Fucking perfect, Beth. Perfect, terrifying Beth. Beth who—thanks to Talen’s damn sketchbook—I can’t stop picturing naked and sprawled across a grand bed. His bed, if I had to bet. Hair loose, silk sheets tangled around her limbs. My stomach twists, jealously flaring deep, no point even trying to deny it.
In front of me Holloway stands waiting. I could say no, tell him I’ll handle it alone. That’s always been easier, safer. But easier hasn’t gotten me anywhere, and I promised myself I’d change, that I’d stop shutting people out. If this is the way to claw control from the mess inside me, then fine. I’ll take it because I want it, I want power, so that I can get answers, revenge.
“But you also need control,” Holloway adds, “and for that, I had someone else volunteer.” I already know before he even says it. “Officer Veirmont will be helping you.”
Of course, he will be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The cadet on the stage is shaking. Limbs jerking, eyes wide with that glassy panic that always comes right before unconsciousness—or death. Water Threads flicker, erratic, across his skin, flaring then dimming like a guttering candle.
The other cadet, his opponent, is just standing there, chest heaving, face pale like they can’t believe what they’ve done.
Neither can I. Yeah, last semester there were a few Demonstrations where cadets died, but you don't get used to it; it's always a shock, at least for me.
A sharp clap cuts through the silence.
“Well done, Cadet Fullway. A fine display. Excellent application of your training, and impressive reach into the deeper wells of your Threads.”
Professor Quinn notes, holding his hands together. The warmth in his voice is in complete contrast to the brutal scene in front of him. He strolls toward the body with that same absent-minded calm he uses for everything, like he’s observing a specimen under glass, not a half-conscious cadet leaking water from his lungs.
His blue robes shift around his boots with each step, wrinkled straight down the front, stained with ink and something that might be jam. His beard’s a mess, cheeks flushed from the cold or maybe just the walk over.
Fullway doesn’t answer, just stays locked in place, face pale and jaw tight, staring at the cadet on the ground in front of him. He’s barely moving now after being drowned from the inside out—a shallow rise in his chest and that wet, sucking rasp of someone trying to remember how lungs work. Quinn ushers Fullway off the stage, then turns to the corner,
“Officer Strannt.” He orders. “Come and clean this up.”
The Weasel doesn’t even blink, just walks up the steps, curls his hand around the cadet’s collar, anddragshim off the stage like he’s clearing meat off a butcher’s floor. The cadet's eyes roll back. His body’s limp, mouth slightly parted—but I can still see his chest rising in shallow jerks, still alive, but it doesn't look like it will be for long.
Strannt doesn’t even bother checking or doing anything to ease his suffering, just leaves him slumped in a heap beside the stairs.
I used to think the Outerlands were brutal. But at least there, cruelty’s got teeth, you see it coming. If someone wanted you dead, they came at you with a blade. But here, it’sinstitutionalised; they dress it up in uniforms and rules. And none of them see it for what it is.
Something tightens inside me, a quiet pull of anger I have to swallow back down.
I knew coming back would be hard, but still... seeing this stuff... I just want to burn this place down, but I can't; I need answers, and once I get them, I want whoever is responsible for Ashvale to pay. And I can’t do that without learning to control my magic. I have to survive here, survive Call Week.
Strannt turns back to face us.
“If you want to stay alive and actually graduate, to then get the chance to become the best in your field.” he says, voice soaked in authority, like he gets a thrill from hearing himself lay down rules. “A scholar, a leader, an officer—then you learn to fight for it. No exceptions. No weak links. Hundreds of families would kill for the honour of their children to stand here, the status it brings. Don’t think for a second you’re not replaceable.”
As he finishes, his weaselly eyes catch mine. I don’t blink; instead, I let the silence stretch, daring him to hold, but he’s the one who breaks, gaze skittering off to the floor.Coward. Guess he's still sore about losing that fight.
I bet the only reason he’s still here, still breathing, is because of his father. He’s not the strongest. Not the fastest. He just learned early on how tolookthe part.
Avoiding my gaze, Strannt steps aside for Quinn. The professor starts talking again, something about next week's partner drills, but chairs are already scraping back, voices rise. A few cadets near the back are full-on chatting now, like he isn’t even speaking.
I lean toward Finn; it's just us here, we were late, so we didn't get to sit next to Ezzy and Rowan, who were stupidly early and are in the front row. Still, I keep my voice low.
“Why would anyone send their children here? I get why Rowan volunteered. But Ezzy, you?”
He lets out a short huff, almost a laugh, but not the kind that hits his eyes.
“It’s a privilege, my family was proud, hell, they threw a feast the night I got accepted. Only a few get picked each year. All my brothers made it through, so when my name came up…”He shrugs, but it’s tight at the shoulders.“It was expected. If I walked away, they’d cut me off, disown me.”
There it is. Not pride.Pressure. “And Ezzy?” I press.
“Well…” He shifts, scratching behind his ear, “her parents are scholars, so they didn’t really have a choice. Not if they wanted to keep their positions, their benefits. Plus Ezzy is dead set on being one too.” I watch the way he straightens when he says it, spine stiff, like someone might be grading him. “But it’s not just pride or jobs” he adds, “the Treaty needs us.Peace Through Partition, Order Through Separation, or whatever. That’s what my brothers keep saying, anyway.”
