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T he castle corridors are silent save for our quiet footfalls as we make our way toward the eastern wing. Midnight has come and gone, the torches burning low, casting long shadows that dance across the stone walls. Every creak makes my heart skip, every distant sound has me jumpy.

Beck, Ambrose, and Mireen did most of the planning, and I'm relying heavily on their information. If Malakai or his people realize we know where the weapons are, I have no doubt blood will spill before the Crucible. Maybe worse—if the academy guards catch us near the weapons cache, we'll likely have no way to convince them the weapons aren't ours. We could wind up facing dismissal if caught, which would mean certain execution.

We're walking a tightrope, and my confidence isn't at its highest.

"Ten academy guards," Ambrose whispers, pushing his glasses up his nose with nervous precision. "Two in this wing. Beck's diversion should draw them all to the eastern end of the courtyard long enough for us to get inside."

As odd as it feels, the guards don’t pose a physical threat to us. Any one of us could probably handle the whole group using magic and our elementals. But none of us want to hurt innocent guards. That means being caught is a sure path to dismissal and death.

"And if it doesn't?" Mireen asks, her red hair braided tight and her eyes so blue they nearly glow in the dark.

I draw a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing pulse. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, and it could all end tonight.

It's then that I feel it—a sudden surge of anticipation that isn't mine. A ghost of emotion flowing through the tether, bringing with it a familiar warmth. I turn my head instinctively toward the sensation just as a shadow detaches from an alcove, and Raith steps into view.

"You weren't part of the plan," Mireen says suddenly, tugging at her hair. "Passcode?" she demands.

"Malakai’s crooked cock," Raith says plainly.

Ambrose mutters under his breath. “We seriously need to stop letting Beck pick these damn passcodes.”

“I’m helping whether I’m in your plans or not,” Raith says. His gaze sweeps across the corridor before settling on me, his eyes blazing like embers, fierce and protective.

I should be annoyed at his presumption—his automatic assumption we'll be willing to have him along. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile. "More help is a good thing," I tell the others, trying to sound practical rather than pleased.

What I don't say is that I knew he'd come before he appeared. Our tether has grown stronger since he swore his oath to me, since the bathing pool, since...

Echoes of heat lash at my insides, pleasant and vibrant as the whispers of what we did still curl through my body like smoke.

I can feel his presence now at the edge of my consciousness, his determination and protectiveness flowing into me as surely as his fire magic. And I knew he was coming for us minutes before he arrived. I also didn't need to hear the passcode to know he wasn't a siphon. I could feel it was Raith down to my core.

Brunhild looks between Raith and me, her eyes narrowing slightly as if noticing something different. She gives a curt nod, seemingly unsurprised by Raith's appearance. "More fighters, good plan. Beck starts water problems soon. We move now."

As if summoned by her words, the distant sound of rushing water reaches us, followed by shouts of alarm. We hear two pairs of footsteps rushing toward the courtyard. More sounds ring out from deeper in the castle. Guards all heading for the courtyard to investigate.

I hope Beck gets himself out of there before he’s caught, though causing an elemental mishap is hardly grounds for expulsion.

"That's our cue," Mireen says, already moving down the corridor.

I feel Raith's hand brush against mine for the briefest moment. My entire body reacts to the simple touch with tingling heat. Through our tether comes a pulse of reassurance, and beneath it, something deeper that makes my chest tighten. It's still strange to sense emotions that aren't mine, to feel his presence in my mind like an echo of my own thoughts.

Because his emotions are more human, I think I feel them even more clearly than Typhon's.

"You feel his more clearly because he's a barbarian with no ability to mask his thoughts and feelings from you. You will both learn with time," Typhon notes. “And then I will not be subject to every whim and fancy that flows through your meat brain.”

We move quickly through the corridors, our footsteps nearly silent despite our urgent pace. Brunhild takes the lead with her massive frame, moving with surprising stealth for someone her size. She scans each intersection before motioning us forward, her eyes constantly sweeping for any sign of guards.

