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M y entire body trembles as I stumble from the trial chamber. The stone hallway stretches before me—too bright, too loud, too everything.

First, I thought I would die when I volunteered myself for selection back in Saltcrest. Then I thought I would die when they told us of the trial we'd face and I began to hear the screams and the sounds of offerings dying in that chamber.

Death keeps staring me in the face and somehow I keep slipping through its grasp. But how much longer can my luck hold? How many more times can I dance with death before it finally claims me?

The dining hall looms ahead, voices spilling out in a chaotic symphony of relief and terror. I pause at the threshold, taking inventory of my own body like it's something alien. Legs, functioning but unsteady. Lungs, burning with each breath. And on the back of my left hand, that impossible silver spiral pulses against my skin, sending waves of pins and needles up my arm. I shove my hand deep into my pocket, fingers curling into a tight fist. Whatever happened in that testing chamber wasn't normal. Until I know more, this secret stays buried.

Inside the high-ceilinged dining hall, survivors cluster in small groups. It's tragically few compared to the hundreds who entered. Their faces bear the same stunned disbelief as mine must, that peculiar feeling of facing death only to find a new lease on life instead.

Many hold up their left hands, studying newly earned affinity marks with reverent awe. Air marks—spiraling white wind patterns that seem to shift and dance when viewed from different angles—dominate the room. Water marks follow close behind, stylized blue waves flowing across skin. I spot only a handful of earthy green mountain symbols, and even fewer fire marks—vibrant crimson flames that seem to pulse with a heartbeat of their own.

Affinity marks.

Everyone in the room now bears something we likely never thought to see on our own skin. The marks of a primal in training. Once we're done dealing with the shock of surviving and the dangers facing us, I imagine many will be exhilarant about our new circumstances.

The chance to become a primal is the chance to become more than just elite. Becoming a primal means securing status for yourself, your family, and your descendants for all of time. It's the highest honor and the greatest power imaginable, and now we're all seemingly on the path of earning it for ourselves.

I keep to the edges of the room, shoulder brushing against the cold stone wall. A few heads turn as I pass, eyes lingering on my pocket where my hand remains hidden. Do they know? Can they sense the wrongness of my mark? My skin crawls under their scrutiny, each glance feeling like an accusation.

It's clear how quickly the survivors are sorting themselves by affinity. My hidden hand is drawing more and more attention by the second.

"—supposed to report to the combat arena next," a tall boy says nearby, his voice pitched high with barely contained panic.

"Combat? Today?" A stocky girl with cropped hair shakes her head, fingers unconsciously tracing the blue wave on her palm. "We just survived that nightmare, and now they want us fighting?"

"That's the point," replies another boy with an edge of false bravado. "They want to see who's worth training. If we want to be primals, we need to learn to be tough, right?" The words sound hollow, a lifeline he's clinging to.

I edge toward the corridor that leads deeper into the building, where a guard directs survivors, checking their marks before sending them along with instructions.

My throat goes tight, skin breaking out in a light sweat. There's no way out of this damn area without passing that guard. Without showing my mark—my impossible, unexplainable mark that had the elementals acting as if I was some sort of monster. The fire elemental even tried to kill me for it. So what the hells would the guards here do if they saw it?

Fingers close around my shoulder, making me jerk my head around.

I turn to see three students.

The first is a lean boy with platinum blonde hair and hard eyes. His green mountain mark—earth affinity—glows on the back of his hand.

Beside him stands a girl who is shockingly pretty and has a deadly edge to the way she holds herself. The sides of her black hair are clipped short and the top is braided down her back. The red fire mark blazes on her palm, seeming to draw light into itself rather than emit it.

The third towers behind them, broad-shouldered and scarred. I recognize him immediately—the volunteer from before the trial.

Raith.

His eyes are that impossible blend of yellows and oranges that seems to shift even as I stare up into them. He radiates intensity like a furnace radiates heat, commanding all of my attention despite the danger obvious in the other two.

My gaze drifts to his left hand where the red fire mark spreads across his scarred skin in unusual patterns, red tendrils snaking through the damaged tissue like molten metal.

"Yes?" I ask, driving my marked hand deeper into my pocket until my fingernails bite into my palm.

