She gives him a tight smile and shrugs. “Just tired.”
Except she’s not. He tries to keep talking, but Ezzy’s voice keeps tripping over itself, half-sentences and awkward smiles, and Finn hasn’t got a clue what to do with it. He tries to brush it off with Rowan, but Rowan’s still pissed at him for snapping the wing off his latest dragon model.
Beth’s outside the hall when we arrive, draped over Lucien like she owns him. She flashes me a bright smile, friendly, easy. Last semester, I spent most of Holloway’s lessons dozing off. But this time, it’s different. I need to pay attention, I need controlover my Threads before they control me—and I can’t afford to get dragged into more fights before Call Week, no more chaos, no more mistakes, so I smile right back.
The lecture theatre smells of chalk and cold stone, and our seats creak loud in the emptiness as we drop into place, too early, thanks to Ezzy. She’s already lining her quills up in front of her like it’s some kind of ritual. Finn’s tapping out a rhythm on the desk, restless, while Rowan’s buried in a book, shutting the rest of us out.
I’m just starting to settle when something smacks my ear, a pencil. I turn, looking up. Ryven. Toothpick between his teeth, his crew spread out beside him. Really? A pencil?
“Heard your home burned down,” he drawls. “What a shame. Serves you Outerlanders right, trying to bond with dragons. How fucking stupid can you be? Must be all the inbreeding.”
Don't rise to it, I tell myself, he's not worth it, staying away from drama this time. Still, my fist curls tight as something flares up my spine.
Ryven smirks. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did. Our little Demonstration. Elijah hasn’t either. Hurting his sister like that? Let’s just say we’re looking forward to Call Week.”
My Threads twitch under my skin, restless. The duck’s in my bag, but I haven’t used it yet today. Part of me wants to let them loose right here, knock that smug look clean off his face. But that’s last semester’s Lyra, and she didn’t get very far.
More cadets funnel into the rows between us, chairs scraping, voices rising in overlapping bursts, but I can still see Ryven’s face poking through. Fuck him. I turn back around to face the front and grab my pack. My hand finds the duck, and I squeeze hard enough to bite back any urge.
“Ignore him,” Ezzy murmurs beside me. “They can’t all Call you. You can only get Called once. And you’ll be ready if anyone does. You’ve already kicked Ryven's ass.”
I half-smile, but if I don’t get a handle on my Threads soon, I’ll still be a walking disaster by Call Week.No hiding, no excuses. Today, I listen. I learn.
“Can I borrow one of those?” I nod at her lineup of neatly arranged stationery.
Ezzy blinks, surprised, then grins as she slides a flowery purple notebook towards me, complete with a matching pencil wrapped in ribbons. Great. Exactly what I needed, my notes looking like they belong to a six-year-old at a tea party. Still, I take it, smiling.
“Good morning, everyone.” A dry voice breaks the rising chatter as Professor Holloway sweeps in, deep-blue robes trailing across the floor. His matching hat droops with him as he walks, the soft fabric folding slightly as he steps up to the lectern. His observant eyes flick over us, but the wrinkles at the corners soften them, make him appear warm. “I hope you all had a good break and are ready for the next few months ahead. There’s a lot to cover, so let’s get started.”
He sets a heavy book on the lectern and flips it open before turning his attention back to the room.
“By now, you’ve all learned to use Truth Strings, some more successfully than others.” Holloway says, a flicker of dry amusement crossing his face. “And yes, I did notice a few of you attempting to pull Strings from one another. That will never work. Remember, the moment you ask, the magic unravels. Truth Strings must be offered freely, never requested, never coerced.”
A student raises a tentative hand. Holloway inclines his head.
“So… hypothetically, if a friend of mine was cheating on their exams and when the topic came up, they didn’t offer a Truth String—the professor couldn’t force one, right? But the fact they didn’t provide one… would that prove they were guilty?”
“Well, not really,” Holloway’s mouth quirks. “You might assume that anyone eager to be believed would use a Truth String at every opportunity. But that logic backfires. Because the moment they don’t, especially when it counts, it becomes conspicuous, suspicious. That’s why most of us use them sparingly. Only when the truth must be undeniable. So yes, their absence can raise questions, but it’s not uncommon. And it certainly doesn’t equate to guilt.”
The student frowns, still chewing on it. “What about a partial truth? Like… if my friend hired someone to cheat for him, could he say ‘I didn’t cheat’, could he bind it with a String?”
“No. Truth Strings don’t bind to technicalities; they bind to intentional truth. Your own awareness matters, so if you knew what you meant wasn’t the full truth, the magic will slip. And if the speaker intends to deceive or harm, the magic will reject it—the String may form only to snap in front of you, making your deceit plain to everyone present. In this sense, Strings aren’t weapons; they’re guardians. They don’t bind lies, and they don’t spread cruelty. They bind only what is freely, honestly meant.” Holloway lifts a brow. “Though I’d still suggest your friend avoid cheating in the first place and save everyone the trouble.”
The memory of Merrin’s words slips in before I can stop it, what he said right before I left.
Some answers, you’ll need to find for yourself. Not because I don’t want to give them to you. But because I can’t. When the time comes, I think you’ll see why.
It didn’t make sense at the time. I was too angry, I didn’t want to listen, I just wanted to leave. To get back home, back to Bren, back to anything but this place. I thought he just wanted me here to turn me into the weapon my mum refused to become. That still might be true. It probably is. But then why say something like that?
Merrin, Talen—they’re starting to drift from the version I built in my head. Both so polished in public, careful with every word... but behind closed doors? Something doesn’t add up. I just don’t know what they are hiding or why... But maybe, just maybe, they’re not hiding it because they want to lie. Maybe they can’t tell me, maybe these Strings make that impossible somehow?
“But enough of that, as this term we have so much more to cover,” Holloway continues, interrupting my thought as he scans the room. “Now, tell me—what do we know of Loomreading?”
A few uncertain glances pass through the room. Someone near the back mutters something under their breath. Holloway waits. Finally, a hand lifts.
“It’s... when someone can see others' Threads? Like, see into their future by touching them?”
“Nearly,” Holloway nods, “closer than most. Loomreading is the rare ability to interpret the flow of someone’s Threads by touching them—not just where they are, but where they might go. Possible futures, patterns others can’t see. Think of it like reading someone’s palm—it doesn’t show you certainties, just... trajectories. The paths a life might take.” He folds his arms. “It’s a deeply invasive art and currently only possessed by one living person, our Sovereign Minister, Vaelric Serrane.”
