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"S tance wider! Arms up! You're not dancing at a royal ball—you're fighting for your lives! For Empire! For your families and all those without the strength to fight for themselves!"

The instructor's voice echoes across the cavernous training arena, bouncing off ancient stone walls stained with centuries of sweat and blood. High arched windows frame the darkening mountains beyond, their jagged peaks tipped with snow.

I stand among nearly a hundred water affinities, muscles trembling with effort. The disguised mark on my palm tingles with a persistent itch I dare not scratch. More waters trickle into the room, their faces drawn and pale as they fall into formation beside me. I've lost track of time since stepping out of that carriage—has it been hours? Just minutes? My body can't tell the difference anymore, every moment seems to stretch on with agonizing slowness.

My body's survival instinct has been on high alert for so long I can finally feel it starting to dim, even though the threat clearly hasn't passed. Maybe it never will so long as I'm behind these walls.

My legs burn from holding the same defensive stance for so long, but I refuse to show weakness. Not here. Not when Bastian’s words still ring in my mind.

Expendable.

Survive until Confluence Day.

A glint of deep copper catches my eye—Mireen's unmistakable red hair as she slides into formation beside me. Something loosens in my chest at the sight of her.

"What'd I miss?" she whispers, a wink softening her worried expression.

"Mireen!" I whisper-yell, relief flooding my voice. “You survived the trial!”

"Focus!" the instructor snaps, his eyes finding me instantly in the crowd.

I straighten my spine and fix my gaze ahead, but the moment his attention shifts elsewhere, I’m smiling. Mireen lived. In this place of calculated cruelty, her presence feels like the first truly good thing since leaving Saltcrest.

The arena pulses with nervous energy as four distinct groups form around their respective instructors. The airs dominate with their superior numbers—nearly two hundred of them by my rough count. Waters are the second largest group with only a dozen or so fewer students than the airs. The earth affinities barely make thirty, and fires count only twenty-five among their ranks.

No black uniforms move among us. We all still wear the clothes of our homelands. It’s a rowdy mixture of color, dirt, and styles.

I wonder what the aspirants and legacies are doing right now. From the way they were already given uniforms and allowed to bypass the trial, I imagine they’re being fed grapes by beautiful men and women.

Lucky assholes.

My eyes drift inevitably to where Raith stands among the fires—tall, scarred, unmistakable. While nearly everyone in the room fumbles through basic forms, he moves with deadly precision, each strike and block executed with frightening efficiency. He looks like he was born to fight and bred to kill.

I'm not the only one watching Raith, I realize.

Every fire studies him with a mixture of respect and wariness, while girls from all affinities steal the occasional glance. His scars should make him grotesque, but instead, they only enhance the raw magnetism that emanates from him like heat from a forge. When his golden eyes catch the light, something deep and primal in my brain registers him as a predator—the most dangerous creature in a room full of prey.

I force my attention away, cheeks warming at my own foolish interest in the man.

Focus, Nessa.

"Waters, attention!" Our instructor—a lean man in his early thirties paces before us, intensity radiating from every inch of his body. His lilting accent hints of the Roselands in the deep south, soft syllables at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "Assessment begins in five minutes. I strongly doubt any of you are capable yet, but no channeling your affinity. You need to be trained before you can use magic without accidentally killing someone."

"What if we do kill someone by accident?" a boy calls out, his voice cracking midway through the question.

The instructor's eyes harden to chips of ice. "Then you should hope their friends don't seek retribution."

"That's it?" The words escape me before I can catch them, surprise overriding caution.

His gaze turns to me, measuring and dismissive in equal parts. I expect some kind of denial, even if I’ll know it’s false. His only response is to give the slightest nod.

"Does that mean you don't care if we kill people?" a small girl asks, her voice fracturing with barely contained terror.

