If I believe this… then what does that make me? What does that makehim?
Maybe I’ve been wrong about him. About what he stands for... what if he isn’t like the rest of them? What if he’s more like me than I want to admit?
I don’t know what to do with any of this—what it means, what I’m supposed to feel.
So I shut the journal and place it down, lie back. And wait for sleep that’s not coming.
I wake up tired,restless, my eyes feel full of sleep, and my head’s a mess. The journal sits where I left it a week ago, half-open on the bedside table like it’s daring me to pick it up again. I don’t.
Not because I don’t want to know, I do. But the weight of what I’ve already read is enough to make my stomach turn. Another page would be like stepping off a cliff blindfolded. And I can’t, not with everything else hanging over me right now.
So I leave it there. Pretend it’s just a book. Pretend I’m not afraid of what’s in it.
My mum’s version of my dad is already cracked and bleeding. One more truth, and it might shatter completely. And if it does, then what does that make me? I’m not ready to find out, not yet.
So my mind keeps sliding away from the journal because it’s easier, safer, to think about something else. Someone else.
Talen.
The thought is dangerous. It sparks and catches on to the next one before I can stop it—the kiss.
God, the kiss.
He’s been gone all week, but not seeing him has done exactlynothingto ease the pressure building under my skin.
And I’m not talking about my magic.
The ache’s getting worse. Low, hot, and constant, like something crawled under my skin, now begging to be let out. I’d happily deal with it myself if I had even a scrap of privacy. But Ezzy’s always snoring four feet away, and the bathing chambers? Packed. Always. I haven’t had time alone since I got here over five months ago, and my body fucking knows it. Back home, I could get myself off in the dark and sleep easy after. Here, I’m left buzzing,restless, wound so tight I could snap.
The only thing that calms me a little bit is the blossoms, white and pink choking the streets like the Innerlands are desperate to look softer than they are. The air’s warmer, the days are longer. Almost enough to trick you into thinking things are easy. But then I remember Call Week, and every bloom just feels like a clock ticking louder, petals dropping like they’re counting down to my turn.
And I didn’t come back to the Citadel to watch flowers open or fantasise about Talen. I came for answers, about Ashvale, about what really happened. I owe them to Rhiann, to Charlie,to Nessi. If I don’t find them, then walking away—leaving everything, leaving Bren—was for nothing.
I miss him. Not the heat, but the steadiness, the friend.
But none of that matters if I don’t survive Call Week. One blade, one slip of my own magic, and I’m done before I ever learn the truth. Two weeks. That’s all I’ve got to lock my Threads down tight, to live long enough to get what I came for.
Talen’s had me out on the ledge for twelve days straight, watching every step, pushing me harder than I wanted. The fear’s still there—chest cinched, knees locking the second I look down—but I’ll give him this: It's helped. The knotting comes easier now.
It was brutal at first. Him just standing there, watching. He didn’t laugh—but the smirk was there, subtle and annoying, like he was tryingveryhard not to say something clever.
But he never pushed, never rushed.
When I panicked or froze, he’d let me ask questions, which helped more than I want to admit. Nothing deep, nothing useful that helps me find answers—just scraps, simple things about him.
Turns out his brother, Ezekiel, was a bit of a troublemaker—ran with the wrong crowds, drank too much, always in the middle of something loud or reckless. Talen tried to warn him. Said the Citadel doesn’t look the other way forever, and being a Veirmont wouldn’t protect him. If anything, it painted a bigger target on his back. Made him perfect for a public lesson.
They were close, but clashed constantly. The same goes for his parents. From the way he talks, he doesn’t seem particularly tight with them either. Still, none of that stops his voice from cracking when he says his brother’s name.
The day after, I didn't push or ask him anything; instead, he sat and drew in his sketchbook, occasionally looking up at me. I told him he’d better not be drawing me, especially not like theones he did of Beth; he didn't answer, but a small crooked grin spread across his face anyway.
After twelve days straight, I finally got a break from battling my brain’s irrational urge to panic at elevation. Talen’s been gone all week. Something’s stirring in the Outerlands. Patrols are doubling, but no one’s saying why.
So I’ve been training with Beth and catching up on stuff with Rowan. Despite figuring out that the symbol on the doors is the old crest of Aurelia, we’ve made next to no progress linking it to Ashvale or the dragons. No surprise there. Brian did come back with more of his dad's old books for ‘Ezzy’ though, they’re all on dragons. Some of it Rowan already knew, but all of it was new to me.
Apparently, dragons hold magic the same way we do. But they can’t release it, not without a rider. Without bonding, their Threads build. Slow. Relentless. Until it ruptures them from the inside. They die like that, burned out by their own power.
The author called itInternal Resonance Failure. Said it didn’t happen until after mating age. Like the body waited, let them breed before it finally breaks.
