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I volunteered to die four days ago. Now that the carriage finally stops rolling, I know the end is almost here.

Outside the padded carriage walls, voices shout orders, wagon wheels creak, and boots stomp through mud.

The selector snaps his fingers for my attention. "We've arrived."

"Where are we?"

"You'll see soon enough.” He produces a small badge with the letter "V" from a pocket in his fancy robe. "Pin this to your tunic."

I take it, examining the metal. "What's this for?"

"It marks you as a volunteer."

I hesitantly pin the "V" badge to my tunic, feeling like I've been branded. My fingers tremble slightly as I secure it, the metal cold against my skin. Volunteer. Technically, I suppose it's the truth, even if I felt like I had no choice in the matter. "Why does it matter if I volunteered?"

"Confluence Academy keeps extensive records. It will be noted as you’re processed and then you’ll be free to discard the badge. The 'why' beyond that is none of your concern."

Confluence Academy? The words hit like a punch.

Confluence is the school where primals are trained. It is an even more well-kept secret than facts about the primals themselves. It's usually talked about with the same level of belief as vampires, siphons, and werewolves. Yet the selector just casually implied we're parked outside its doorstep.

"I thought Confluence Academy was just a story."

"It’s quite real, offering." He sighs the words, as if this is a tiresome conversation he's had dozens of times—as if dragging people from their homes to a place they hardly believed existed was ordinary. "Take her," he says, nodding to the guards.

I'm hauled to my feet, my legs stiff and aching from days of travel. My heartbeat quickens, a desperate flutter against my ribs as reality crashes down. A stupid, hopeful part of me wants to believe that if this really is Confluence Academy, I might actually have a chance to live.

An academy. As in, a place where people are trained. It's not a sacrificial pit. There's not a fire dragon waiting to eat me outside the carriage like kids used to whisper about when I was little.

But it still feels wrong. Empire takes one person aged between eighteen and twenty-one from every town and city each year. Nobody ever sees them again. If the offerings collected by selectors were becoming primals, surely some would come back to tell their loved ones. The truth would get out.

The guard shoves open the carriage door, and I'm thrust into a world of pure chaos.

The damp, earthy smell of mud churned by hundreds of horses and boots hits me first. Then the pungent stench of fear and stale sweat. And something else—like the air after lightning strikes, but sharper. More alive.

My stomach knots so violently I nearly double over. I know that smell. It's the same smell that came with the storm three years ago. The smell that follows me into my nightmares. It's the smell of magic.

The phantom salt spray stings my eyes as the memory claws its way up my throat, threatening to drown me all over again. I push away the memories that threaten to surface—the screams, the water, the sickening sound of wood splitting beneath our feet. My fingers tremble, and I curl them into fists, using the bite of my nails against my palms to ground myself in the present.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on my surroundings instead of the past.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of carriages just like mine fill the massive courtyard spreading before me. Imperial guards herd dazed offerings from their vehicles toward a central location. The other offerings show just how far Empire’s reach extends through their clothing—flowing silks from the eastern provinces, thick wools from the north, lightweight linens like mine from the coastal regions. I even spot a cluster of people who might be from the many islands that neighbor the main continent.

And all of them were selected, chosen out of a random lottery. Sentenced to die.

I idly trace the “V” badge on my tunic. I thought I was ready to die, but I can’t lie to myself. Ever since the Selector told us where we were… ever since that moment, I’ve felt the spark of hope threatening to ignite my insides.

Dragging my eyes from the crowd, I look up at the structure looming behind the sea of offerings and guards.

The sight steals my breath.

A castle rises before us, so vast it makes the defensive keep back home in Saltcrest look like a child's toy. Four colossal towers stand at each corner, each one distinctly different from the others.

The first looks more like a pillar of earth, as if carved from a single massive piece of granite, roots and vines climbing its surface like grasping fingers. I almost imagine I can see the stone itself breathing, expanding and contracting as if alive.

The second shimmers as currents of white air curl up its elegantly carved shape, swirling into clouds at its peak that seem to dance and shift. Occasionally, tiny lightning flashes illuminate the mist from within.