"You're all training for war. If you graduate from this academy, you'll leave as a fully tethered primal ready to become the most lethal weapon in the Empire's army." He says this as though reciting an old litany, words worn smooth with repetition. "Earn the right to be valuable. Prove your worth. Survive. That's your role here, so embrace it, offerings."

Murmurs ripple through our ranks, a wave of disbelief and fear that breaks our carefully maintained formation. He’s not denying the question. Maybe my classmates will realize we’re allowed to kill one another faster than Bastian thought.

"So other students can just... kill us?"

"They really don't care?"

"They just want the strongest to survive."

"Then don't get killed, idiot."

I keep my expression carefully neutral, even as my stomach flips and clenches in on itself.

Cull the weak. Strengthen the herd.

As part of the herd, I can’t say I agree with the strategy at the moment.

Beside me, Mireen looks like she's balancing on the knife-edge of panic, her face drained of color as her hands fall limply to her sides.

"Hey," I say quietly, angling my body to shield her from the instructor's view. "We got this. I think most people are too worried about surviving to start trying to kill each other yet. I'm sure we'll be fine."

Yet.

Even my flimsy attempt at reassurance falls flat. We both hear the unspoken truth hanging in the air between us.

She gives a shaky nod, tongue darting out to wet her chapped lips. "Thanks," she whispers, not looking convinced but offering a smile all the same.

The massive doors at the far end of the arena swing open with a groan that reverberates through the stone floor. Several figures in silver and gold enter—legacies, their presence commanding immediate attention despite their casual strides. Bastian is among them, his golden hair catching the light from the high windows. He scans the sea of offerings until his eyes find me. The subtle nod he gives is so quick I might be imagining it.

"Legacies," our instructor says. "Here to observe. Ignore them."

Easier said than done when I can feel Bastian's gaze following my every move like a physical touch. What does he want from me? What does he see when he looks at me—a curiosity? A responsibility? Something else entirely?

The other legacies stroll about the room, hands clasped behind their backs with military efficiency. They observe us with clear disinterest and disdain. For that much, I can’t say I blame them.

Other than Raith and a handful of standouts, we make a pretty pathetic picture as we resume stumbling through combat stances and practice drills.

The instructor of the fires approaches our group, expression grim. She's a severe looking woman with black hair in a braid so tight it looks like it must hurt. She has lean muscles that speak of combat prowess.

She murmurs something to our instructor, who nods and then cuts his eyes directly to me. My heart skips.

"Waters. You'll each complete one sparring match," he announces, voice carrying across our group. "The match ends when your opponent yields or can no longer get up. You," he says, beckoning me forward with one crooked finger. "You've been challenged by one of the fires. Go with Instructor Kyreen. She'll show you to your opponent."

"What?" Mireen gasps, her fingers briefly catching my sleeve.

"It's okay," I lie, forcing a smile even as panic screams through every nerve ending.

My stomach is in my throat as I follow the fire instructor toward the smaller group of fires. Raith towers over them, walking at the front with his terrifying gaze fixed on me as he stalks forward. I feel like a mouse being watched by a hawk—each step bringing me closer to inevitable claws.

"Am I allowed to refuse the challenge?" I ask, voice smaller than I intend as we cross the vast space between groups. I can sense eyes from all corners of the room tracking my movement, wondering what I could have possibly done to attract this kind of attention so quickly.

She looks down at me, her eyes a deep, simmering orange that reveals no sympathy. "No. Do you think you'll be able to politely decline when the Red Kingdom attacks an outpost you're defending? When they ambush your camp in the night?"

I swallow a sigh, steeling myself for what's coming. No escape, then. No mercy.

"Who challenged me? Her?" I ask, pointing at the beautiful fire girl with black hair who watches me with venomous contempt, her fists clenched at her sides so tightly I can see white knuckles even from this distance.

"Serena?" Kyreen asks, something like amusement flickering across her face. "No. Though she wanted to. Raith Hollow seems to have beat her to it."

Fuck me.

