.
Get it together, Lyra. Remember, just because you want something doesn't mean you should have it. You’re not an animal; you can control this. And he made it crystal clear how he felt about it, so no point embarrassing yourself and making it worse by staring at him like you want more. Even if you do.
I still can’t look at Merrin, but I sure as hell can’t look at Talen. So I stare at the ground instead, fix my eyes on the cracked edge of a flagstone like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, while I try to get the rising beat behind my ribs under control.
“Now,” Merrin continues, “some of you may have heard about the unfortunate, but avoidable, incident in Ashvale before the break involving three dragons.” Here it comes. Let’s see what excuse they’ve conjured up this time. “It seems that some reckless Outerlanders have been pushing their luck. Testing boundaries, attempting to bond with these dangerous creatures beyond the northern peaks.”
A flicker of shock runs through the crowd, whispers, mutters under breath. But my jaw tightens. He’s blaming us? He's blaming Outerlanders for what happened?
“As such,” Merrin adds, “the dragons retaliated. And with no Citadel protection, our Veils do not extend into the Outerlands, they were defenceless. Now let me remind you,” his voice sharpening, “dragons were exiled, cast out beyond the peaks by magic, fire, iron, and sacrifice. Kept at bay by those who are Reassigned. This is foryourprotection.”
This doesn’t make sense. The dragons weren’t retaliating, not unless someone provoked them. And no Outerlander would be dumb enough to try bonding one, even Kael, and that's saying something. Hell, most Outerlander’s can’t even feel their Threads, let alone use them. Never been shown how. So how would that even work? And if no one tried to bond them, then why destroy everything?
Rhiann. Charlie. Nessi. They didn’t deserve to die. I don’t get it.
“Because of the rise in this kind of illegal activity in the Outerlands,” Merrin warns, “we’ll be taking precautions, tightening protection around the Innerlands and the Citadel for your own safety.”
Protection, sure, just another word for control.
And now I’m part of that control. I guess he got what he wanted, the journals worked. He wanted me to stay, and, well, here I am. He says it’s about protecting people, but I know he just wants me to become another weapon.
Still, something’s happening here, I can feel it, thick under my skin like a warning. Mum ran from it, whatever this is, but I’m not making that mistake, not after what happened to Ashvale. I want answers.
Luckily, the journals were at Bren’s during the fire, so they’re fine. Along with the bloody duck, thank god. I’ve been reading through them, page by page, but there’s not really anything on the Citadel, no real answers. Which, yeah, of course therewouldn’t be. Just pieces of her, her life. But they’re answers, different ones, but ones I’ve still been chasing for a long time.
Merrin keeps spewing more propaganda bullshit for another ten minutes or so, with Talen still braced behind him, but as soon as they step off the platform Ezzy grabs my arm without warning and yanks me toward the corridor.
She doesn’t stop—just keeps walking, head down, pace quick and determined—until Rowan, Finn, and the noise bleeding off the courtyard are nothing but distant echoes behind us.
Then, finally, she stops and spins; she looks worried and hesitant, and my stomach twists. Shit. She’s going to bring up Talen again, isn’t she? I’d told myself I’d start this right—clean slate, no more lies—but right now, I’m not sure I have it in me.
“I kissed him,” Ezzy blurts, finally.
My brows pulls tight. “Sorry, what?”