"Your mark," the girl says. Even her voice is beautiful—sultry and soft—but she carries herself like someone who is anything but. There's something calculating in the way she watches me that I don't like in the slightest.

"What about it?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Show us your mark," the earth affinity demands, nodding toward my concealed hand.

"She looks like a water," the girl says, eyes narrowing. "Or maybe it's just that she smells like a fish." She crinkles her upturned nose, lips curling in a grimace.

The comment hits like a slap. I think of my family, of the sea that gave us sustenance before swallowing them whole. Of salt-crusted hands and the smell of home that I'll never know again. "Fuck you," I spit back. It's not clever, but patience and wit feel like far away memories at the moment.

I brace for her to hit me, but the cold fire in her eyes is somehow worse. It smolders there, deeper than simple anger. It's the quiet stare of someone who's killed before and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. It's the look of somebody who doesn't forget a sleight—someone who won't stop until they've collected their due in blood.

She steps closer until I can feel her breath hot against my face and can count each perfectly curled eyelash. "Show me. Your mark," she says through her straight white teeth, the words barely above a whisper. “If you’re loyal to Empire, then you should have nothing to fear. Unless you’re not?” her head tilts, the question lingering like a blade at my throat. “Are you a traitor?”

I force myself not to flinch. Every instinct screams to back down, to submit, but I've seen enough of this place to know that weakness is a death sentence. My eyes shift to the scarred volunteer. He stares back, his expression unreadable.

"Show her," he says, voice low and rough.

"Is she your leader?" I ask with a half-smile that feels more like a grimace. "I didn't take you for the follower type."

A muscle in his jaw tightens. Raith steps forward, one large muscled arm pushing the girl aside as if she weighs nothing. He towers over me, radiating heat like a furnace. "Mark," he repeats. "Show it."

I stare up at him, uncomfortably aware of how easily he could break me. With those huge arms and hands, I imagine he could snap my bones like kindling without breaking a sweat. Even the pretty girl could probably kill me without much effort. And I'm the short-tempered idiot who pissed them off.

But what choice do I have? Flash my silver mark and ask them to promise not to tell anyone? That feels even more suicidal than continuing to defy these three.

"I'd rather not," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

The edge of his full lips twitches, almost imperceptibly. His eyes are all heat and dark promise. His right hand moves toward my pocket, and I'm suddenly, terribly certain that he's going to force my hand out and expose my secret to everyone.

A blur of gold hair flashes across my vision and suddenly a boy just as tall as the volunteer is standing between us. Bastian's legacy uniform gleams in the torchlight, the gold piping catching the light.

"Is there a problem, here?" he asks, voice carrying that casual authority that comes with generations of privilege. His eyes flick between me and the trio.

Only then do I realize we've drawn quite the crowd. Students have risen from their seats, eyes hungry for the first blood to be spilled. Great. Trying to avoid attention and I end up center stage in whatever twisted drama is unfolding here.

The girl and the earth affinity slink back, eyes lingering on Bastian's legacy uniform. None of us have the full picture of how the social hierarchy here will work yet, but something about the legacies feels clear, even without being told: legacies are not to be fucked with. Legacies are special. We are not.

If the volunteer knows he shouldn't mess with legacies, he shows no indication. That, or he just doesn't give a shit. He meets Bastian’s gaze without flinching. "Is there a reason you’re here, legacy?”

Bastian's fists clench at his sides. The air around us shifts, as if pressure is building from nowhere and everywhere at once. The mark on my palm burns in response, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping. I can feel air slowly shifting and flowing in toward Bastian. I can even see the dark, tangled locks of hair on the Volunteer's head beginning to stir in the unnatural breeze.

The deadly scent of magic builds in the air.

"Your name, offering?" Bastian's voice could freeze flames.

"Raith." He doesn't blink, doesn't yield an inch.

"Family name?"

Raith's jaw tightens before he answers. "Hollow."

Recognition registers on Bastian's face, followed by that carefully measured look of sympathy the privileged always seem to have ready.