She splits off to position herself as lookout near the intersection where two hallways meet, her muscular form blending into the shadows with practiced ease. The rest of us continue toward the hidden chamber Mireen discovered earlier—an old storage room behind a false panel in what used to be an armory.

Raith moves with silent grace beside me. I sense flickers of his alertness, his careful assessment of every shadow and corner.

Ambrose signals for silence, pointing ahead. "This is it," he whispers, stopping at a seemingly ordinary wall panel adorned with faded Empire insignias.

He presses a specific pattern—left corner, right corner, center—and with a soft click, the panel slides inward to reveal a narrow doorway. The four of us slip inside, and I nearly collide with Raith's back when he stops abruptly.

"We have company," he says, voice low and dangerous.

The hidden chamber is illuminated by a single lantern, its light glinting off racks of weapons—real steel, sharp and deadly. Daggers, short swords, bows with arrows, and even pieces of full-plate armor. All empire-issued, just as Beck described.

But what stops us cold is the figure standing among them. A figure whose left hand bears a glowing red flame mark.

Serena.

Her fire-orange eyes reflect the lantern light as she turns to face us, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a sword. Her perfect features betray no surprise at our arrival. Her fire serpent elemental slithers from the shadows beside her, yellow eyes regarding us as its tongue flicks out to taste the air, spraying sparks and smoke.

"If you're here to kill us," I say, hand already poised to snatch the dagger from my boot, "you should've brought more help."

Beside me, I feel Raith shift into a fighting stance. Typhon materializes near my shoulder in his flying fish form, ready to transform if needed.

"Say the word, angry human, and I will show her my true form again. It shall be the last thing she ever sees."

"Let's try talking first," I reply silently. "Save the dramatic reveals for when we need them."

Serena studies us, her gaze lingering on each face before settling on mine. Her eyes narrow slightly when they pass over where Typhon hovers. Serena knows better than most what Typhon can become. She knows to be afraid.

"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need help," she says finally, her voice cool and controlled.

"Then what are you doing here?" Mireen demands, water already gathering around her fingertips.

"The same as you, I imagine." Serena gestures to the weapons. "Assessing our options for the Crucible."

"Bullshit," Beck says flatly. "You knew about these weapons all along. You're part of Malakai's little army."

Serena's perfect lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm not surprised to see Hollow with your group. He's the biggest traitor of all of you. It's a shame, though. A man like you... Empire would be lucky to have you on our side. I could have warmed your bed, too. I’m sure I could’ve given you more than she ever?—"

“That’s enough,” Raith snaps. “What the fuck do you want?”

She sighs, moving away from the weapons rack with casual grace. Her uniform is immaculate even at this late hour, her black hair gleaming in perfect waves that fall over her shoulders. Everything about her radiates deadly perfection.

"How do you think Beck even heard about this place?” she asks. “Do you really take him for a master of subtlety and deception?" Serena laughs. "No. I made sure he heard about it. I made sure you knew tonight would be the right time to come. And I waited here so I could send you a message. Something you should know before the Crucible..." She pauses, as if weighing her next words carefully. "There won't be any Empire observers watching."

Of all the things I expected her to say, this wasn't it. I exchange confused glances with Mireen and Ambrose.

"What are you talking about? Bastian said?—"

"Bastian doesn't know everything." Serena's voice turns sharp, her perfect features hardening with barely suppressed anger. "There will be magical interference that will make the events completely dark. Empire's people won't know they can't watch until it's too late. The only thing people will learn afterward is how many died and what a failure Voss is as Rector."

"And you know this... how?" Ambrose asks, skepticism clear in his voice.

"Because Malakai told me after a conversation with our... benefactor." Her perfect composure slips for just a moment, revealing genuine revulsion before she schools her features back into careful neutrality. "Too many deaths, and Voss will be removed from his position. That's the plan."

"Why would someone go to such lengths to remove Voss?" Mireen asks, her water magic still swirling at her fingertips. "There must be simpler ways."

