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“I’m not complaining.” He smirks. “Did you train with your brothers?”

“I joined my brothers' lessons as soon as I was able to hold a blade … and they dragged me back to our mom. But I was right back … so they gave up eventually,” I say, and Calix chuckles.

We both watch two candidates go at each other with swords, their movements fast and so fluid it looks like a dance.

Damn, they’re good.

“I tell you what, if we get in …” Calix's gaze returns to me. “We’ll train together. I’ll show you some tricks on the mat, and you can help me get better at that climbing stuff. My time was shit.” He smiles, self-deprecating.

“Sounds perfect to me!” My smile widens. Maybe becoming a skyrider isn’t as cutthroat as everyone tries to make me believe.

Half an hour later, I’m ready to take that thought back. I’m armed with a dagger and face a brutish-looking man. I didn’t like him when we started and loathe him since he tried twice now to slip his knife between my ribs.

He has a calculating look in his eyes, is bigger and heavier than me, and fights as dirty as it gets. Sweat trickles down my temple and already soaks my tunic. I lost my sweater long ago. The cuts on my arm from deflecting his blade throb in time with my heartbeat.

Good thing I’m not above fighting dirty too, if needed. His chest is heaving, and he looks like a bull ready to charge. Being good at pissing people off has come in handy, after all.

I incline my head, giving him a sweet smile.

“Are you alright over there? You look a little … constipated,” I say, and the rider, who acts as the referee and stands behind my opponent, makes a choked noise, coughing to cover his laughter.

I think the rider’s laughter, more than my words, makes my opponent snap, and he charges in a rush of fury.

Distracted by his rage, he forgets to monitor all my movements.

I wait until the last moment, then drop low and slide to the side, swiping my blade over his legs right under his kneecaps.

We fight with our own daggers, and I always keep this particular one very well-honed. He goes down like a tree.

The referee’s eyebrows jump up, and he notes me down as the winner while a healer rushes over. They will fix him up easily enough; fixing two tendons is much less work than a complicated chest wound.

“Sneaky but effective,” the rider says while he hands me the slip with all my sparring results. Weaponless combat was a loss, and I’m sure I will look the part tomorrow, but I won the rest.

I smile at him and nod my thanks while ignoring my opponent, who is cursing me to the mists and back.

Calix is already waiting at the side. We went through all the sparring stations together but, thankfully, never had to face each other.

I’m exhausted. My body is a mess of bruises and superficial scrapes, and the shallow cuts on my forearm burn every time the stiff fabric of the blood-soaked sleeve rubs over them.

Calix, on the other hand, is sweaty and a little ruffled, but apart from a bruise forming around his left eye, he’s completely unharmed.

No major injuries. That is all that counts.

Questioning is the only part of Assessment held inside the academy, so we follow the string of candidates heading inside.

The stairwell we enter is cool and dark after being in the full sun. Or maybe it is just the sweat cooling on my skin.

The dark stone floors are smooth beneath our feet, and the bare walls are made of the same light stone as the outside.

We drudge up a flight of winding stone steps and are greeted by another line of waiting candidates running along a corridor with the same stone combination as before and high, arched ceilings. Big windows let in enough light to make additional lighting unnecessary.

The light space reverberates with chattering voices. The atmosphere is relaxed, but I’m terrified.

“Do you know what happens in there?” I incline my head toward the door we stand in line for.

“Oh, it’s just a physical examination and a few questions. Nothing big.” The guy behind us chimes in before Calix can answer. “My brother is a skyrider, and he said it’s more about them wanting to know our potential and if we already have a gift than a real test.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad. Better than getting our asses kicked by a gifted. That’s what I feared would happen.” Calix grins at the man, introducing himself. All I hear is “physical exam.”

I’m going to be sick.

“Are you alright?” Calix looks concerned. If I look how I feel, I can’t blame him.

“Be right back.” I leave the line and rush down the corridor to the toilets without looking back.

I’m sitting on the closed toilet, looking down at the crook of my right arm. The stain on my skin is too dark for a bruise, and there is no way they will overlook it in a physical examination.

This small dark blotch of bluish-black started it all, and I refuse to be stopped by it now.

What does it even mean?

I know gifted people have to learn to control and wield their magic.

That’s how it was for my brothers. Without a controlled release, magic accumulates until it either poisons the blood or erupts out of you.

The thought makes me shudder. But what about cursed ones?

And how can I control something I don’t have?

Despite all the questions, I’m sure of one thing. I can’t let them see the mark. It will be my certain death, and my family’s for hiding me all those years.

Cuts and scratches dot my skin. There is only one way. The wound has to be shallow enough that no one will heal me, but bloody enough to hide the darkness beneath. I draw the dagger from the sheath on my belt, set it on my skin, and pause.

Shit, this is going to hurt.

I take a deep breath and scrape it over the mark.

My skin turns lighter and rougher in texture. Two small beads of blood pop up—not nearly enough.

Someone pounds against the door, making me flinch, which opens up a shallow slice on my forearm.

Dammit.

I growl in frustration. One more scar on my skin when I already have too many of those. Gods, what would I give to be able to be healed? It is the most common way cursed persons are discovered. My luck was that Mom was the one who tried to heal me.

And nearly died trying.

I was unconscious and too small, so I have no memory of that day, but the guilt stays.

Another pounding. I start again, remembering where I am. At least I had enough space between my skin and the blade this time.

I’m doing this not only for me but for them.

“You okay?” It’s Calix, his voice muffled by the door.

I take a deep breath.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

My skin is clammy, and my insides roil. I grit my teeth, set the blade on my skin again, and drag it over the stain, harder this time. I release my breath in a hiss—still not enough.

I have to repeat it two more times. The pain increases with every go. By the time my smooth skin is raw and bloody—finally hiding the mark from sight—it’s a constant burn.

I have to take a few deep breaths before my stomach settles, then I pull down my sleeve and clean my dagger over the sink.

When I exit, Calix looks me up and down but doesn’t say a word. Despite the pain—more of a pulsing now—I feel much better. Now, it takes more than one hard look, and if I avoid being healed, I might even get through this alive.