I thought I was past this. Thought I could watch the Citadel’s bullshit from the inside and stay calm, stay quiet, play their game while I find answers.
But this is what loyalty looks like, right? White uniforms dragging fathers away while their daughters scream.
He was supposed to be different. That was the whole lie I told myself, right? That under all that Citadel white, he was still one of us. Stillhuman.
But that’s not what I saw in his eyes.
That wasn’t hesitation.
That was calculation. Duty, clean and cold.
And, god, I kissed him. Let him in. Dropped my guard like an idiot.
I’m furious at Talen, but worse, I’m furious at myself. For pretending he could be anything other than exactly what he is.
I blink hard, trying to shove it all down. Push it into some corner of myself I can deal with later, but it keeps slamming back up into my chest.
Finn glances back again, mouth parting like he’s about to say something. Maybe to comfort me. Maybe to lose his shit. I don’t know—and I don’t want to find out, so I grit my teeth, drop my gaze, and keep walking.
Because they took that man, killed him, and left his girls, and if I let myself speak, I’m going to start screaming, and I’m not sure I’ll stop.
Echoes of shouted orders build as we near the circular interrogation chamber, officers barking commands, boots scuffing stone. The whole place feels louder than usual, which is saying something.
We fall in line behind a pack of cadets waiting to be searched. Strangers from other groups—some trying to look tough, others trying not to shake. Lucien breaks off to join the officers, but notbefore shooting me a look that’s all warning:Don’t run. Don’t even think about it.
I narrow my eyes but don’t say anything. Not like I’ve got anywhere to run to.
One by one, the cadets are pulled into side rooms—steel doors yawning open, then slamming shut behind them—but the sound still leaks out through the grated window, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Across the chamber, I catch a glimpse of the Weasel, grinning at me like he’s already won something I didn’t know I was playing for.
My stomach knots as the jittering beat behind my ribs kicks back up, fast and uneven.
Shit.
Ever since Talen and I started our little fake dating stunt, no one’s tried anything in the cells. A pat-down here, a few too-long stares—but nothing worse, but by the look on the Weasel's face, that's probably about to change...
Ezzy’s been lucky too. Not sure if it’s her parents pulling strings or something Brian arranged behind the scenes. Maybe both. But if I ever found out someone touched her like I’ve heard they do? God, I’d kill them.
“Bloom.” An officer calls out. “Cell Eight.”
Bile creeps up the back of my throat as I catch the Weasel watching me—eyes too sly, too still. Hell, he’s planning something. I know it. I’ve checked the Codex. They can’t Reassign me, not while I’m in a partnership with Talen. But there’s nothing stopping them from punishing me, hurting me. I’m not protected from pain. And what if Talen ends it after today? What if he decides after today that this little performance was enough? Would they Reassign me then? Would they throw me to the dragons?
Maybe I should bolt? But where would I even run? The Citadel stretches in every direction—stone, steel, doors that only open one way. They’ll catch me before I clear the chamber, and if I'm not in enough shit already, I will be then.
So I don’t argue. What would be the point? I knew what I was doing when I stepped in front of that baker; I knew the risks. But as I step into Cell Eight, all I can think is—what if I just destroyed the only shot I had at finding the truth? I just threw away everything for nothing. I didn’t save him, didn’t stop them. All I did was put a bigger target on my back.
The damp, sour smell of fear clings to the air, sharp and wet in the back of my throat as I step into the cell. It’s colder than I expected. No table. One chair, bare stone walls, floor, ceiling and a metal door with a tiny grated window near the top—just wide enough to let a flicker of light seep through from the chamber outside.
I move toward the chair.
Behind me—tap. Cane on stone, steady, measured.
The door shuts, biting into place with a heavyclick.
I turn.
Professor Strannt steps into the cell, leaning hard on his cane. The limp shows in the way he stands—one leg stiff, weight dragging slightly as he shifts. Same weaselly eyes as his son, narrow, greedy little things that never quite blink. Only his are worse. Older. Harder. Watching me the way a butcher looks at a carcass.