"This way creates a public spectacle. A failure so magnificent that the Council can justify immediate action without opposition."

I exchange glances with the others. The parts about Voss line up with what we’ve already learned. But what does it mean if Bastian is out of the loop, somehow?

I fold my arms. "So is this where you ask to join our team?"

She smiles without much humor. "No. Afraid not, Thorne. I still see all of you as traitors-in-waiting. Empire will be better if you all die before graduation. But I won't lower myself to this…" she gestures at the weapons. "I don't need help from the outside to deal with traitors. I don't need to stain my own honor to do things the right way. And I frankly don't give a shit if Voss stays or goes. So I'm here, and I'm telling you what I learned, which is that two members of the Windborne Division will be entering the Crucible. They're waiting on standby in the event that you and your people evade or kill us. Someone wants to make sure the Crucible is a bloodbath, and the windborne are the contingency plan."

"The windborne?" Ambrose whispers, face paling so quickly I fear he might faint. "Are you serious?"

Raith's reaction is more controlled, but through our tether, I feel a spike of genuine concern—sharp and cold like a blade of ice sliding between my ribs. "The Council's assassins," he murmurs, and there's a knowledge in his voice that feels personal, intimate.

"Who?" I ask.

"Elite air primals trained for elimination missions," Ambrose says.

"I thought the windborne were just stories," Mireen says, her water magic faltering slightly. "Boogeyman tales."

"They're very real," Serena replies, her voice dropping lower. "Just as real as the Earthshakers, Tidewalkers, and Flameheart Divisions. Each element has its special forces. I grew up hearing stories from my father. He served with the Flameheart for fifteen years, just like I will. When they hear what lengths I went to disposing of traitors like you, they'll almost certainly give me an audience after I graduate."

I feel out of the loop. I've never even heard of these people, though the conversation is making my blood run cold and my throat tighten. Two elite assassins sent into the Crucible? Killers ordered to murder us if it looks like we’re going to succeed? "So they're what, some kind of secret military?"

Raith nods. "Specialized teams for operations too sensitive or too brutal for regular military. Assassinations. Sabotage. Elimination of undesirable elements." His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. "The windborne specifically excel at stealth. Whoever is behind this doesn't want anyone to know they were ever here."

"Empire's invisible hand," Ambrose adds, his academic tone belied by the tremor in his voice. "I found references to them in ancient military texts—they specialize in air magic manipulation that allows them to move with unnatural speed and stealth. Methods of killing that leave almost no trace."

My attention turns back to Serena. "Why should we believe any of this? You're admitting you want us dead, but we're supposed to just... what? Trust you?"

Serena's expression hardens, her eyes flashing with barely contained anger. "I want to win fairly. That's what Empire stands for—honor in combat, victory through strength and strategy. Not... this." She gestures to the weapons with clear disdain, her perfect features contorted with genuine disgust. "Sneaking elite killers into a school competition? Magical blackouts to hide evidence? That's not Empire. That's cowardice, and I won't be a part of it. You don’t need to trust a thing. But I’ll know I gave you enough information to make the fight fair. I’ll know my honor isn’t stained when I kill you myself."

Through our tether, I feel Raith's skepticism, but also a grudging respect for Serena's apparent principles. His own code might differ from hers, but he recognizes conviction when he sees it.

I study her face, looking for deception but finding only disgust and what might be genuine concern. The perfect fire affinity with her flawless features and deadly grace, suddenly showing a moral line she won't cross. It's unexpected enough to make me wonder if this is all an elaborate trap.

"Are you expecting us to thank you, now?" I ask. "Because it's not happening."

She laughs, the sound sharp and mirthless. "Hardly. When the Crucible begins, I'll still be hunting you with the others. But I'll do it honorably, with skill against skill, magic against magic. The only thanks I need is for you to be living when I find you." Her orange eyes meet mine with unflinching intensity.

"What does Malakai think of your pursuit of honor?" Raith asks.

