Page 46 of Tempest Blazing (The Dragonne Library #3)

The team she was placed with made my breath catch—all women, all with reputations for ruthless efficiency. They called themselves the Valkyries, and they'd never lost a group exercise. Emerald green armbands wrapped around their arms as their amulets settled into their palms.

"By the seven circles of hell," Anya hissed, "they wouldn't dare." Her violet eyes blazed with protective fury as she stared at the platform, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"Team Four," Silvius continued, his tone betraying nothing. "Celia Frost. Mason Sharpe."

Mason's dark eyes met mine, and I saw the same frustrated helplessness I was feeling reflected back at me.

The shifters he was paired with were all top-ranking, all powerful—the kind of team that could hold any position through sheer physical dominance.

Golden armbands gleamed against their arms. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the protective instincts that ran so deep in his nature clearly warring with the rules that kept him from my side.

One by one, my anchors were being stripped away. The people who made me feel strong, who reminded me I belonged here —scattered to teams where they'd excel, where they'd prove themselves worthy of the bonds they'd already formed or hoped to form.

"Team Five," Silvius announced, and there was something different in his tone now. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Selena Nightshade and Valen Beaumont."

The pairing hit the arena like a physical blow. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Even some of the dragons on their perches shifted, their ancient eyes focusing with new interest.

No one even pretended this was random anymore.

Selena's cruel smile was visible even from where I stood, her blue eyes glittering with malicious anticipation.

The violet armband that appeared around her arm seemed to pulse with dark energy.

Valen's red gaze found mine immediately, and the mocking amusement there made my skin crawl.

He knew . They both knew exactly what kind of message this was sending.

The rest of their team was announced—all powerful, all connected, all the kind of applicants who'd never questioned their right to be here. It was a dream team designed to dominate, and the fact that it included my two most vindictive tormentors felt like a deliberate slap in the face.

Around me, the murmurs grew louder. Some of the other applicants were shooting me looks—some sympathetic, others calculating. Everyone could see the pattern emerging.

"Team Six," Silvius called, continuing through the assignments with mechanical precision.

More names. More teams forming with obvious synergy and strategic balance. Orange armbands marked the sixth team. I watched as natural alliances were honored, as complementary skill sets were grouped together, as everything proceeded exactly as it should—for everyone but me.

My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow. The familiar spiral of anxiety began to build, that old voice whispering that I didn't belong, that I was fooling myself, that eventually everyone would see the truth.

"Team Seven," Silvius announced, and still my name hadn't been called.

I was going to be last. Of course I was going to be last.

The seventh team was announced with bright yellow armbands—another well-balanced group with clear leadership and complementary abilities.

They moved together immediately, already discussing strategy in low voices.

Around the arena, teams were beginning to coalesce, finding their rhythm, preparing for whatever challenges lay ahead.

And I stood alone, waiting.

"Team Eight," Silvius finally called, his voice carrying a note of finality that made my stomach drop. "Tempest Whittaker."

My amulet appeared alongside a stark white armband that wrapped itself around my upper arm. It felt warm against my skin, but whether that was magic or just my own nervous energy, I couldn't tell.

The names that followed were faces I barely recognized.

Underperformers. Wildcards. Applicants who'd struggled in the group exercises, who'd shown flashes of potential but lacked consistency.

A few I'd seen stumble in combat training.

One who'd been caught cheating on a written exam.

Each received their own white armband, the color making us stand out starkly against the arena's darker tones.

Anya's voice carried across the space between us. "This is a gods-damned setup, and everyone knows it!"

The word carried farther than she'd intended, drawing sharp looks from some of the instructors. But she didn't back down, her chin lifting defiantly as she stared at the platform where Silvius stood.

My team—if they could even be called that—gathered in a loose, uncertain cluster. They eyed each other warily, already sensing the dysfunction. A few shot me suspicious glances, and I caught fragments of muttered conversations.

"Special treatment..."

"Doesn't even belong here..."

"Human privilege..."

The words hit hard, reinforcing every insecurity I'd ever harbored about being human in a world of ancient power and inherited magic.

Each whispered comment confirmed my fears that I was an outsider playing pretend, that no matter how hard I fought or how much I proved myself, I'd always be seen as less than.

The familiar ache of not belonging settled in my chest—

"Hey, at least they're talking about you," Raze's voice cut through my spiral of self-doubt. He materialized beside me with that trademark smirk. "I'm pretty sure half of them still think I'm just really tall furniture."

His words drew a reluctant smile from me, but the moment was brief. Draven appeared at my shoulder, his usual easy confidence replaced by something more serious. "Keep your head up in there," he said quietly, his hand briefly touching my arm. "You're stronger than you know."

Across the dispersing crowd, Anya caught my eye, offering a sharp nod and a fierce smile. "Don't let them break you," she called out.

Mason lingered the longest, stepping closer as the others began to move away. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. "Trust your instincts," he said simply, but the weight behind those three words felt like a promise.

Then they were gone, pulled away to their respective teams, leaving me standing alone.

I looked at my own team—really looked at them.

Seven faces, most of them strangers. A few I recognized from classes, but none I'd ever worked with closely.

They stood in an awkward cluster, already fracturing into smaller groups based on species or familiarity.

No natural leadership emerging. No obvious synergy.

One of them, a young mage, caught me looking and scowled. "So you're the human everyone's talking about," he said, his tone making it clear he wasn't impressed. "Hope you can actually fight, because we're not carrying dead weight."

Another teammate—a shifter whose animal form I couldn't identify—snorted. "Right. Because getting special treatment from dragons totally means she's earned her place here."

Their words cut deep, reinforcing every insecurity I'd ever harbored about being human in a world of ancient power and inherited magic.

Each comment confirmed my fears that I was an outsider playing pretend, that no matter how hard I fought or how much I proved myself, I'd always be seen as less than.

Around us, the other teams were moving with purpose, their members falling into natural formations. Strategies were being discussed in low, urgent voices. Magical auras were beginning to merge as teammates synchronized their power.

My team... didn't. We stood there, uncertain and divided, while the arena hummed with preparation around us.

The weight of hundreds of eyes pressed down on me from the viewing platforms. Dragons, Council members, Guild officials—all watching to see if the human could rise to the challenge or if I would crumble under the pressure.