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He turns to look straight at me, and everything else fades. The world narrows to a tunnel with him at the end of it, and my heart forgets to beat. Even across the distance, those eyes burn into me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten and my throat dry. Heat rushes through my body unbidden—a reaction I can neither control nor understand.

The left side of his face is twisted with burn scars that begin at his temple and disappear beneath his collar, yet somehow they only enhance his dangerous allure, like veins of fire frozen beneath his skin.

It's impossible not to hold my breath as his attention lingers on me.

Looking at him reminds me of how I used to feel back home on our fishing boat when a storm was about to roll in. Some instinctive part of me knew I needed to drop the oars and row for the docks—to save myself from the raw power coming my way. And yet all I ever wanted to do was stand there and stare. I wanted to watch the dark clouds gather and morph as the wind blew them straight for me, even when thunder shook the air itself.

Maybe that’s why I can’t look away. I’ve spent the last three years going out on our boat, secretly wishing those same storm clouds would roll in and wash me away, too. To urge the waters that took half my family to take me, too.

The scarred volunteer seems to offer the same kind of deadly promise—total annihilation by proximity, as if all it would take is to drift within his orbit to be torn to shreds.

I realize he's staring right back at me still, and I'm suddenly aware of just how fast I'm breathing and how hard my heart is beating. As his gaze drops to the "V" on my chest, something in his expression shifts. His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens. For a split second, I see his fingers curl into his palm, knuckles fading from a deep tanned color to pure white.

He stalks toward me with purposeful strides, his movements fluid like a predator's, and the crowd parts before him without hesitation.

Oh shit.

"Who is he?" I whisper, not taking my eyes off him.

"Not sure. Scary bastard though, isn't he?" Nolan murmurs. "With burns like that, I'd bet he's from the border regions. Maybe even lived in Red Kingdom territory before Empire reclaimed it."

Mireen's posture stiffens beside me. "I heard the guards talking about a volunteer from the Red Kingdom border. If he's from there, you can't trust him, no matter which side he claims to be on."

Before either of us can say more, the burned volunteer stops directly in front of me. He's even more imposing up close, towering at least a foot above me. The burn scars on his face tell a story of pain and survival, the tissue rippled and angry against his bronze skin. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down at me.

"Volunteer," he says, his voice deep and rough, like stones grinding together. "Let me guess—here to serve the glorious Empire?"

The contempt in his voice when he says "Empire" tells me everything I need to know about where his loyalties lie—or at least where they once did. Mireen might actually be right about him.

"I have my reasons," I answer, lifting my chin to meet his gaze despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

"I'm sure you do," he says. "Someone probably fed you stories about honor and duty since you were a child. Made you believe sacrificing yourself meant something."

His words sink into me like barbed hooks, drawing blood as they tear at wounds that haven't even begun to heal. They sting because they're a reminder that the only thing my sacrifice will have bought back home is relief. Relief that I'm gone and can't cause any more pain and suffering to the ones I love.

But I push the pain down, eyes hard as I stare up at him. "You volunteered too. Are you speaking from experience?"

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that I'd challenge him. "My reasons are my own."

"What a coincidence. Mine too." There's more ice in my voice than I expect, but I'm glad for it. This guy is beautiful, but he's a complete asshole.

He studies me for a moment, his amber eyes searching my face as if looking for something specific. "So eager to die for a kingdom that sees you as nothing but a weapon."

"You don't know a thing about me."

He leans closer, and I can feel the unnatural heat radiating from his skin. "You expect them to make a hero out of you. You'll be a weapon. An instrument of war. A scythe to reap the lives of thousands. Is that what you volunteered for?"

"I'm not here for Empire," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. "I'm here because—" I snap my mouth shut.

No. He doesn't deserve an explanation. Nobody here does.

For a moment, the hostility in his eyes dims, replaced by something that looks almost like curiosity.

"Don't get in my way," he finally says, his voice low. "Whatever your reasons, this place will kill you soon enough."

"Is that a threat?" I ask.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It's a fact."

Before I can respond, a commotion at the front of the hall draws everyone's attention. The burned volunteer steps back, his expression closing off entirely.

He turns to leave.

"Wait," I call after him. "What's your name?"

He pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. For a moment, I think he won't answer.