Serena's expression shifts, showing the slightest hint of uncertainty. "Malakai serves his own agenda. I serve Empire. Sometimes those interests align, sometimes they don't." She steps away from the weapons, moving toward the door with predatory grace. "Do what you want with these. They won't help you against me. They certainly won't save you if the windborne find you first."

And then she's gone, slipping out of the room and disappearing into the darkness beyond, leaving us standing in stunned silence.

"That was... unexpected," Mireen says finally, the water she'd been gathering dissipating into mist.

"Do we trust her?" Ambrose asks, pushing his glasses up nervously.

"No," Raith says immediately, his hand relaxing its grip on his sword hilt. "But that doesn't mean she's lying. And we're still here with the weapons, whether we trust her or not about the rest."

"Her disgust seemed genuine," Ambrose notes, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully. "Some people value honor above all else."

"It's also possible this is an elaborate trap," Mireen counters, eyes narrowed in thought. "Maybe she wants to trick Nessa into revealing too much during the Crucible. Maybe giving us the weapons was just bait to make us think we can trust her about the rest?"

I feel Raith's calculated assessment—a cool, analytical part of him that seems to be weighing each possibility with practiced precision. It reminds me again that there's more to him than the fierce protector I've come to know. There's something methodical, strategic beneath the surface.

"I think I believe her," I say, moving toward the weapons. "It all lines up. She just cares about loyalty to Empire and her own ambitions.”

“This magical interference,” Typhon rumbles in my mind. “I will be able to sense if it exists or not.”

I grin. “And Typhon says he’ll know if she’s telling the truth about the magical interference. If she was, then Typhon could fight beside us in his true form. I could use my unbound powers freely. It would be a huge advantage on our side.”

"Show these insignificant humans what a true ancient looks like. Strike terror into their weak hearts."

For a moment, the thought is dizzyingly liberating. I may be free during the Crucible. Free to defend myself and the people I care about with every tool I have at my disposal.

And yet...

Raith's hand finds my shoulder, his touch grounding me as his concern flows into me. “That still leaves the problem of the windborne. They’re trained killers, not students. If they're in the Crucible, people won't just die—they'll be executed. Ancient or not, I don't even know if Typhon could stop them from getting to you. Not yet. None of us are trained enough."

His words send an icy chill down my spine, bringing me back to the reality of our situation. Freedom to use my powers, maybe—but only because we're facing a threat so deadly that exposure becomes the lesser danger.

"Then we'd better be prepared," I say, reaching for a finely crafted rapier among the other weapons. The leather hilt is soft and warm against my palm, the steel edge and tip wickedly sharp. I test its weight, finding it perfectly balanced. "One real weapon each, and we sabotage the rest?"

Mireen nods, her eyes lighting up with a mixture of determination and grim satisfaction.

Everyone steps forward and claims a sharpened, weighted version of their weapon of choice to replace their blunted and lighter training weapons. Ambrose picks up a weapon for Beck and Brunhild to deliver to them later. Raith collects a few extras for his fires as well.

"Ollie. Do your thing," Mireen says. The small elemental materializes in a swirl of blue energy.

"Typhon," I add, glancing at my elemental who hovers nearby in his flying fish disguise.

"It is beneath my dignity," Typhon grumbles in my mind. "But I suppose I can assist. Though I would rather simply devour all the weapons. And possibly the humans who would wield them against you."

"Subtlety, Typhon. We're going for subtlety."

"Subtlety is overrated," he replies, but drifts toward the weapons rack anyway.

Ambrose examines the cache methodically, his eyes widening at the quality of the steel as the elementals get to work.

"Definitely military grade," Raith says, holding a flat sword in one hand and testing its weight before setting it back down.

"Expensive," Ambrose agrees, lifting a long knife and checking its balance. "Someone with resources is backing Malakai. The cost to buy all this? It would fund the construction of a small estate. And that's not mentioning the political power needed to make it happen."

Typhon and Ollie target the metal's structural integrity, inducing rust that spreads from within like a disease. Typhon, despite his complaints, proves remarkably effective at weakening blades by altering their internal structure without visible signs.