"Hollow… An orphan from the northern border, then. I?—"

Raith moves so fast I barely register him shoving Bastian until the tall legacy is stumbling backward, nearly falling before he bumps into the stone wall. "I don't need your fucking sympathy." Raith spits on the ground, the saliva sizzling slightly where it lands. He turns to stalk away, the fire girl and earth boy falling in behind him like shadows.

A collective gasp rises from the students who were watching. Judging by their expressions, they seem to expect Bastian to strike Raith down where he stands.

But Bastian’s face is a mask of calm as he brushes the spot on his uniform where Raith touched him. His eyes linger on Raith several moments before turning to me.

"Are you okay?" I ask, hardly daring to breathe for fear that the trio will come back.

"Fine," Bastian says shortly. "We should get you to the combat assessment."

As we walk, I notice we're getting closer to the guards who are checking everyone's marks. My palms begin to sweat, and my breathing quickens. The silver spiral beneath my skin seems to writhe in response to my panic.

"Do they have to check our marks?" I ask, unable to keep the edge of hysteria from my voice.

"They're collecting the official count for Empire. Many die before Confluence Day and finally the Crucible, but Empire likes to keep statistics and have figures at every stage of development for its future primals," Bastian explains. "You'll be sent with others of your affinity for training, and after that, they'll send you to your affinity's tower. That's where you'll get your room assignment." His eyes drift to my hidden hand.

He must see the look of pure terror on my face, because he glances around, pulling me to the side for a moment of privacy in the busy corridor. "I know fire and earth get a bad reputation, but it's not the end of the world. Here at Confluence, you'll mostly deal with your own affinity, anyway. What the others think of you is hardly going to matter."

He thinks I'm embarrassed to bear one of the two elements most common in Red Kingdom. Fire or earth affinities. The marks of the enemy, to some. I wish it were only that.

The last thing I want to do is trust anyone here, but I can’t see a way out. I either have to trust Bastian or the guard. The choice seems obvious.

Adrenaline pumps through me as I withdraw my hand from my pocket.

The silver spiral gleams with its own magical light, shifting and flowing like liquid metal across my skin. It moves with a life of its own, coiling and uncoiling in an endless dance.

Bastian's eyes widen, not with fear but with something else I can't place. His breath catches audibly.

"Extraordinary," he whispers, reaching toward my hand before stopping himself. "But... you're an offering. Your mother or father weren't primals?"

I shake my head, not understanding the question.

"Fascinating." He scratches his chin, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"You know what this means?" I ask, voice barely audible. "Because I sure as hell don't, and I?—"

"I think I do, yes. There’s a book in my family library with this symbol on the cover. I’ll send for it, but it may take some time. Weeks, possibly.”

Weeks. Will I even be alive weeks from now? The way this place seems to feed on fear and death, it's hard to imagine surviving until tomorrow, let alone for weeks. But I don't want to seem ungrateful, so I nod my head and smile. "Thank you."

Bastian hardly seems to hear me. He's still speaking, almost to himself. "It should be possible for you to disguise it."

"What?" I ask. "How would I do that?" Does he really remember all of this from some old book, or is there more at play, here?

"Just..." he looks around again, then pulls me deeper into a private alcove. When his fingers brush my arm, I feel a jolt like lightning, stronger than when he touched me before the trial. The silver mark flares in response. Energy, cool and flowing like air seems to fill me.

Bastian pulls his hand back as if burned, eyes shifting to my mark warily, but the concern vanishes almost instantly. "Close your eyes, clear your senses, and focus on the mark. Your life will be easier if you pick water or air. But whatever you choose, try to visualize the mark changing."

I don’t bother questioning if it’s possible. I need it to be. I need some way to hide this, so I close my eyes and think about which mark to choose. Which affinity.

Earth and fire are historically dominant elements in Red Kingdom. Choosing them would mean a lifetime of reactions like the one Mireen gave Nolan before the trial. It would mean suspicion and increased scrutiny.

It’s like Bastian said… my life will be easier if I pick water or air, even if neither element represents what I feel inside.

I still feel like fire, ready to lash out and burn everything around me to ash after the last few days. But that's not the normal me. It's not the girl who grew up loving her time on the waters in Saltcrest's bay. The girl who spent half her life reading currents and finding fish.