Against Serena, I might have had a slim chance of surviving with only moderate injuries. Against Raith, though? There's no chance in any hell. No gods powerful enough to save me from this. I might as well have been asked to fight a dragon barehanded.

The pounding of my heart forms a desperate rhythm of fear. Blood roars in my ears until it's almost deafening.

It's only me and the giant, scarred volunteer with yellow-orange eyes.

Each step toward the raised platform sends jolts of nervous energy up my spine, skin prickling with gooseflesh beneath the weight of so many watching eyes. Some students are already sparring on other platforms, the dull sounds of impact punctuated by grunts and occasional cries of pain. Most, though, have stopped what they’re doing to look our way.

Raith stands waiting at the edge of the mat, power radiating from him in almost visible waves. His expression remains carefully guarded, his gaze a wall I can’t possibly see past.

Everything else fades to background noise as I desperately try to form a plan—try to figure out how I'm supposed to fight this mountain of man, muscle, and deadly intent standing across from me. My mind whirls through options, each more unlikely than the last.

The legacies have drifted closer, their silver and gold uniforms gleaming. Bastian stands among them, his expression inscrutable. Both fire and water instructors watch us intently, arms crossed in mirrored poses of assessment.

Raith settles into a fighting stance with the fluid grace of someone who has done this thousands of times before. I mirror him as best I can, trying to recall everything I've learned in the brief crash course on fighting we've all been given.

I quickly conclude that I'm royally fucked.

"Why me?" I demand as we begin to circle each other around the ring, my voice lower than I'd intended, betraying my nerves.

I expect some sort of asshole comment in response—something cutting and dismissive that confirms my expendability in his eyes. Instead, his gaze slides briefly to Serena, who is already fighting two rings over. She's on top of a muscular boy with a fire mark, relentlessly pounding her fists into his face as blood sprays across the stone in crimson arcs.

I swallow hard, my throat clicking with sudden dryness. "You challenged me so she wouldn't?" I guess, keeping my voice low enough that our audience can't hear. Maybe there's some twisted chivalry at work here—choosing to defeat me himself rather than letting Serena torture me.

"No," Raith says flatly, eyes snapping back to mine with predatory focus. "Shut up and fight, Saltcrest."

Saltcrest? How the hell does he know where I’m?—

He catches me mid-thought, lunging forward and straight through my guard with a speed that seems impossible for someone his size.

His first strike comes fast—a testing jab that I barely manage to deflect, the impact vibrating up my forearm and sending shockwaves of pain to my shoulder. His second follows immediately, catching me in the ribs and sending me staggering back. The pain explodes like a bomb beneath my skin, air rushing from my lungs in a harsh gasp that echoes in the sudden silence around us.

Stars dance at the edges of my vision as I struggle to breathe through lungs that feel crushed. I force myself upright through sheer stubbornness, ignoring the spreading fire across my ribcage.

"That the best you can do?" I rasp, trying to sound confident rather than breathless and half-broken after just two punches.

A shadow of a smile plays across his lips, there and gone in an instant. That brief glimpse of amusement shouldn't make my stomach flutter, but it does—a treacherous warmth spreading beneath the pain of his strike.

He moves in again, this time with a combination I can't possibly counter. I take a hit to the shoulder that nearly spins me around, duck under another that would have connected with my jaw, but his leg sweeps mine and suddenly I'm falling, weightless for one terrifying moment before impact.

I brace for the hard slam of stone against bone, but he's there—grappling my body while somehow softening my fall. His body burns against mine, unnaturally warm in a way that can't be explained by physical exertion alone. Up close, his eyes reveal streaks of pure red and gold threading through amber, like cracks in the earth revealing bright yellow magma beneath.

Something stirs where we touch. A jolt of energy that feels the same as when I touched Bastian—almost as if something is being pulled from his body into mine. A current that flows between us, invisible but unmistakable.

