Page 6

There might only be one good thing about life at Confluence Academy, and it's a wonderful invention known as a "shower."

My body is a map of pain from my first two weeks at Confluence Academy. Every muscle screams in protest as I sink deeper into the steaming pool, hoping the hot water might erase the memory of Serena slamming me into a wall so hard this morning that I tasted blood. My tongue probes the inside of my cheek, still tender. I'm lucky I didn't chip a tooth.

All I did was look at her when I was leaving the dining room after breakfast. She's apparently still pissed she didn't get a chance to challenge me herself and beat me senseless that first day. Thankfully, Raith Hollow has kept his distance from me. He's apparently too busy excelling in every single subject and attracting followers like some kind of budding commander of the fire affinities.

I close my eyes and try to let these thoughts dissolve in the heat. It has become a daily ritual for me. I sink into the waters that remind me of home—of when home still felt like home—and I try to forget about the dangers and politics of this place for just a few moments.

The floating clouds overhead shift and churn with magic, releasing a gentle rainfall that patters against the surface of the pool. Steam rises in thick clouds around me, giving the illusion of privacy as other first-year waters strip off bloodied training clothes and descend into the communal bath. I got over undressing in front of other guys pretty quickly, because these showers feel like the only thing keeping me standing most days.

That, and it already seems like nearly everybody is sleeping around as much and as often as they can here. Prudishness is for those who don't face death every day, I guess.

We spar every morning, physically beating one another into submission after drilling forms with the instructors. On good days, nobody even ends up dead when the matches are over. After sparring, it's straight to weight training and endurance. Endless lifting, pulling, jumping, running, and sweating. There's a brief break to stuff food in our faces for breakfast in the grand dining hall, then it's on to academics.

We're taught field medicine, survival skills, battlefield tactics, history, and, most of all, information about the elemental plane and the magical creatures we're going to risk our lives to tether. I already know things like how to stint a broken bone with nothing but branches and weeds, edible and poisonous plants, and historical facts that never would’ve mattered to a girl like me from a fishing town—things like how the empire is ruled by three, two women and one man, based on a tradition that started with a pair of triplets eight hundred years ago.

Our lessons on elementals are my favorite, though.

The other classes make my brain feel like it's aching from information overload, but I find I can't learn enough about elementals and the elemental plane to satisfy my curiosity. I already know, for example, how rare it is for second generation and older elementals to tether to humans. The young elementals, which are under a hundred years of age, can only take one form and tend to look like beasts from our world. Older elementals can take more forms. Some of the oldest, like the ones I saw during the elemental trial, can even take humanoid forms.

Last but not least, there's channeling class, where we're divided by affinity and taught how to harness the essence needed to craft magical spells. Unfortunately for me, none of the methods we're learning seem to work for me. Being "unbound" must mean I channel magic differently, but I can't exactly ask someone for tips and tricks, so I've been utterly failing and drawing the anger of our channeling instructor every day.

If I wasn't so exhausted, I might just be giddy with excitement at the thought of learning to use magic. As it is, I'm too beaten and tired to really care. Survival has a way of pushing wonder to the back burner. Because beneath the classes, the new information, the sore muscles, and the daily grind, there's a constant heartbeat of violence here.

Eight students have already died during sparring, not counting the death on the first day. I've heard whispers of two more dying between classes, murdered by other first-year offerings, no doubt. So I've been doing my best to keep my eyes low and avoid notice, especially from people like Raith and Serena.

"Can't we just skip class?" Mireen groans from beside me, her copper hair plastered to her scalp.

"I wish," I say, closing my eyes and sinking deeper until the water laps at my chin. But we both know missing classes or training sessions brings remedial assignments. From what I've heard, the remedial assignments are always many times worse than the original class.

"—another? Elements... At this rate, there won't be any of us left by Confluence Day."

The surprise in the girl's voice catches my attention, and I strain my ears to hear the conversation. Through the shifting curtains of steam, I spot three figures—two girls and a guy who stand near the center of the pool, heads close as they speak in hushed voices. The girls aren't even bothering to sink low enough to cover their bare breasts.