"Raith," he finally says, the name landing like a challenge. Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd as guards enter, followed by students in fitted black uniforms with silver trim.

"What was that about?" Mireen whispers, staring after him.

"I have no idea," I say honestly. But the imprint of his gaze lingers on my skin like a brand, and I can still feel the unnatural heat radiating from him. Something about our exchange leaves me unsettled—and not just because of his hostility. There was something in his eyes when I said I wasn't here for Empire. It was almost calculating, and I wonder if I would've been better off letting him think he understood me. Do I really want a man like that feeling curious enough to keep an eye on me?

But there's no use because I suspect I already have his attention.

A hush falls over the hall as seven primals stride in, each accompanied by an elemental creature. The temperature shifts instantly, patches of cold sweeping through the gathered crowd.

I gawk at the creatures in their wake.

They come in all shapes and sizes. A wolf twice the size of a man made of pure water with sapphire eyes. A large eagle formed of swirling air currents. A thick serpent made of stone, flapping through the air on craggy wings as if it were weightless. There's even a fiery bird like a phoenix soaring above the group.

I've never seen anything so beautiful and terrifying—like watching destruction and creation dance together in perfect harmony.

Primals are something people whisper about—forces of death and destruction in the deepest, most dangerous battles of the endless war between Empire and Red Kingdom. Actually seeing them in the flesh makes me feel like I'm in a dream.

But are these even fully fledged primals ready for war? They don't look much older than us, making me wonder if they aren't even finished with their training yet. Whatever they are, they still seem terrifyingly powerful, and their elementals all look capable of shredding or crushing us if they wished it.

"Listen carefully," a primal marked with a glowing white swirl of air marked on the back of his left hand says. He steps forward, his voice somehow amplified as a huge bear made of swirling winds prowls behind him. "Legacies will proceed directly to the feast hall for dormitory assignments and orientation. Aspirants will report to Commander Starke for combat assessment."

The "legacies" and "aspirants," who seem to have already been given clean and well-made black uniforms, file out quietly. The legacies wear uniforms trimmed in silver and gold, while the aspirants have only the silver trim.

Among the group of legacies, one boy stands slightly apart. Unlike his peers who show off their elemental tricks, he observes with a measured stillness. He's tall, blonde, and looks almost too pretty to be attractive. Almost.

When his nearly white eyes sweep across the mass of offerings, they linger briefly on me—not with disdain but with curiosity.

I feel myself blush, almost as if I'm worried he could hear my thoughts somehow. But then I realize he's just looking at the "V" on my chest, and his attention makes more sense.

"Offerings," the older student continues, his expression solemn. "You stand at the threshold of a great honor—the test of elemental affinity. Those who pass will join the ranks of Empire's most elite. Those who do not..." he pauses, his gaze sweeping over us, "will have given their lives in service to Empire. Remember, to be chosen as an offering is itself a profound distinction. This is not a punishment. This is the greatest opportunity you could ever hope to be granted. Remember that."

The words sound noble, but the cold reality behind them isn't lost on any of us. Many, if not all of us, are sentenced to death, and our sentence is about to be carried out.

I can sense others around me shifting in fear, eyes wide with worry.

I don't feel fear, though. I only feel determination. All the pain I caused... maybe surviving here could somehow fix it. Maybe a primal could return home and make things right for Brissa and my mother. Maybe a primal could earn their forgiveness where I couldn't.

"What if we refuse testing?" someone calls out.

The boy shakes his head. "You will all enter the testing chamber, whether on your feet or... otherwise."

Another nervous murmur ripples through the crowd of offerings.

"Now," he says, chin lifted, "you'll all be taken to the Great Hall of Testing. Within, you'll either discover your affinity... or you'll meet your end. In either case, I suggest you face it with boldness."

Before the guards can lead us away, a voice stops me.

"I wouldn't get too close to that one if I were you."

I turn to see the legacy I'd noticed earlier standing beside me, his uniform pristine, his handsome face set in a friendly expression that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His wavy blonde hair is pushed back neatly from a broad forehead, revealing blue eyes so pale I'd taken them for white at a distance.

"Who?" I ask, instantly wary.

"The scarred volunteer. I'm Bastian," he says, extending a hand. "First-year, just like you."

Except he's not just like me. Everything about him screams privilege and good breeding—from his perfectly styled hair to his confident stance, as if the world has never once failed to deliver exactly what he wanted.