He shifts, hooks a leg behind mine, pressing his hips against me with deliberate force. Hard.

The weight of him steals what little breath I've managed to recover. His body is solid heat and coiled strength, and for one disorienting second, I feel certain he's holding back.

A lot.

I groan, trying to fight free of him, twisting beneath his weight in a desperate bid for leverage that never comes. It's useless. He has me pinned completely, his larger body caging mine against the mat.

Raith turns his head, breath hot against my ear as a shiver races down my spine. "I could break you in half right now," he murmurs, voice dropping to a rough timbre that vibrates through my bones. "You need to do better. Much better."

As he grapples me, I still feel that strange draining sensation, stronger now with more points of contact between us. It's almost as if I'm pulling pure fire from his body, watching it flow through invisible channels and gather inside myself like water into a reservoir. Heat builds beneath my skin, seeking release.

"That's enough," Bastian's voice cuts through the haze of pain and confusion. "He clearly has her."

"I'm not done, legacy," Raith growls—actually growls—before he flips me to my back with sickening ease, his body pressed tight against mine as he secures an arm around my neck. The pressure is tight enough to be threatening, but I can still breathe—just barely. The message is clear: he could end this in seconds if he wanted to.

The fucking bastard is toying with me.

Sending a message.

"Submit," he commands, his mouth so close I can feel the heat of the word on my skin. When I don't immediately obey, he tightens slightly. "Submit," he repeats, louder this time.

But surrendering isn't in my nature, even when logic screams that I should. Maybe I'm still hopeless in a fight, but I can at least prove I have the grit to keep trying. To keep fighting even when victory is impossible.

I make a few useless attempts to throw my elbows back, hoping to land at least one good hit before this is over. But he's too big and strong, and I'm completely pinned.

Raith's grip tightens incrementally, his legs splayed over my hips as he bends low over me, gradually restricting my airflow. The pressure against my throat builds until swallowing becomes a conscious effort, painful and strained.

"Fuck... you..." I gasp, each syllable a struggle as spots dance in my vision. I even manage something I hope looks like a smile, just to piss him off.

My lungs burn for air that won't come. Panic rises, sharp and primal, as my body recognizes the danger before my mind can process it.

"That's enough!" Bastian shouts again, his voice edged with genuine alarm now. I can hear him speaking hotly to the instructor, their words blurring together as my consciousness begins to fray at the edges.

"Yield," Raith says against my ear, more quietly this time, and with a touch of urgency I wouldn't have expected from him. "Just yield." The last comes in a strained whisper.

And that's when it happens.

The strange warmth that's been building intensifies where our skin touches, like liquid fire seeping through my pores. It builds in my chest—a pressure that makes my ribs feel too small to contain it—then races through my veins, setting every nerve ending ablaze. My teeth ache with it, muscles spasming involuntarily as the energy surges through pathways I never knew existed in my body.

His body stiffens against mine. He feels it too.

At the same time, the instructors turn, locked in a heated argument with Bastian that's drawing more attention than our stalemate on the mat. No one is watching us closely anymore, their focus pulled to the more dramatic confrontation since I’m clearly outmatched.

"What are you—" Raith begins, voice tight with something between suspicion and disbelief.

The energy concentrates in my hands, drawn there by instinct rather than conscious thought. Tiny flames erupt from my skin, snaking around my body in intricate patterns and scorching Raith’s clothing with ethereal tongues of orange and gold.

His element, not mine.

I feel heat in my eyes and my mouth, gathering and threatening to rush out of me like a volcanic eruption I can't contain.

Raith recoils as if struck, his hold loosening instantly. His expression flashes from shock to something I never expected—pure, primal fear mixed with... recognition? In an instant, it's gone, replaced by his usual mask of control. But I saw it. For one unguarded moment, the mighty Raith Hollow looked terrified.

Is he afraid of fire? No, that can't be right. He's a fire affinity himself.

Then what?

