The sun's almost set but I don’t even bother lighting the candle. The low afternoon light is enough, I just want to patch myself up and sleep. That’s all. No feelings, no questions, no more thinking, just silence.
Pain drags with every step, but it’s the colder thing buried underneath, dread, that finally drops me on to the bed.
The hard mattress does nothing to soften the ache. My left arm still burns, deep and relentless, and when I shove back the sleeve, it’s worse than I expected. Above the old scar on my hand, new streaks climb my forearm—thin, raw, blistered in places. Angry. The kind of burn that swells before it splits.
But they’re not just from Ryven’s attacks.
My Threads did this too.
It looks like something tried to claw its way out of me, maybe it did.
I breathe through the sting and reach for the healing kit Ezzy has stashed under her bed. One of the perks of surviving the Outerlands: you learn to fix what’s broken. Even if it’s yourself, especially if it’s yourself.
The ointment bites as it hits raw skin. I choke down a curse and start wrapping—tight, firm, a quiet promise to hold myself together just a little longer. The pain doesn't fade, but at least it’s contained. A small act of control and for now, that’s enough.
As I place the kit back under Ezzy’s bed, something catches in the corner of my eye.
Mum’s journal.
Still sitting on the desk, still closed, but it feels like it’s watching. Calling me to tear it open, dig through every page for answers. About her, about me.
But part of me is afraid of what I’ll find. Or worse, what I won’t. She trained here. Walked these same halls. Threaded this same magic.
What would she say if she saw me now? Back in the same place she bled to escape. Would she tell me to stay? Would she be proud, or scream at me to run like she did?
Forearms flex as my fists tighten, burn stings. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know. I don’t know what she would say, because she’s not here. She should be, but she’s not. And that... That’s on me.
My right hand moves before I can stop it, snatching the journal off the desk, I hurl it across the room. It hits the far wall with a solid, unforgiving thud and drops to the floor.
For a breath, I just stare at it, debating whether to pick it up. Then I exhale, rough, and let myself lay back fully on the bed. Limbs sink into stale sheets, the ache in my arm pulsing steady now, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Fuck. How did I end up here?
Bren always warned me. Said going over the border, smuggling Spice for people like Rhiann, would only end one way. That it was only a matter of time before I slipped up, before someone saw too much. I thought I’d be clever enough, quick enough. I thought I’d make it back. To him, to the quiet, the safety. Just once more.
But this? I could never have imagined this. Merrin, the journals, Ryven, the girl I almost strangled, my Threads, the power...Talen.
God, Talen—the fucking Nightrose.
Pure poison wrapped in perfume.
Ezzy was right. There’snothingsafe about him, he’s the kind of killer who stalks first, then strikes where it hurts most.
I thought if I kept my distance, stayed alert, if I could find his weakness, that I could dodge whatever plan he had. That maybehis brother’s death—the Reassignment Talen thinks I caused, the place he thinks I stole—didn’t mean I had a target stamped on my back.
But today, when he snapped Renn's neck without even blinking. Without breaking a sweat, in front of everyone. No anger, no hesitation, just a flick of a finger and Renn was dead.
I realised he’s not a threat. He’s aninevitability...
I thought I had time. I thought Merrin’s deal meant I was in control. But this place doesn’t give you time. Doesn’t let you breathe. The only way to survive here is to become what they want. A Citadel weapon. Merrin’s project. Something engineered, controlled, obedient.
And I don’t want that.
My arm throbs under the bandage. A warning. Or a countdown. I can't avoid what’s coming much longer, and neither can my Threads.
But fuck... trying to escape? That’s a death sentence.
Still, if I stay? That’s not survival. That’s surrender. That’s bleeding into their plans, their story, until there’s nothing of me left.