Coldness colors my smile. "I'm Nessa. First-year who is apparently about to be forced to risk my life in a test I didn't consent to."

Bastian offers a tight-lipped nod. "It's frightening. I know."

He doesn't. He can't know.

"Some of us legacies have been asked to help orient offerings these first few days. So, please, let me know if there's anything I can do to help." He sticks his hand out.

"Sure. Get me out of having to take this test." I take his offered hand reluctantly.

His handshake is firm, and as our hands touch, I feel a strange ripple of energy pass between us. He pulls back quickly, eyes sharpening slightly before his smile returns.

An uncomfortable moment passes before he speaks. "My advice is to embrace the opportunity. It's like he said. We're all getting a chance to become something greater than we could have ever imagined. If we succeed here, we'll be critical pieces in the Empire's army, capable of defending thousands by ourselves."

"Eager to become a pawn on somebody's chess board, are you?" I ask.

Bastian offers a surprised, half-cocked smile. "We're all already on the board, Nessa. Better to turn yourself into a key piece instead of an expendable pawn, isn't it?"

I can't help smiling back. He has a point.

Bastian cuts his eyes toward the burned volunteer. "By the way. I meant what I said earlier. Those from the border—even the ones technically on Empire's side… be careful trusting them. Those territories change hands often, and sometimes the ties to Empire are superficial."

"What, do you think he's a spy or something?"

Bastian's expression is cryptic. "I think anyone who volunteers for this place has secrets." His gaze drops to my badge, then back to my face.

I wonder if I'm only a curiosity to him—something to watch with detached interest.

Before either of us can say more, guards shove me and the other offerings forward into the Hall of Testing. I give Bastian one last look, his tall form easily visible over the crowd, until I'm led down a long flight of stairs with the others.

We enter a cavernous chamber, easily large enough to hold all fifteen hundred offerings. Massive pillars carved to resemble intertwined elemental beasts support a ceiling so high it disappears into shadow. A pair of ornate double doors stand at the far end of the room. They're covered in glowing symbols that shift and change as I watch.

Smoke swirls and clings to the ground here. Colored light occasionally shifts from behind the doors, casting long streaks through the smoke that give the room an otherworldly atmosphere.

Beyond the doors, something growls, low and deep.

There's a collective shudder among the offerings, who are all being packed tightly into the room like cattle awaiting slaughter. It's only seconds before the air grows stale with our collective breath and fear.

A handful of guards stand in a semicircle before the doors, their faces impassive as they consult a long scroll.

"I bet I'm air," a girl near me whispers excitedly to her neighbor. "My grandmother could always predict storms before they came. That has to mean something, right?"

"My uncle says I've got water in my blood," another boy responds. "Says I swim better than fish."

All around me, offerings whisper about their suspected affinities, clinging to family stories and coincidences like lifelines. Their words speak of confidence, but their voices betray them—a shakiness and frantic energy that reveals the terror they're trying so desperately to hide.

"They're all delusional," Nolan mutters beside me. "At best, one in six of us survives this."

"Then why do you sound so confident?" I ask.

He gives me a thin smile. "It’s like I said. My cousin said I have fire affinity markers. Strong ones."

"I hope you're right." I mean it. Despite barely knowing him, I don't want any of these people to die. But I also don't want to die myself, and the realization sits like a stone in my gut—a selfish, heavy thing I can't quite dislodge.

A guard's voice suddenly cuts through the chamber, silencing all the voices. "Eris Moraven."

A girl near the front straightens her shoulders, looks around nervously, and then walks forward. "Wish me luck," she says.

A few nearby offerings mutter encouraging words.

The doors swing open just enough to admit her, then close with a heavy thud that reverberates through the stone floor.

The room falls silent. We all wait, barely breathing.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty.

Then we hear it—a scream so filled with terror and pain it doesn't sound human, cut short by a wet, tearing sound that turns my stomach. Blue light flashes beneath the doors, and the smell of ozone fills the air along with the coppery tang of blood.

Someone near me retches. A girl begins to sob quietly, the sound muffled by her hands pressed desperately against her mouth.

The playful whispers and hopeful chatter doesn't return. Silence reigns, because now we all understand what we're really waiting for.

Our turns to die.