The flames vanish as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind a residual warmth and a lingering smell of scorched fabric. Around us, the assessment continues, no one having noticed the brief flare of magic. If they did, they must have assumed it was Raith’s magic.

Raith recovers quickly, pinning me again with even more force than before, his body a rigid cage around mine. But something has changed. There's tension in him that wasn't there before—a wariness that borders on genuine caution.

"Yield. Do it, or I’ll make you pass out this time. Your choice."

I meet his eyes, seeing questions there that mirror my own. What just happened? How did I do that? Why did he react that way? The moment stretches between us, heavy with unspoken suspicions.

"I yield," I finally gasp, the words scraping my raw throat.

His face returns to its usual mask of cold indifference, but his eyes still flare hot as they track my every movement.

I roll to my side, coughing and gasping for air that burns in my raw throat. My whole body trembles with exhaustion, muscles quivering like I've run for miles without stopping. Sweat drips from my hairline, running across my face in tickling paths and soaking my clothes.

All I want to do is curl up and fall asleep right there on the mat, but I force myself to stand, pulling up my body that desperately resists my every movement.

Don’t let them see weakness. Not here.

"Winner, Raith," announces the fire instructor, who claps him on the back like they're already friends, oblivious to whatever just transpired between us.

The water instructor has already moved his attention to other matches, my poor performance clearly not worth his time. Maybe I lost so badly he doesn't even see the purpose in giving me advice.

As we step off the platform, Raith leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "Watch yourself, Saltcrest."

I'm too exhausted to produce an elegant response. All I manage is a choked "huh?"

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that sends a chill down my spine despite his unnatural warmth. "You channeled fire. I saw it. I felt it."

I shake my head, heart racing anew. Admitting anything close to a vulnerability would be a mistake, so I say nothing.

"What are you?" he presses, one hand gripping my upper arm to keep me from escaping, his fingers burning against my skin.

"Sore, actually. From where you tried to choke me," I deflect, lifting my chin to meet his gaze despite the trembling that's started in my legs.

Now the suspicion in his expression shifts, replaced by a fiery, dangerous kind of amusement that transforms his features. "I could've done a hell of a lot more than make you sore, Thorne."

"Like what? Kill me?"

He considers my suggestion casually. "Maybe. If you give me a reason.”

"Like I said on the mat. Fuck. You."

The way his full lips curve so slightly I could almost imagine it is… confusing. My brain says this man is a threat. His words say he's a threat. The fact that he just choked me out and probably internally bruised me says he's a threat.

But there's a heat pulsing just beneath his surface that makes me understand how moths can be drawn to flames, even though getting close will spell their doom.

"Hmm," he says, voice little more than a low rumble.

And all he has to do is lift his eyes to mine.

Gods. That look feels like having his rough hands on my body—like something intimate in all the wrong ways. A promise and a threat wrapped together in burning amber.

Heat rushes to my face, and I hate my traitorous body for responding to him when I'm pretty sure he wouldn't think twice about killing me if it suited his purposes, no matter what he's trying to imply with that heated gaze. Frankly, my best guess is he just likes toying with his food before he delivers the death blow, and we're in the "play" stage.

I force a glare, hoping he feels all the venom I try to put into the look.

Instead, his attention falls to my lips, lingering there before lifting back to study me with renewed interest. "Angry. That's good. You'll need anger here if you plan to survive."

Then he walks away, rejoining the fire affinity section as if our exchange never happened, leaving me standing alone with too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

Bastian grips my arm as soon as Raith is gone, his touch cool compared to the lingering heat of Raith's fingers. Again, I feel that strange sensation of energy passing from his body to mine.

I need to find out what the hell that sensation means. Am I draining elemental power? It certainly seemed like it on the mat.

"What was that?" Bastian asks. "One minute, he had you pinned, then I looked away and you got out somehow. What happened?"

I shake my head, still struggling to process everything myself. "I... don't know."

