Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
"What'd I miss?" she whispers, a wink softening her worried expression.
"Mireen!" I whisper-yell, relief flooding my voice. “You survived the trial!”
"Focus!" the instructor snaps, his eyes finding me instantly in the crowd.
I straighten my spine and fix my gaze ahead, but the moment his attention shifts elsewhere, I’m smiling. Mireen lived. In this place of calculated cruelty, her presence feels like the first truly good thing since leaving Saltcrest.
The arena pulses with nervous energy as four distinct groups form around their respective instructors. The airs dominate with their superior numbers—nearly two hundred of them by my rough count. Waters are the second largest group with only a dozen or so fewer students than the airs. The earth affinities barely make thirty, and fires count only twenty-five among their ranks.
No black uniforms move among us. We all still wear the clothes of our homelands. It’s a rowdy mixture of color, dirt, and styles.
I wonder what the aspirants and legacies are doing right now. From the way they were already given uniforms and allowed to bypass the trial, I imagine they’re being fed grapes by beautiful men and women.
Lucky assholes.
My eyes drift inevitably to where Raith stands among the fires—tall, scarred, unmistakable. While nearly everyone in the room fumbles through basic forms, he moves with deadly precision, each strike and block executed with frightening efficiency. He looks like he was born to fight and bred to kill.
I'm not the only one watching Raith, I realize.
Every fire studies him with a mixture of respect and wariness, while girls from all affinities steal the occasional glance. His scars should make him grotesque, but instead, they only enhance the raw magnetism that emanates from him like heat from a forge. When his golden eyes catch the light, something deep and primal in my brain registers him as a predator—the most dangerous creature in a room full of prey.
I force my attention away, cheeks warming at my own foolish interest in the man.
Focus, Nessa.
"Waters, attention!" Our instructor—a lean man in his early thirties paces before us, intensity radiating from every inch of his body. His lilting accent hints of the Roselands in the deep south, soft syllables at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "Assessment begins in five minutes. I strongly doubt any of you are capable yet, but no channeling your affinity. You need to be trained before you can use magic without accidentally killing someone."
"What if we do kill someone by accident?" a boy calls out, his voice cracking midway through the question.
The instructor's eyes harden to chips of ice. "Then you should hope their friends don't seek retribution."
"That's it?" The words escape me before I can catch them, surprise overriding caution.
His gaze turns to me, measuring and dismissive in equal parts. I expect some kind of denial, even if I’ll know it’s false. His only response is to give the slightest nod.
"Does that mean you don't care if we kill people?" a small girl asks, her voice fracturing with barely contained terror.
"You're all training for war. If you graduate from this academy, you'll leave as a fully tethered primal ready to become the most lethal weapon in the Empire's army." He says this as though reciting an old litany, words worn smooth with repetition. "Earn the right to be valuable. Prove your worth. Survive. That's your role here, so embrace it, offerings."
Murmurs ripple through our ranks, a wave of disbelief and fear that breaks our carefully maintained formation. He’s not denying the question. Maybe my classmates will realize we’re allowed to kill one another faster than Bastian thought.
"So other students can just... kill us?"
"They really don't care?"
"They just want the strongest to survive."
"Then don't get killed, idiot."
I keep my expression carefully neutral, even as my stomach flips and clenches in on itself.
Cull the weak. Strengthen the herd.
As part of the herd, I can’t say I agree with the strategy at the moment.
Beside me, Mireen looks like she's balancing on the knife-edge of panic, her face drained of color as her hands fall limply to her sides.
"Hey," I say quietly, angling my body to shield her from the instructor's view. "We got this. I think most people are too worried about surviving to start trying to kill each other yet. I'm sure we'll be fine."
Yet.
Even my flimsy attempt at reassurance falls flat. We both hear the unspoken truth hanging in the air between us.
She gives a shaky nod, tongue darting out to wet her chapped lips. "Thanks," she whispers, not looking convinced but offering a smile all the same.
The massive doors at the far end of the arena swing open with a groan that reverberates through the stone floor. Several figures in silver and gold enter—legacies, their presence commanding immediate attention despite their casual strides. Bastian is among them, his golden hair catching the light from the high windows. He scans the sea of offerings until his eyes find me. The subtle nod he gives is so quick I might be imagining it.