And then I run.
The morning airhits me like a slap, cold and biting, as I rush through the narrow Ashvale alleys. The breeze carries the usual stink of chimney smoke, piss-soaked stone, and spoiled meat, though I barely notice it anymore. The Outerlands never smelled clean, but that’s how you know you’re home.
Sunlight flickers across my face as I run, the sun’s already high enough to start knifing through the alley cracks, catching on window edges and rusted gutters.Shit,I’m already cuttingit close, if the guards aren’t mid-handover by the time I reach the wall, the window will slam shut. And I’m not in the mood for getting caught and Reassigned. Reassigned—the nicest little euphemism forgo hold off the exiled dragons until you're a pile of ash.
Boots scuff against stone, breath ragged in my throat as I round a corner too fast—slamming straight into Nessi’s stall. Loaves thud against the cobblestones, scattering like startled pigeons.
“Oh god, Nessi, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, rushing to scoop them up.
She waves me off with a flour-dusted hand, grinning like this is the most exciting thing she’s seen all morning.
“Don’t worry,” she says with a wink, stacking the loaves back on her cart. “No one’ll notice.”
I bend to grab the last loaf from the ground, and she catches my face with a knowing look.
“You look tired... guessing you didn’t get much sleep last night?” A sly smile tugs at her mouth.
I pass her the dented loaf and lift a brow, yeah, she already knows where I’ve been. And who I’ve been with so I just shake my head, sidestepping the bait as I push to my feet and head back down the alley.
“Tell Bren to take it easy on you next time!” She calls after me.
“Try not to burn the bread next time!” I shout back over my shoulder, already running, checking my watch. Ten minutes. If the Citadel guards are early, I’m screwed. If I miss the handover window, I’ll have to turn back empty-handed, or worse....
Behind me, a stray dog barks, then gives chase like it owns the street. Cursing, I sprint faster. Pulse pounding against my ribs, boots kicking up dust and gravel as I dart through twisting alleyways, past shopkeepers pulling open shutters and wheelingout their carts for the morning. The dog follows me for two more blocks before giving up with a final, offended bark.
My lungs burn, legs pumping hard, cold air scraping down my throat, but underneath it all, that familiar pull builds. Magic curling tight beneath my skin, pressing harder with every step, dying to break loose. But I grit my teeth, shove it down, and keep running. Not here, not now, just a little farther.
Brown water splashes up my leg as I take the last corner and then, just like that, I burst free of the town’s grip. The last of Ashvale and the Outerlands falls away behind me, replaced by open, wind-scoured silence.
Dust curls at my heels as I cross the edge of the settlement and enter the stretch of dead ground the locals call the Void—arid, cracked earth covered in sun-bleached rock, like the land has been burned clean of anything soft.
Catching my breath, I lift my gaze to a crooked wooden sign standing alone ahead of me, tilted like even it’s trying to crawl away from this place. Flapping in the breeze, a scrap of parchment hangs there, pinned in place with rusted spikes.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE REASSIGNED.
For your protection. For the peace.
The Treaty holds. The Citadel watches.
I glance at it, but keep walking, I’ve long since passed the point where warnings matter. A few more steps, steady, careful not to trip. And then, the ground vanishes. A circular scar splits the world open in front of me—wide, breathless, and so deep it should’ve been carved by centuries of erosion. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t created by weather, or time.
This was magic.
We call them the Veins, four rivers of raw power that erupted over three hundred years ago, the day the treaty was signed. Carving the land into pieces and separating the four Innerland realms: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, like spokes on a wheel. And this—this scar, the Ravine—is where the Veins meet. A perfect circular death trap, separating us, the Outerlanders, from them, the Innerlanders. It’s a magical border you don’t cross. Not unless you’re desperate. Or stupid.
Loose stones scatter beneath my boots, as I edge closer, tumbling into the haze below, swallowed before I can hear them land. If they land at all. My heart kicks up on instinct, breath catching as a breeze brushes past—cool, steady, carrying a trace of something I can’t quite place. Green.Clean. Like crushed mint and fresh-cut grass. It smells like opulence, like freedom, like everything the Innerlands stole and everything we were meant to forget.
They say that peace created this.Bullshit. Even poison can wear perfume.
My fists tighten and that itch under my skin sharpens, magic pulsing hot as my gaze cuts across the Ravine—past the Innerland wall, beyond stone and spire—until there it is.
The Citadel.
Perched like a crown on the horizon, gleaming, untouched. Always watching. Always waiting. Making sure the Outerlanders stay exactly where we’re meant to be.Outside. Still punishing us for the choices our ancestors refused to make, they didn’t kneel, didn’t sign the Treaty. So they took it, our land, our opportunities,our magic.And left us out here to fend for ourselves.If it weren’t for the trade agreements, and all the backbreaking work our people do hauling resources, they probably would’ve wiped us out years ago.
Something inside me snaps, a searing flicker under my skin. Anger. Grief.Power. It rises fast, thick in my throat, too much to swallow.
A quick glance down at my watch. Okay, still time, barely, but just enough to do something illegal. Specifically, handle the minor inconvenience of my magic: currently screaming inside me like a toddler mid-tantrum, dying to get out.
