Talen doesn’t answer at first. Just watches me, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or if I’m really that clueless. Then finally, he moves in.
"No one justendsup here, you think the Citadel opens its gates to every bit of trash that blows in? You want me tobelieveyou didn’t know what your seat here cost? You didn’t just take his place, youerasedhim.”
There’s grief in his voice, undeniable, raw. He tries to bury it under control, but it bleeds through.
“So this is your plan?” I say, lifting my chin, matching his stare. “Kill me here? Now? In front of half the courtyard. All for revenge... over a brother I never even met?” I nod to the crowd. “Bit dramatic don’t you think? Unless youneedan audience? Big man, small ego. Can’t pick on someone unless they’re unarmed and outnumbered?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Oh, I’m not killing you now,here, I’m not that careless.” He tilts his head, studying me like he’s already picturing the end. “You won’t know when. Or where. But it’s coming. And when it does,” his tongue runs over his bottom lip, like he’s savouring the words before he feeds them to me. “You’ll remember his name. Ezekiel.Veir.Mont."
He steps back, folding his arms and the heat of him vanishes with it.
Veirmont...
The name hits like a slap. Like fire to dry grass. His brother is a Veirmont?
He’s a fucking Veirmont?
I should have recognised him, I’ve seen his parents before. Air Realm royalty ruling like it’s their birthright, always making a show of themselves at public events. But he looks nothing like them.
My heart jumps into my throat.It’s him,he’s behind the Spice tax, behind the shortages, behind the deaths. Rhiann’s son. My spine locks, whatever control I had?Gone.
Something inside me cracks, like splintered glass under pressure. My Threads, my anger, waking up. Not all at once,but enough.Heat flares through my chest, scratching under my skin like static gone feral. Fury and fire braided tight with something wilder itching to get out.
But I’m standing in the heart of enemy territory.Histerritory. Surrounded by officers, cadets, professors, and not a single one would choose me over him.
My mind is screaming at me to push my magic down, to give in or somehow disappear before this gets worse. I made a deal—one month.
I know that.
But right now? Right now my Threads don’t care.
Because all they see ishim.
A blood-fed Veirmont, dripping with the kind of wealth that only comes from letting people like me starve. And maybe, just maybe, hurting him would feel like balance. Like clawing back a piece of what they stole, even if I lose.
My body locks tight, fingers twitch, curl. Every instinct screaming to hold it down. But the heat’s already climbing, my magic surging like it’sdecided for me.
And before I can think, before I can stop, I raise my hand.
Then—
Something shifts.
Not in me. Around me.
The stone beneath our boots groans—low, warning. Dust spills from the upper levels like ash, curling through the charged air.
“Welcome, welcome, cadets and officers to this year's Initiation Brief,” the voice rolls over us measured, warm, but almostkind.
My head snaps towards the sound.
Across the courtyard, on a raised platform, a man in white robes stands with both hands lifted, he lowers them, and the tremor fades.
Movement stops with it. Not just near me, the entire courtyard holds still, heads tilted, eyes drawn the same way. Everyone’s looking at him now.
He isn’t tall or broad, but there’s something about the way he stands, grounded, unshaken, that pulls my focus like gravity. Gaunt face, carved in elegant, weary lines. Not old. Just... worn. Scholar’s robes drape over him, but they’re transformed, not like the other professors. His are bone-white, pristine, they look untouched by war or weather, even the air around him feels cleaner. Too clean.
“Now that I have your attention…” The man in white smiles, crinkling at the eyes. And god, it’s convincing. “Welcome to the Citadel. Please stand in your year groups and Realms.”
