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I noticed Kenna's smile falter slightly. "No," she said after a moment. "I suppose we didn't."

Theron scoffed, the sound drawing my attention back to him. He'd positioned himself against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the stone as if ready to spring away at any moment. Despite his height, there was something almost delicate about his features.

"Proper training hardly matters now," he said. His eyes fixed on something beyond us, and we all turned to look.

A different man approached, looking to be in his mid-twenties. His dark hair was long on top but shaved on the sides. He cast a curious glance over the group of us before his eyes fell on me. “Raven.” He nodded before sitting down.

In the practice ring, Valkan had stripped off his formal jacket. Even from here, I could see the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way his muscles moved too smoothly as he sparred with his guard. There was something wrong about it—something that made my stomach turn.

"They say his entire regiment fights like that," Kenna whispered, a shudder running through her. "Like they don't even feel pain."

"They don't." Mira's voice cut through the air like steel. She'd finally stopped pacing, her slight frame coiled with tension. "I've seen them."

A silence drifted over us for a few seconds.

"My sister..." Soren started, then stopped himself, running a hand through his dark curls. "She used to say there are worse things than dying." His voice had dropped so low I almost missed it.

"Used to?" Kenna asked.

But Soren just shook his head, his shoulders hunching slightly.

"Look," Lael broke in, clearly trying to change the subject. "TheSentinels are starting their warm-ups." He nodded toward the other practice rings where black-clad figures moved through combat forms.

I studied their movements, trying to memorize each stance, each transition. These were the soldiers we'd have to face. Some bore visible scars, others moved with the telltale signs of old injuries. All of them carried themselves with the kind of confidence that should be intimidating, but for some reason, there was a touch of—something, maybe sadness—in their movements.

"They're slower than usual," Theron observed, his analytical tone betraying more than casual interest. "The drought affects them too."

"You seem to know a lot about their fighting style," Kenna said, arching a brow.

Something flickered across Theron's face—too quick to read. "I make it my business to know things."

Across the pit, Valkan's milky eyes shifted in our direction. Though he kept moving through his forms, there was something predatory in the way his attention settled on our group. His personal guards were a blur of movement around him, their skin sharing that same sheen.

"Stop staring," Raven muttered, "he enjoys it."

"And how would you know that?" Kenna asked, but her practiced smile had faded completely.

Before Raven could answer, the metallic sound of steel on stone rang through the chamber. One of the Sentinels had struck their weapon against the pit's edge. The room fell silent as the last of the nobles filtered into their seats above.

"Finally," Mira breathed, but I noticed her hands were trembling slightly.

I looked up at the platform where the Generals sat. Urkin's face was unreadable as he surveyed the candidates, but there wassomething calculating in General Karis's gaze as it swept over us. A man in Archivist robes approached, carrying a black cloth bag.

"Well," Kenna whispered, straightening her shoulders. "I suppose we're about to find out who's actually ready for this."

Lael's hand found mine and squeezed once before letting go. When I glanced at him, his face had settled into something determined. In that moment, he no longer looked like the boy Aether had rescued, but someone older.

The first number was about to be drawn.

Urkin stood, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Candidates, step forward."

We formed a line before the Generals' platform, our shadows stretching long behind us in the torchlight. The Archivist moved down the line with his black cloth bag. Kenna reached in first, her grace faltering slightly as she drew her lot. A small breath of relief escaped her when she eyed the stone.

The bag moved to Theron next. His stoic nature never wavered as he selected his stone, though I noticed his jaw tighten at whatever number he saw. Mira snatched hers quickly, like removing a bandage, while Soren's hand seemed to tremble as he reached in.

When it was my turn, the fabric felt rough against my fingers. I drew out a small black stone, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The number three was carved into its surface—my stomach lurched, but at least I wouldn't be first.

Lael was last before Valkan. His fingers closed around his stone with determination, but I saw the color drain from his face as he read the number.