He licks his lips, leaning closer and lowering his voice to ensure we're not overheard. "Whatever is going on... you need to be careful until we have a better idea of what you are."

We?

I can't decide if the way Bastian wants to take my problems on as his own is flattering or suspicious. He hardly knows me, yet speaks as though we're bound together in this. But I'm still trying to catch my breath, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, so I just nod, even though I have no fucking clue how to be careful with something I can't control—something I don't even understand.

"I need to go," Bastian says, his eyes darting to where the other legacies are watching us with undisguised curiosity. "I won’t be able to talk to you regularly. It’ll draw too much attention. Remember, I’ll bring the book when I can. Until then… be careful, Nessa. You have no idea how much danger you’re in.”

He's already gone before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance. Before I can fully process what just happened—the fight, the strange fire, Raith's reaction, Bastian's concern—the sparring matches are declared over and we're being sorted into dormitory assignments.

The instructors talk about our schedule and lodgings while two older students drag a lifeless body from the room. I try not to look at it. Try not to think about it.

I do my best to focus on what I’m being told. Like how our schedule will include regular combat, weight training, and a full barrage of academic and magical training classes.Today, we're being shown a rare mercy and allowed to get settled in our rooms and rest for the remainder of the day.

Hoo fucking ray.

The instructors divide us by affinity, their voices cutting through the haze of exhaustion that's settled over us all. We're led from the training area through winding and confusing passages which are almost all lined with massive oil paintings depicting primals locked in battle—their elemental companions taking the forms of beasts from wolves all the way to fearsome dragons or great land worms large enough to swallow horse carriages.

I notice more than a few of us are limping, bleeding, or already swelling with bruises as we travel. The sounds of pained breathing and occasional whimpers echo off stone walls that I imagine have witnessed centuries of similar processions.

It must be settling in on everyone, just like it’s settling on me. This is real. Hours ago, we may have expected to die. To be sacrificed. Executed. Maybe even something worse. None of us expected to be thrown into a military academy and trained.

The castle itself is magnificent, I have to admit—all polished stone halls lined with lush carpets and tapestries in empire gold, silver, and black. Magical lights illuminate our path, hovering in ornate sconces and pulsing gently with arcane energy colored to match one of the four affinities. We pass countless rooms, some of which are occupied by older students already taking classes. They glance as we pass with expressions ranging from pity to disdain, seeing in us what they once were—or perhaps what they're glad they never had to be.

With interest, I note that I only see the silver trimmed uniforms of aspirants or, far more rarely, the silver and gold of legacies. Where are the upper year offerings?

My question remains unanswered as we move across a central courtyard and head toward a corner where I can see the blue water tower looming high above us, its upper reaches lost in the gathering evening mist. Magical water cascades down its exterior in perpetual, glimmering sheets that catch the last rays of sunlight in dazzling prisms.

With nearly two-hundred water affinities, we’re broken into smaller groups and guided to the tower by older students.

"At least we’re in far fewer pieces than I was expecting," Mireen whispers as we climb the spiral staircase of the water tower, her voice muffled by the constant sound of flowing water. One of her eyes is swollen shut, and her once-neat braid is a tangled mess, as if somebody tried to pull it from her scalp. She's limping slightly, favoring her right leg.

"Common room is on the fourth floor landing," explains the student assigned to walk us here, his tone bored as he recites what is clearly a rehearsed speech. "First-year offerings can use the main common area. Aspirants and legacies get access to the private areas. And don't bother the older students. None of them will want anything to do with you, since most of you will be dead after Confluence Day, anyway."

How encouraging. But there's a matter-of-factness in his delivery that says he's only stating a fact, not trying to scare us or show off.

“Surely not everyone here is an asshole?” a girl with deep brown skin asks.

“Assholes?” the older student replies. “Call it what you want. You’re all at the very bottom of the food chain. Stay alive long enough and you’ll get better treatment. But survive a few years here and you’ll learn it’s not worth getting to know the first-years.”

