So what’s left? Pain. Endure it. I’ve done it before. Just keep my mouth shut. Take it. Survive it. It’ll be over soon—at least that’s what I tell myself as everything in me tightens, bracing hard, locked and ready.
“You know,” he says lightly, “not all elemental magic is loud and flashy. Some of us… learn precision, discretion...”
He lifts his hand, and something seizes beneath my ribs. Like a Thread yanked too tight. I reach for my magic, heat sparkingat my fingertips—But his eyes narrow and whatever’s inside me? Locks up like a snare.
“I don’t cut or burn, Cadet.” His voice is calm. Almost clinical. “I reach inside. I find the Threads, and tear them. Slowly. One by one. You’d be surprised how much pain a single unravelling can cause.”
He twists his fingers—casual, like turning a page and another Thread snaps low in my gut, and I double over with a strangled breath. It doesn’t just hurt, itgrates. Like something essential being peeled away, fibre by fibre. Like my own magic’s turning against me.
My hands fly to my chest—useless, shaking—as if I can claw the feeling out.As if I could stop what’s coming.
“No external damage,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Just pressure where no one can see it. I want the truth, cadet. No point trying to lie, it won't work. You could stay silent… but the pain?” A pause. A smile. “That only gets worse.” Then, softer, deadly: “This is one at a time. Scaling up is easy.”
He closes his fist, and the ripping, shredding feeling spikes, sudden and deep. My Threads twist hard across my chest, coiling the wrong way, like they’re trying to tear themselves loose. It blooms behind my ribs, thick and burning, every inhale dragging like broken glass down my throat. Just hold, don’t give him anything.
But it’s all-consuming—hot, wrong, endless—and my knees nearly go. I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched. Keep it together. Don’t break. Not yet.
“I have many questions for you, cadet.” The stink of rot and ink sharpens as he steps in closer, stronger now, clinging to the back of my throat. Then he leans in. Breath warm at my ear. “But let’s start simple... Has Officer Veirmont ever givenyoua Truth String?”
At first, I think I’ve misheard him—But then the pain spikes and I feel it—a pull, like a Thread being drawn up from the root of my tongue. The truth coiling at the back of my teeth, ready to tear free. Yet before I can answer?—
The door creaks open. Just a sliver.
“You might want to wrap this up,” someone mutters from the hall, voice tight. Eyes flick to me as I gasp, lungs dragging in air like I haven’t breathed in hours. “He’s back. And he’s not hap?—”
The door slams open.
Talen storms through.
His eyes find mine. In the corner of the cell, one hand clutching my chest. Breath strained and raw in my throat.
The look he gives me is brief, assessing.Wide eyes, brows pulled tight, a flash of something behind them—fear maybe, or fury. But then he sees it. I’m breathing. I’m upright. Not broken, just bruised. His shoulders shift, fractional, like a decision’s been made. Then he turns and locks on to Professor Strannt and just like that, the concern drains from his face.
“It’s against Codex regulation for a professor to interrogate a cadet.” He’s already moving. Two long strides and he’s standing over the professor, voice low and lethal. “You have no jurisdiction here. This ismydepartment.” Weasel Senior doesn’t move. But I catch the hesitation, the flick of his eyes toward the open door. “If you want to question her,” Talen continues, razor-clean, “you do so in class. On your assigned teaching hours. Not here.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Weasel Senior replies, tone slick with forced calm. “But we were actually discussing you.”
“Then you askme.”Talen bites back. “Not her. Never her.” His hand twitches, just slightly, resting near the hilt of the dagger at his hip. “If I ever hear you lay a finger on her again—if I so much as see you within ten feet of her outside of sanctioned space—you won’t leave the room upright.” His tone doesn’t rise.Doesn’t need to. The silence that follows says he means every fucking word. “Don’t think your position here protects you from that.”
Weasel Senior straightens, just slightly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t doubt it,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t be the first time you bent the rules. Or went against the Citadel.”
“You really want to test that theory?” The air shifts, tightens. Talen’s head tilts, just a little, enough to be dangerous. “If you’re insinuating I’ve gone against the Codex inanycapacity, then by all means let’s go see what High Chancellor Merrin thinks. Or better yet, why don’t we ask the Sovereign Minister himself where my loyalties lie?” He takes another step forward, close enough to force Weasel Senior to hold his ground. “But make no mistake, if you threaten her again, they won’t find what’s left of you to ask.”
Professor Strannt doesn’t respond right away. But I see it, the shift. The glint behind his eyes. Like he’s calculating just how far Talen would really go and realising he doesn’t want to find out.
“Well now, no need for theatrics.” Weasel Senior shifts, smoothing down the front of his coat like he’s brushing off the entire scene, like his hands aren’t shaking. “I’d just advise yourprecious partnerhere,” his mouth twists around the word, “to get her magic under control.” He turns toward the door, already halfway out. “Wouldn’t want any future accidents complicating things.”
And then he leaves, back straight, steps measured. Like it was his idea, like he’s not retreating under pressure.
For a second,Talen doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But then he lifts his arm and in one clean motion the door slams shut. Hard enough to rattle the stone, and with it, every sound from thechamber outside cuts off. No echo. No footfalls. Just the sound of Talen breathing. Heavy and restrained.
Just him and me. A manipulator, and the fool who let him in. I should’ve known better. I hate him. God, I hate him. He’s just like the rest of them. But I have to know why, I have to hear it from his own mouth—even if it just proves he’s the monster I feared he was.
Cold stone surrounds us, damp and unmoving. The light’s dim, thick with dust and stone, but I see him clearly, standing facing me in the centre of the cell, shoulders tight, the door sealed behind him.
Weasel Senior is gone, the pain stopped, but the silence he leaves behind presses just as tense.
His hands stay steady, but I catch his throat working once, a hard swallow he can't quite hide. Then he turns to me, eyes sweep over, fast, deliberate. Scanning for damage.
