The murmurs swell, louder now, unease rising, same as my Threads, hot and restless, clawing up my throat like they’re desperate to remind me what I’m trying to forget. Black plates, jagged and shifting, sliding out of the dark. The smell—sulphur and blood scorched into metal. And that eye.
Dark. Endless. Hollow.
A shiver rips through me before I can stop it.
I don’t look at her. But I feel Beth’s eyes on me, sharp as blades, just like that scar of hers. Fuck. She saw the dragon, she saw me run. Will she tell anyone? Has she already told anyone?
“I am told, however,” Holloway continues, “that there’s a simple explanation and no cause for panic. So until then I’ll need your full attention, because today we begin our study ofTruth Strings.”
A breath, and then just like that, the room settles. Holloway says it’s fine, so apparently the giant death lizard that tore through the Air Realm yesterday is nothing to lose sleep over.... Sure. Why the fuck not. Weirder stuff has been happening around here. I shouldn't be surprised...
“Now,” he says, pacing the platform, blue robes trailing behind him, every step as calm as his voice. “Last year, you would have been introduced to the foundations of Threads, how each of us is born with them, though they remain dormant unless we learn to listen. You also would have learned that our Threads connect us to elements in the physical world. That they allow us to influence them. Shape them. And that depending on the Realm of your birth, you each hold a natural affinity towards one: Air, Fire, Water, or Earth.”
His voice never rises, but the quiet carries. No one speaks. Even Beth is still. But I can’t focus, my mind’s too loud, my magic worse.
“At the Citadel,” he notes, “we begin by honing that single dominant Thread. In time, some of you may learn to listen toa second. Very few will ever hear a third. Professor Merrin is among those rare exceptions.”
A hand lifts from the centre row. He turns and nods in approval, for them to speak.
“Is it possible,” the cadet asks, “to master all four?”
Holloway smiles faintly, not mocking, just thoughtful. “A good question. And exactly the kind of curiosity I hope to see in this class.” He takes a small inhale before continuing. “Theoretical models suggest it might be possible, but theory has a habit of collapsing when pushed beyond balance.” He gestures lightly, as if weighing something unseen. “Every known system assumes limitation. Remove it, and the magic stop agreeing with itself.” A pause as he looks around. “But that’s a whole lecture on its own, and we’ll get there, I promise, along with advanced concepts like Loomreading and Mirroring. Today, however, we begin with something deceptively simple, but crucial. And something you should all be capable of mastering, eventually.” He claps his hands once. “Right. Who can tell me what a Truth String is?”
I don’t even need to turn to know who answered.
“Truth Strings,” Ezzy starts, tone proud, like she’s been waiting all year for this. “Are Threads pulled straight from intent, honest thought made visible. If someone speaks while weaving one, the Thread carries the truth with it. Everyone listening feels it.” She softens slightly, a little breathless. “It’s really beautiful, actually.”
“Good,” he nods. “And what else?”
Ezzy continues, “Well.. they can’t be forced. Like, a Truth String only works if the personwantsto give it. You can’t just, like, yank it out of someone mid lie. So, totally useless for interrogation.”
“Yes, an important distinction,” Holloway agrees. “You cannot coerce a Truth String, the moment you ask, the magicunravels. Truth Strings can only be offered freely.” He lets that sit for a moment. A few students shift in their seats. “Now... when might they be useful?” A girl near the front raises her hand.
“In leadership. Or negotiation. If you need people to believe you, truly believe you, being able to weave a Truth String could rally others behind you.”
“Excellent. Yes, very good.” Holloway smiles, faint creases gathering at the corners of his eyes. “There’s more to it, of course, but we’ll come back to that next term.” He straightens slightly, tone shifting from warm to precise. “Now, Truth Strings begin as a one-to-one exchange, a Thread cast from speaker to listener. But as your skill grows, so does your reach. You’ll learn to weave it for a group. A crowd. Even an army.” A pause, then: “Right. Let’s try it.”
The next hour’s a blur of voices and glowing Threads. Some cadets get it right away. Others choke on their words, magic folding in on itself. I keep whispering,My name is Lyra. My name is Lyra.
But nothing.
I breathe. Refocus. Try again. Still nothing.
If I can’t even speak my name and mean it... what else am I faking? Do I even believe myself? Frustration starts to scrape against my Threads, grinding until the magic inside me starts to boil. The duck’s gone, Finn’s out of reach, Beth’s too close, and everyone seems to have already forgotten that a fucking dragon broke the Innerland veils yesterday. Just when I’m about to slam my hands on the table and walk out?—
My name is Lyra.
A flicker.
Thin as silk, bright as a star. A single Thread, no longer than an inch, slips from my mouth, spinning lazily into the air. It twists once, delicate, almost curious, before sinking into thedesk in front of me and vanishing into the grain like it was never there.
But I saw it, just for a second. A Thread, a Truth String,mine. I did that. I can’t help the tug that pulls at the corner of my mouth.
I never had this. Not in the Outerlands. No teachers. No books. No space to learn, only space to hide. But here... Around me, the room hums with magic. Students are laughing, weaving strings like it’s just another Tuesday morning. Like it’s easy.
Bren, he would eat this alive. He’s fast, clever, and careful. He wouldunderstandit. He’d be amazing, but he never got the chance, none of us did.
And sitting here, finally touching something that was always out of reach, it doesn’t feel right, it doesn't feel good. It feels like theft. Suddenly, the smile fades, my throat tightens as I remember where I am, who I’m with.
