Septimus. The memory of him tending my wound, of his unexpectedly gentle hands and the confusion in his eyes when I'd kissed him, surfaced unbidden. He'd told me to protect Livia, even from myself if necessary. Was this what he meant?
I pushed myself to my feet, wincing as my weight settled on my injured leg. "If there's nothing else...?"
"Rest that leg," Mira said, her tone softening slightly. "We need you at full strength."
I nodded and made my way slowly up the stairs and out into the night. The streets were quieter than usual—a responseto increased Imperial patrols after the recent demonstrations. I stuck to the shadows, keeping my head down, my hand never far from the knife concealed at my waist.
The journey back to the academy took longer than usual, my leg protesting with each step. By the time I reached the hidden entrance Livia had shown me—a servant's passage that bypassed the main gates—I was sweating despite the cool night air, my wound a throbbing fire beneath the bandages.
Our quarters were dark and empty when I entered. Livia must still be with Marcus and Antonius, perhaps discussing their concerns about the festival plans. Septimus was likely wherever he'd been disappearing to lately—I hadn't seen him since that night he'd tended my wound, and I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
I collapsed into a chair, the events of the evening weighing on me like a physical burden. The resistance leaders clearly had something major planned for the festival, something beyond the demonstrations we'd been organizing. Something they believed required my "particular skills."
What did that mean, exactly? Were they expecting me to lose control, to let the rage take over as it had with Varin? The thought sickened me. That wasn't fighting for freedom—that was becoming the very monster the Empire claimed Talfen to be.
But if not that, then what? What else could they want from me that they couldn't ask of their other operatives?
I closed my eyes, exhaustion washing over me. The wound in my leg pulsed with my heartbeat, a steady reminder of my vulnerability. I should check the bandages, apply fresh herbs to fight the infection I could feel brewing beneath my skin. But I couldn't summon the energy to move.
My mind drifted to Livia, to the way she'd looked at me when I'd told her to go ahead without me. She'd known I was keeping something from her. She always knew. How was I goingto explain this? How could I tell her that the resistance leaders had some secret plan they wouldn't even fully disclose to me, yet expected me to participate in?
And what if that plan endangered her? She was already taking enormous risks, infiltrating the academy, planning to assassinate the Emperor. If the resistance's secret festival action somehow compromised her position...
A surge of protective rage flooded through me at the thought, so sudden and powerful it took my breath away. My hands clenched on the arms of the chair, the wood creaking beneath my grip. Something was happening to my fingers—they felt strange, elongated, the nails hardening and extending into points that dug into the wooden armrests.
I looked down in horror to see my hands transforming before my eyes, the fingers lengthening, the nails thickening into curved claws that left deep gouges in the wood. My skin began to take on a bluish hue that spread up my wrists and disappeared beneath my sleeves.
"No," I gasped, staring at my transformed hands. "No, no, no..."
It was happening again. I could feel it spreading through me—the heat, the raw power, the overwhelming rage. My vision blurred, everything taking on a reddish tinge as if I were seeing the world through a veil of blood.
I lurched to my feet, stumbling to the washbasin in the corner. The face that looked back at me from the water's surface was barely recognizable—my eyes glowed with an amber light, my features sharpened, my teeth elongated into points that pricked my lower lip when I gasped.
"Control it," I whispered, gripping the basin so hard the porcelain cracked beneath my clawed hands. "Control it, control it, control it..."
I focused on my breathing, on the techniques I'd developed over years of containing this part of myself. Slowly, painfully, I felt the transformation begin to recede. The claws retracted, the sharpness of my features softened, the glow faded from my eyes. I slumped against the wall, exhausted by the effort.
This was getting worse. More frequent, harder to control. And if it happened during the festival, in the middle of a crowd, with Imperial guards everywhere...
The sound of the door opening sent a jolt of panic through me. I scrambled to my feet, keeping my back to the entrance, praying that the transformation had fully reversed.
"Tarshi?" Livia's voice, concerned and questioning. "Are you alright?"
I took a deep breath, steeling myself before turning to face her. "Fine," I managed, forcing a smile I didn't feel. "Just tired. The leg's giving me trouble."
She crossed the room to me, her brow furrowed with concern. In the dim light, I hoped she couldn't see the remnants of my transformation—the slight elongation of my canines that I could still feel against my lip, the amber glow that might still linger in my eyes.
"You're burning up," she said, her cool hand against my forehead. "The wound's infected, isn't it? Let me see."
"Later," I said, catching her hand before she could reach for my bandages. "How was the rest of your evening?”
She gave me a look that said she knew I was deflecting but allowed it for the moment. “It was fine.” She studied my face, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What did Kalen want to discuss with you?"
Here it was—the moment to decide. Tell her everything, or keep Kalen's secret? The responsible part of me knew I should share my concerns, discuss the strange conversation and the leaders' reluctance to provide details. But another part—the partthat had just seen my hands transform into claws, that lived in constant fear of the demon within me—wanted to protect her from whatever was coming.
"Just details about the northern district assignments," I lied, hating myself for it. "Nothing important."
She didn't believe me—I could see it in the slight tightening of her mouth, the way her eyes searched mine. But she didn't push, and somehow that was worse than if she had.