Raith tests their work, lightly swinging a sword against the stone floor, where it shatters into dust upon impact. "Good," he says, pursing his lips appreciatively.

"Twenty-eight daggers, fifteen swords, twelve bows with arrows—all compromised," Ambrose recites with quiet satisfaction. "Should significantly reduce casualties during the Crucible."

"No," Raith says, still inspecting his new sword. "It just changes who dies."

"But if we win the fight against Malakai,” Mireen says. “We'll have the windborne to deal with..."

She’s right. If Serena’s right, then the Crucible is a fight for something bigger than any of us. A fight powerful people don’t want us to survive.

Raith speaks, voice quiet but everybody’s attention snaps to him. “We’ll fight. It’s all we can do. We know the stakes. We know what’s coming. The only thing we can do is show up and fucking face it.”

Typhon suddenly goes alert, his small fish form darting in agitated circles. "Someone approaches," he warns, his mental voice sharp with urgency.

"Typhon says someone's coming."

We all freeze, weapons still in hand, caught red-handed in the midst of our sabotage.

A moment later, Brunhild's signal—three quick taps followed by two slow ones—sounds from the corridor outside.

"Trouble," Raith translates, already moving toward the door. "We need to go."

We quickly slip out of the hidden chamber. Brunhild meets us in the corridor, her body tense with urgency. Even she, normally so stoic, looks concerned.

"Guards find Beck's water trick," she says, her accent thicker with stress. "He runs, they chase. Alarm bells soon."

"Beck?" Mireen whispers urgently. "Is he okay?"

"Fast runner," Brunhild replies with a shrug that does little to calm our nerves. "Maybe okay."

As if on cue, the distant clang of warning bells begins to echo through the castle, the sound reverberating through the stone walls like a heartbeat. We break into a run, taking a different route back than the one we came by.

"Split up," Raith orders as we reach a junction where four corridors meet. "Get back to your rooms and we'll meet tomorrow."

Mireen and Ambrose nod, each taking a different path without hesitation. Brunhild frowns, looking between us.

"Go," I tell her. "Find Beck if you can."

She nods, relief clear in her blue eyes. "Will find sexy bear. Keep him safe." Then she's gone at a full sprint.

I turn to take the eastern path, but before I can move, Raith's hand catches mine, pulling me close for just a moment. His fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing once.

"Be careful," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. His free hand brushes my cheek in a touch so tender it makes my heart stutter. "I'll find you tomorrow."

And then we're separating, running in different directions, melting into the shadows of Confluence as the alarm bells finally cease. I clutch my stolen daggers, feeling their weight against my body as I race through the dark corridors.

As I slip into my room and hide my newly acquired weapons beneath my mattress, the weight of everything we've learned tonight settles over me. If Serena’s telling the truth?

There will be no observers. Using my unbound ability will reveal what I am to my classmates, but not to Empire’s watching eyes. But even Typhon and my powers unleashed likely won’t be enough to deal with the trained killers. The windborne.

And behind it all, there’s may be a hidden, powerful benefactor willing to slaughter half the first-year primals in training just to remove Voss.

But why?

The Crucible won’t be what I expected. Not really. Instead of a final test signaling our readiness for second-year status, it’ll be a game where we're pawns being sent to the slaughter.

I sit on the edge of my bed, Typhon curled beside me in his fish form, which has nearly returned to its usual size.

Through the window, I can see the first hint of dawn lightening the eastern sky. Another day closer to the Crucible. Another day closer to facing the windborne.

"They think us weak," Typhon says, his words laced with barely checked rage. "They think us prey."

"They don't know what I am," I reply, running my fingers along the edge of the new rapier. "What we are."

Typhon's eyes gleam in the darkness. "Then perhaps it is time to show them."

As I slip beneath my blankets, exhaustion finally claiming me, one thought burns in my mind: our enemies will find we're not such easy targets.

I may be unbound, but I'm no longer afraid of what that means.

And that makes me more dangerous than they can possibly imagine.