Eyes snap open as Ryven starts closing the space between us.
My heart slams into a fast, unsteady rhythm, tightening everything inside me as I shove back across the floor, heels slipping and boots skidding hard against the wood.
Fingers scrape for balance, but the moment they hit ground, my Threads snap. No aim. No warning. Just panic. Power spills from my fingers, jagged and wild, warping the air around me as it lashes out.
“Outerlanders always break easy,” Ryven sneers, lifting his hand. “No spine. That’s what happens when you’re allowed to breed without rules.”
No time to speak. No time to move.
His Threads unfurl, not seen, but felt. More flames whip from the wall-mounted candles, twisting midair like they recognise him, like they want to obey. He draws them in, shapes the fire with a flick of his wrist—then hurls it straight at me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I roll—fast and desperate, but not fast enough. Weight slams down on my left arm, and pain explodes through the burn he just gave me as a fresh flame licks across the back of my neck, catching fabric, searing skin.
The scream rips out of me before I can stop it. Around the room, gasps follow, cadets’ chairs scraping, voices rising, but it all blurs together, noise without meaning.
I reach inward, teeth clenched, clawing for my magic but my Threads are a snarl of static now, warped and tangled, like they’ve turned in on themselves. The same power that burned to be free moments, won’t fucking listen. Won’t move.
Ryven’s boots hit the floor in steady, closing steps.
Too close.
“Come on, Bloom.” Talen’s low voice slices through the chaos, too clear, too close.
He’s behind me somewhere across the platform, but it curls against my ear like a whisper meant for no one else.
“I didn’t want it over this quickly. Where’s the fun in that? Show me those thorns I know you’re hiding…”
The air around me hums, prickling, sending a shiver that knifes down my spine, skin crawling like something’s touching me that shouldn’t.
Distraction. That’s all this is. Talen’s trying to rattle me, make me slip. Ignore him and focus. But—fuck, he’s right.
What the hell am I doing?
Jaw tight with effort, I shove the panic down and push to my feet. Come on, Lyra. Fight back, get your magic under control. You’re not dying here, not likethis. Not to some smug, skin-head prick with a fire complex.
But I don’t do this. I don't dofire.
Ryven moves again. A fresh burst of flame tears toward me before I’m fully upright. I lurch sideways, the heat snapping past my face, singeing the ends of my hair.
A breath drags in, shaky, scorched at the edges. Doesn’t matter. You have to fight him. There’snochoice.
The pressure I’ve been swallowing all day spikes hard as Ryven lifts his hand again. That same smug twist cuts across his face, like the hallway, like he’s already won.
My fist clenches.
Magic surges, hot and uneven, slipping in my grip, twitching like it wants out more than it wants control. I try to shape it, rein it in, aim—anything. But it’s all jagged edges and too much movement.
He steps forward to strike.
I throw my right hand up, muscles shaking, every nerve braced and my Threads surge outward, dragging air and moisture with them. The pressure builds—too much, too fast—compacting into something volatile and heavy, but I release—shoving it forward as hard as I can.
I aim for him. I mean to hit him.
But the magic doesn’t just strike Ryven, it tears through the room like a storm breaking loose. Desks rattle, books rip free. Parchment lifts in a flurry, spinning through the air like birds scattered from a branch before it slams into the far wall with a hollow boom.
Heart pounding, chest rising sharp and fast, I try to rein my Threads back in as Quinn flashes into view. He’s smiling, like this is exactly what he was hoping for, but behind him, Talen just leans against the wall, plain-faced and bored, like he’s still waiting for the real show to start.
