I need to know what the hell is going on. But god, it’s so fucking embarrassing.
Like… how do you even start that conversation?
“Hey, so, remember yesterday when I got really turned on watching you fight topless? And then somehow you felt it? Like, literally felt it? And now you know exactly how I feel about you—even though it’s very fucking obvious from the way you just looked at me that you don’t feel the same?”
Yeah. No, thank you. Just the thought of saying it makes my stomach twist, my face burn. I can’t. Not now. Not ever.
The Weasel shifts ahead, then turns and drags his eyes over me before heading down the Tunnel, like he’s already waiting for me to slip and have an excuse to come for me. I keep my eyes forward. Just get through the day.
The morning airhas warmed up by the time we step into the Air Realm—enough that the short sleeves of the white uniform don’t bite anymore. The breeze is soft, carrying the faint scent of blossom.
Up ahead, just past the other cadets, I catch sight of Talen. Shoulders still high, jaw set. No sign of that usual looseness in his stride. He’s braced, holding tension like he’s hoping no one notices, but I do.
Finn stays quiet beside me. Probably doesn't want to risk the conversation swinging back to Ezzy—and how he clearly needs to stop sulking and sort it out.
To my left, the street opens wide—buildings in rigid rows, stone paths scrubbed so clean they barely look real, everything exactly where it should be.
All the Innerland Realms blur together like this.
Before Merrin brought me in, I’d only ever snuck into the Air Realm. I thought maybe the others would be different. But I’vebeen to all four now, and they might claim different territories, but the bones are the same—same layout, same symmetry, that uniform neatness that reeks of Citadel control. It’s like the Treaty stamped them out of the same magical blueprint, carved the wildness right off the map.
The only real difference is how they dress. Subtle shifts—deeper blues in the Water Realm, longer sleeves, finer fabric. But the people underneath? Still the same. Most glance away, some nod or give a stiff bow. A few hold my gaze too long, and I know that look, resentment. I used to think only the Outerlanders hated the Citadel. But the more time I spend in the Innerlands, the more I see it. Same tension, it’s just buried deeper.
We round a corner, feet thudding against polished stone, and a flash of deep red catches at the edge of my vision.
Painted low on a nearby door—small, deliberate—the symbol, the crest of Aurelia.
I’ve been seeing more of them lately. Not all in plain sight. Some tucked behind planters, carved into lintels, scraped into alley bricks where light barely reaches. Not many, but enough.
And I’m not the only one.
In the glass window, I see Strannt’s reflection shift. He’s seen it too, eyes narrowing, mouth pulling tight. Annoyance, maybe. But there’s a flicker of something else underneath. Confusion. Like he doesn’t know what it means.
He catches me staring and narrows his eyes before turning away, moving to join Talen and Lucien, who have stopped outside a small baker’s shop. It’s closed. Windows shuttered. And on the door, again, another Aurelian crest.
Finn and I stand back with the other cadets on the opposite side of the alley.
Just for a second, Talen glances toward me, and something flickers across his face, pain?Regret? But then it’s gone, turning back and slamming his fist against the door.
Nothing. He tries again.
“Open up. We know you’re home,” he orders.
Silence. Then the grind of locks turning, slow, reluctant. The door creaks open. A man steps into view—late thirties, soft, warm eyes, missing an arm, the kind of hard-worked frame you see on bakers or smiths. At his waist, two pairs of eyes blink up at us. Girls, young. Seven, maybe eight. Around the same age I was when my mum died.
“Good morning, officers. How can I help?” he asks, smooth as ever. He doesn’t look surprised to see Talen, but I see it. The way his hand curls too tight on the doorframe. The tremor he can’t quite hide. He’s nervous.
The smell of fresh bread still drifts out behind him, warm and thick, and for a second I can’t connect it—the apron, the quiet shop—with what comes next.
“We have…suspicions.”Talen claims, voice cold, “that you have been engaging in unlawful activity. No proof is required, and by order of the Citadel, you are to be taken into custody and Reassigned.”
The baker at the door doesn’t say a word. He just looks down—at the two small shapes behind him, fingers clutching the edge of his coat. His mouth pulls tight, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t argue.
My stomach drops. What, no, no. He can't be, why?
Suspicion, not evidence, not proof, they have suspicions? They are going to kill a man, Talen is going to kill a man, take him from his daughters and send him off to fight dragons because of ahunch.
My Threads flare hot and strong, fist clenching. This man isn’t dangerous. He’s a shopkeeper, a father. He was just… living.