On that cheerful note, we continue climbing.

The water tower has an odd, magical kind of beauty to it. The stones are a deep, oceanic blue that seems to shift with the play of light across their surface. Water trickles down the inside of the walls in carefully channeled paths, filling the space with a sound like fountains and burbling streams. The flowing water brings a pleasant humid quality to the air and a coolness that feels good on my overheated, sweaty body.

All the water reminds me of home—the good parts of home, at least. Of being on the water. Of the days before…

I jerk my thoughts away from the unwelcome memory, focusing instead on the now. On surviving. On finding a way through this madness, one day at a time.

We're allowed to claim our own rooms from the empty ones along a circular hallway, each with a single window view of the world beyond. Each has two beds, so Mireen and I naturally pair up, taking one of the first open ones we find. It's sparse, with nothing but the beds, a washbasin, and a view pointed toward the academy grounds—though our view is filtered through a flowing stream of water that surrounds the tower, making the scene look like a shifting watercolor painting.

After the day we've had, I'm too tired to care about the accommodations. My body aches everywhere, and I can already feel bruises blooming beneath my skin in the shape of Raith's hands.

"Rest while you can," an older student warns as he passes our room. "Classes and more training begin at first light tomorrow. You likely won't have this much time to recover again, so make use of it."

Mireen collapses onto her bed with a groan that seems to come from her very soul. "I'm going to die here, aren't I?"

I should reassure her. I should find some words of comfort or encouragement to offer. Instead, I find myself staring at my disguised mark and wondering what the hell I am.

"We'll find a way," I say, my voice lacking real conviction even to my own ears.

A few quiet moments pass before she speaks again, thoughts apparently shifted to less morbid topics.

"What happened with that guy? The hot one with the scars?" Mireen asks suddenly, her voice hushed as if afraid he might somehow hear us even here. "I saw him talking to you quite a bit. Did he say why he challenged you?”

I open my mouth to deflect, but my mind is still full of his words. Full of the way it felt to have his hands around my neck. Full of the strange fire that came when I most needed it—and the fear that flashed across his face.

Part of me wants to tell Mireen everything, to share the burden of whatever the hell is happening to me. But another part suspects my secrets could have deadly consequences. Sharing them with Mireen would only put her in danger, and I won't take that risk.

"He didn’t say much," I say finally, staring at the ceiling where water-light dances in rippling patterns. "But I think he's trouble."

Mireen sighs as she adjusts herself in the small bed, wincing as she finds a particularly tender spot. "I saw the way he was… mounting you. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to put his hands on you."

I can still feel the places where he touched me, like burning shadows branded into my skin. I know I'll bear marks from that touch tomorrow once the bruises form fully. "Somehow, I doubt that," I say.

The vision of his face hovering over mine fills my mind as I clench my fist, feeling phantom flames lick across my knuckles. I've survived the offering ceremony, the elemental trial, and my first day at Confluence Academy.

But surviving isn't enough. I need to find out what the hell it means to be unbound—why I was able to call fire while touching Raith, and whether the strangeness of my abilities stop there.

This morning, part of me was ready to give up and die. Part of me still is, maybe.

But I want to see this thing through. I want to show all the assholes running this place that we're not fodder to discard. They expect us to die in droves before Confluence Day?

I'd love nothing more than to thrive. To shove their dismissal down their damn throats, if that's what it takes.

And not just them. There are the people like Serena and Raith who are stronger than me, and they think they can wield that power like clubs to keep me down.

Fuck that.

I'll make it to Confluence Day—whatever that is—and I'll even earn myself an elemental if that’s the goal. And if, by some miracle, I survive to make it out of this place, I'll find a way to use my power to make it up to Brissa and my mother.

But for now, my reality revolves around one brutally simple truth.

This place and these people see me as expendable, and I intend to prove them wrong.

I'm going to live.