The third is constructed of dark, burnt stone covered in licking flames that send plumes of smoke skyward, yet the stone never burns or crumbles. The fire pulses with each gust of wind, almost like a heartbeat.

And the fourth is completely encased in a shimmering wall of water. Water that flows upward against the pull of the earth, against everything that makes sense.

My heart pounds against my ribs. These aren't just decorative elements. These are elemental manifestations of magic—real, tangible power on display as casually as other castles might display banners.

The central structure between these towers looks large enough to house thousands, its walls tall and imposing.

Confluence Academy. Just like the selector said. It has to be.

That tiny spark of hope turns to a flame—a flame I’m terrified to nurture but can’t bring myself to extinguish. Could it really be true? That we've been brought here to train, not for slaughter? If they're going to make us into primals, it would mean far more than just surviving.

It would mean power. The kind of power that could make things right again. The kind that could have saved them.

Primals are the elite of the elite, and the magic they command is the stuff of legends. Rarely seen, often heard about, and completely surrounded in mystery and confusion. And now I'm standing in front of the academy that creates them. My eyes see it, and yet my mind still refuses to fully believe.

"Move it, offering!" A guard shoves me between my shoulder blades, and I stumble forward, nearly falling face-first into the mud.

I recover my balance and join the line of other offerings being marched through enormous doors, through a courtyard full of activity, and then into the castle's main hall. It’s so much to take in I hardly even notice the pangs of hunger and thirst or the ache of being cramped in the carriage for days on end.

I catch glimpses of what must be students, most of whom are ignoring us. They're all too far to get a clear look at, though, and we're being marched through the building at a rough pace.

Looking around at the other offerings, I see badges like mine, except none bear the letter "V." The most common, by far, is an "O." There are a few "R" badges scattered into the mix as well, but nobody else seems to have been crazy enough to volunteer like I did.

Several offerings nearby stare openly at my badge, whispering to their neighbors and pointing. Their gazes burn into me, making my skin itch. I fight the urge to rip the damn thing off and throw it away. I know it's irrational, but I almost feel like they can see my shame—see straight into my heart and know how ready I was to die for what I did.

One boy with hollow cheeks catches my eye. "Why would you volunteer?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the commotion. "Are you mad? They're going to kill us all, don't you realize that?"

Before I can respond, a guard shoves him forward, and his thin frame disappears into the crowd.

The great hall steals my attention. Soaring ceilings arch impossibly high above us, supported by columns carved to resemble various mythical creatures. Colored light streams through stained glass windows depicting epic battles between humans with glowing markings and elemental creatures. Some of the paintings look absolutely ancient, and they show humans fighting elementals—the wars that shattered civilization and brought us back to the beginning.

We're assembled into orderly rows facing a raised dais at the far end of the hall. I'm positioned beside a red-haired girl with mud-streaked cheeks and an oddly serene expression, despite our circumstances. A guard gives her a particularly rough shove, knocking her off balance.

I catch her arm before she falls, steadying her. "You okay?"

She nods, offering a quick smile that brightens her whole face despite the grime. "I'm Mireen. Thank you."

"Nessa."

"So…” her voice is low, quiet, and tinged with wry humor. “Want to take bets on which of us is going to die first?”

“What would be…” I begin, trailing off as her smile widens.

“Sorry,” Mireen says. “Where I’m from, we see a lot of death. I find joking about it makes the whole thing just a touch less terrifying.”

“In any case,” I say, keeping my voice to a whisper. “Maybe death isn’t so certain. Why would they mark us with badges and go through all this just to execute us? This is Confluence Academy. What if they brought us here to train us? To become primals?"

The words sound pathetic even to my own ears—the desperate bargaining of someone who's suddenly realized they're not ready to die after all. Minutes ago, I was ready to die. Now I find myself clinging so tight to the idea of survival it makes me sick.

"What if they brought us here as food for the students?" a boy beside us asks, his eyes wide with terror. "Maybe primals eat people."

"Primals don't eat people," another voice responds.

"You sure about that? You ever seen a primal eat?"

"Never seen a primal. Period."

Mireen offers me a sidelong glance that says she at least doesn't think we're about to be consumed. Then her eyes widen when they fall to my badge. "A 'V'? That means you volunteered, right?”

