Dead.
Not by my hand.
But it still feels like I killed her.
Because I wanted to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Healers’ Wing stinks of blood and herbs. Too many cadets crammed into too few beds, groaning through half-mended bones or still unconscious from matches earlier this week. I’m one of the lucky ones, apparently.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful. The fight’s over, but the wreckage hasn’t settled as all I can think about is how badly I messed things up—with Ezzy, with all of them. I want to fix it. But to do that, I’d have to be honest. Really honest. And I don’t know how.
"Don’t move," the Healer mutters, dabbing a foul smelling ointment along my arm. I hiss through clenched teeth as the sting flares—sharp, acidic—but it fades fast, the burn already cooling as she leaves the private room.
It's crazy, I nearly died, yet most of my wounds are superficial, no internal ruptures. No fractures. No irreversible damage.
At least not the kind a Healer can see.
Beth wasn’t fighting to draw blood, she was bleeding me slow. Wearing me out. Letting me burn myself down so she didn’t have to. Got to give it to her, it’s smart. Easier. Cleaner.
I watch as the skin of my arm pinks over. It should be worse. All of it should. I should feel hollow. Rattled.
Instead, I feel?—
Full.
My Threads hum beneath the surface. Not fraying. Not sparking. Not trying to rip me apart from the inside. Just… there.Settled. Like I finally said the right thing and they’re waiting for the next order.
It's wrong.
It should feel wrong.
But god, it doesn’t.
I don’t need it anymore, but I hold the duck in my hand anyway, my fingers find the place Talen fixed—the crack in the wing he sealed so carefully—and I can’t stop tracing it.
It’s comfort. It’s memory. Habit, hold the duck, breathe through the pressure, try again.
Except now?
There’s no pressure.
I stopped pulling, and everything opened. Clean, controlled, more powerful than anything I’ve ever touched, and it didn’t break me. That should be a good thing. So why does it scare the shit out of me?
I stare at my fingers. They don’t look any different, but I know better. I felt it. All that power. Mine. Just waiting for permission to strike, and I nearly took it.
I wanted to.
I wanted to kill her.
God, I would have.
Beth's lifeless face flashes behind my eyes—slack, sightless, mouth open like she never finished the thought.
That’s the part that sticks in my throat now, lodged like splintered bone. Not the bruises. Not the burn.
I thumb over the duck’s wing again. Linger there.