In the end, choosing anything but water would feel like running from my past. And maybe this place is going to claim my life before long, but I’m done running.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about my father and brothers. I picture the flowing wave pattern I've seen on other hands. I reach for the memory of salt spray on my face, the rhythm of waves against our small boat, the peace I used to feel watching the tide roll in.

A sensation like icy fingers crawls across my palm. My skin stretches and pulls as if being remolded by invisible hands. Heat flashes through my veins, followed by bone-deep cold, then both at once. I clench my teeth around a grunt of pain, brows furrowing as I focus through the discomfort until the sensations finally subside.

When I open my eyes, the mark has changed—appearing as a blue wave on my palm. Looking closely, I can still see threads of silver tracing through it like veins of quicksilver, but unless someone was specifically looking for them, they'd never notice.

"How did I—" I stare at my hand in disbelief.

Bastian flashes a half-smile, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. "Water. Okay. I guess you didn't want to be an air like me?"

I shake my head, still staring at the disguised mark. "What does this all mean?"

His voice drops low. "Just know this: if the wrong person finds out about your mark, it would be... trouble. You have to learn to keep it hidden. Tell no one."

"Why do I feel like you know more than you're saying?" I search his face for answers.

His expression turns guarded. "I’ve heard whispers. But I won’t worry you with rumors because they may do just as much harm as good. I’ll send for the book. Try to stay alive until then and keep this hidden. With luck, the book will give us some answers about what this means.”

I accept his explanation for now. It has the ring of truth, and frankly, I can only handle so many revelations in one day. Now that he knows my secret, he might be held complicit if it gets out. We're bound by this knowledge, whether I like it or not.

We rejoin the flow of survivors. With Bastian beside me, the guards barely glance at my now-blue mark before waving me toward the water corridor. My heart thumps so loudly I'm certain everyone can hear it as we pass . Did it work? Did they actually fall for it?

"Wait," I say, pausing at the threshold. Something in Bastian's earlier words gnaws at me. "What exactly happens in the combat assessment?"

A shadow crosses his face. "A simple training match. Today, I think most offerings won't fully grasp what's going on here. Today, you should still be safe."

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask, already growing tired of half-truths and cryptic warnings.

He steps closer, eyes scanning to make sure we're not overheard. "You're an offering. Yes, you've all shown you have an affinity. But that's only the first step. You're not valuable to the Empire unless you earn an elemental tether on Confluence Day." His voice drops even lower. "Until you tether, you’re expendable. They won’t stop you from killing one another. The strong weed out the weak, ” he says in a way that makes me think it’s a common phrase around here.”

Understanding hits me like ice water. "So these combat assessments could turn deadly?" I ask, bile rising in my throat.

Bastian nods grimly. "These two months before Confluence Day will be the most dangerous. They'll train you. They'll teach you about history and magic. But the real test? It's surviving until Confluence Day. Survive that, and the Academy will finally start treating you like the valuable resource you are. Until then, just about anything goes. Your peers won't realize it right away. But it won't be long before they do."

My mouth goes dry, a cold dread settling in my bones. "Who will I have to fight?"

Bastian's eyes dart over my shoulder, and his expression hardens. I turn to follow his gaze and find Raith standing with the other fire affinities, his eyes already watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

Though I can't say for certain, I think he is taking personal offense to the fact that I'm standing and talking to Bastian right now.

"Some days, the instructors will allow challenges," Bastian says quietly. "I expect they'll let us know we're able to issue them today as a way to set the tone. I would normally say not to worry, because you haven't had time to make enemies."

My smile feels brittle on my face. He knows it, too.

Beside Raith, I see the beautiful, dark haired girl with the braid. She's leaning with her arms crossed and her perfect lips are curved into a predatory smile. Like Raith, she's watching Bastian and me.

Already, I think both of them might just break me and leave me for dead if they're allowed to challenge me.

"Everyone," a guard calls. "Move along to the training arena. Sparring matches will begin soon."

The girl meets my eyes, then drags a finger across her throat as she smiles sweetly.

My newly disguised water mark throbs on my palm, and somewhere deeper, the silver spiral pulses in rhythm with my racing heart—a heart I hope will still be beating in a few minutes.