"It's a long story." I can feel my expression shuttering, walls sliding into place like fortress gates before an attack.

To my surprise, Mireen nods instead of pressing me for answers. "I didn't even think this place was real." She looks around the large hall as more offerings are led in by guards.

A lanky boy with intelligent eyes sidles up beside me. Unlike the fear evident on most faces, he carries himself with quiet confidence.

"Ah! So there is another volunteer," he says, nodding at my badge. "Only two so far in the entire gathering. That's two out of about fifteen hundred offerings. Have you met him? The other 'V'?"

"I haven't..."

"I'm Nolan, by the way."

"Nessa."

"In any case. Curious that so few would volunteer, isn't it? Or is it just that the tight age window means most loved ones aren't eligible to do it?" He has a rambling way of talking, almost as if he's thinking aloud.

I glance down at his badge and see an "R". "What does yours mean?"

"Replacement. Somebody with no eligible next-of-kin ran once they were selected, and I was taken in their place." He shrugs. "It's okay though. My cousin is training to be a diviner, and she said she's picked up fire affinity markers in me."

"Fire?" Mireen whispers, instinctively shifting away from him.

His smile falters. "What, afraid I'm a Red Kingdom spy?" He wiggles his fingers, as if poking fun at the very idea.

"My uncle died fighting Red Kingdom. His unit was wiped out by one of their fire primals. Every last soldier burned so badly their armor was the only thing left on the field." Her voice trembles with sudden, barely contained anger, all her easy-going nature evaporated in an instant.

I notice her slight accent then—a subtle drawl that marks her as a deep norther. Up that close to the border, tensions between Red Kingdom and Empire are on everyone's mind every day. The war is literally in their backyards. No wonder she said they see a lot of death where she’s from.

Even for the relatively fortunate like those of us in Saltcrest, the war’s reach is long. Supply blockages often cripple port trade, leading to shortages and starvation. The famine that claimed my best friend’s life hit when I was just eight, and it was a direct result of the war.

"I'm Empire-born," Nolan cuts in, voice tight. "Last time I checked, Empire still accepts fire and earth primals. I'd be fighting right alongside people like your uncle if I became a primal."

"And yet you don’t have to look far to find stories of fires and earths betraying Empire. Turning coat to join Red Kingdom. They can't be trusted," Mireen counters.

"Not every fire and earth elemental is loyal to Red Kingdom," Nolan argues. "Some of them choose to side with Empire, and Empire should be glad for it." He stands straighter, back rigid with indignance.

"Come on," I say, looking between them. "We're all in the same boat now. The last thing we need is to make enemies of each other."

Nolan shrugs, offering a hand to Mireen.

She swallows, then takes and shakes, even if she doesn't look particularly happy about it.

"Do you know what they're going to do with us?" I ask them both.

"You don't know?" Nolan says, leaning in and lowering his voice. "It was a long journey from Marrow's Edge to here, which gave me quite some time to press my selector for answers. Tight-lipped fellow, but I did gather this much: they're going to test us for elemental affinity. Dangerous as all hells, of course. But people like me with affinities should survive."

"Test us? How?" My pulse quickens, a birds's panicked flutter trapped beneath my skin.

"He wouldn't say. I did get the distinct impression it is a rather... deadly process, though. I'm afraid our numbers will thin dramatically before day's end."

A thick lump forms in my throat as I look at Mireen. Her wide eyes say she's just as unhappy with the news.

"You never answered before. Did you meet the other 'V' yet?" Nolan asks suddenly.

I shake my head.

"He's just coming into the room now. Right there," he says, pointing through the crowd.

I follow his finger and feel the air rush from my lungs.

The other volunteer is tall, broader and more muscular than anyone else in our group, standing apart like a predator among prey. The space around him is conspicuously empty, as if everyone senses the danger rolling off him in waves.

He's beautiful in the way dangerous things often are—like the perfect stillness of a viper before it strikes. The moment of collapsed time when the danger is as clear as the impossibility of escape.

His features are carved perfection, sharp and soft in all the right places. He has a strong jaw, a mouth that looks made for both cruelty and pleasure, and those eyes—gods help me—they're the deepest shade of amber I've ever seen, almost molten gold in the fading light.