I try to keep up, but it’s a mess of half-snarled words and overlapping accusations until I catch the gist: Apparently, Finn thought it’d be a brilliant idea to use a Truth String this morning to confess that he swallowed one of Rowan’s collectible model-sized dragon teeth.
Not lost. Not misplaced.Ingested.
Rowan had a full labelled set, and Finn, in a moment of what he described as “boredom and dental exploration,” decided to play surgeon. Now a rare model version of a tooth from a Red-spined Nosehorn, mint condition, is somewhere in his lower intestine.
When I ask why, Finn cracks his knuckles and shrugs. “Just a routine cleaning that went a little wrong.”
“A little wrong?” Rowan snaps. His face goes red, actually red, I’ve not seen him this pissed yet. But he doesn’t stop, just barrels on, and they’re off again, voices rising, talking over each other, saying nothing that helps.
Shit, I don’t have time for this. Not their bickering. Not the spiral. And definitely not the way my Threads are clawing now, scraping at my insides like they’re eager to throw themselves into the mess too.
So I cut in—voice tight, polite, barely hanging on—and ask Finn if he can make me a new duck.
His gaze drops from Rowan to my hands, still shaking under the table. Brow lifts and says the carving won’t take long. Hell, he could toss me a block of wood now if I don’t care how it looks.
But Lacing it with his Threads... that’s the problem. That takes time. Few days, maybe—three, if Rowan ever shuts up about the bloody dragon tooth.
He asks if that’s okay.
I could tell him no fucking way. That I need it now. That every second, my Threads buzz harder—heat curling under my ribs like a warning flare.
But I don’t want them to see how close I am to losing it.
Don’t want to admit that something as stupid as a missing bird is the only thing standing between me and a full-blown magical breakdown.
So I nod like it’s fine. Like my nails aren’t digging into my legs. Like I’m not desperate for something to burn.
Fuck, I’m not going to make it two days, not like this.
Finn notices something’s off and asks if I’m okay.
I don’t want him knowing I’m about to explode, and I don’t want to lie, so I tell them the Nightrose isn’t just stalking me when I’m awake anymore—he’s started slipping into my dreams.
Finn, of course, winks like it’s a compliment. “Sounds like someone’s obsessed.”
I don’t even have the energy to come back with anything.But Rowan does, muttering something low about Finn not taking anything seriously and that’s all it takes.
Finn snaps back with something about Rowan needing to pull the rod out of his backside and go back to reading his little dragon books, and suddenly they’re at it again.
I don’t bother cutting in this time.
I finish the rest of lunch in silence. Barely taste it. Barely hear them.
Because my mind is spinning around one thing, we have Non-Magical combat next and what the hell I’m going to do about my Threads.
My ankle’spretty sore by the time we reach the Rec Hall, magic worse, pressure building behind my eyes now, but I take a breath, try to steady myself.
The plan is simple: make it through this last class without drawing attention, without getting called down. Just stay calm, at least until I can replace the duck. Because if anyone finds out how close I am to snapping it’s not just my ankle I’ll need to worry about.
Ezzy’s already waiting outside the door, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s been here for ten minutes too long. Her black uniform’s pristine, her short blonde hair pulled back in two tight bunches, she’s practically humming with excitement to see us.
Crap. I’m going to have to tell hersomething.
But before I can even open my mouth, Rowan gets flagged by an officer, something about a mandatory health inspection. None of them seem surprised, standard Citadel protocol apparently. He pauses before leaving, frowning as his gaze flicks to us, then settles on Ezzy.
“Be careful in there.” His voice tight and serious.
“I’m not a first-year anymore, Rowan.” She huffs back, brows low.