Mireen follows my eyes, grinning conspiratorially. "I heard the three of them sleep together every night."

I raise an eyebrow. "All three?"

Mireen shrugs. "Sounds kind of fun, right?”

Part of me envies their confidence. Mostly, though, I just can't understand them. I'm too exhausted to even think about sex at the end of my days here. Maybe the release would be nice, but it's hardly on the top of my priority list. One thing is painfully clear already, though. The only thing the people in charge care about is that we show up to our classes and training on time. Between classes, first-year offerings are apparently free to fuck or kill amongst ourselves as much as we like.

"Yeah," the guy says, his voice barely carrying over the patter of the magical rain. "I think we should form some kind of team. I'm pretty sure I heard that Malakai guy and a few of his friends talking about something similar."

"A team?" one of the girls asks. "For what?"

"To protect ourselves," the guy hisses, glancing around nervously. The steam is thick enough that we can only see them because of a torch behind, casting their figures in silhouettes. I don’t think they realize we’re in earshot.

"Malakai has killed the last two people he sparred with,” the guy continues. “And today, one of his buddies did the same. They're obviously trying to thin us out. We need to watch each other's backs."

My stomach turns. I'd witnessed one of those "accidents" myself yesterday—a sparring match that ended with a first-year water offering on the ground, gurgling as blood filled his lungs. The instructors had simply shaken their heads and called for someone to remove the body, as if they were asking for someone to clean up a spilled drink.

I turn to Mireen and see the tight set of her jaw. She's listening now, too, her eyes sharp despite the languid posture she maintains.

"Am I crazy, or is that not a terrible idea?" I whisper, keeping my voice low enough that it won't carry across the water. "Forming teams, I mean."

"I don't know," she admits, her voice equally quiet. A droplet of water slides down her temple. "But I don't like where an idea like that leads."

"I know. Forming teams sounds a lot like declaring war."

Mireen chews her lip. "We can at least watch each other's backs, even if we don't want to get involved, right?"

"Right." The part I don't say is how it won't matter if the rest of us decide to treat this like a war. All that matters is if one group of people does. If this Malakai guy is forging alliances, then he already declared war. The only question for us is whether we want to become participants or victims.

Her fingers tighten around mine beneath the water, and I feel the familiar, terrifying pull starting deep in my core. I jerk my hand away like I've been burned, splashing water between us. Mireen gives me a confused look, but I make a show of wincing. "Sorry. I think I may have tweaked something in my hand sparring yesterday. Still tender."

The last thing I need is to draw power from the one person who might actually have my back in this place. I'm still waiting for Bastian to bring that book and maybe reveal some answers about what the hell being unbound means.

After our shower, I change into a fresh offering uniform. We were all given matching white uniforms that make us stand out like sore thumbs. The older students all wear black with gold bars on their shoulders—one for each year they've survived in the academy.

I check the back of my left hand discreetly as I button my sleeve, making sure the disguise is holding. The silver threads beneath the false blue wave pattern shift slightly, as if responding to my attention. Thankfully, nobody ever looks too closely at the mark, or they would probably suspect something was wrong with it.

Our academic classes rotate throughout the week, and today is Military Tactics.

I join a group of other first-year offerings heading from the showers. The other affinities have some kind of bathing facilities, too, but I've heard the water showers are the envy of every affinity. The annoyed looks we get from other affinities as we emerge with wet hair add credence to the rumors.

We walk in a loose group of white-uniformed offerings through the halls of Confluence. I feel like sheep waiting for slaughter. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on where I'm going and not making eye contact with any passing upper-year students or even the first-year aspirants and legacies.

The corridors are wide and high-ceilinged, crafted from ancient stone that seems to absorb sound in a way that makes our footsteps echo ominously. Arcane symbols are carved into the walls at regular intervals, glowing faintly with stored power.

Most areas of the castle are, at least, well-lit and beautiful.

A beautiful place to die with the sunlight on my face. How wonderful.

The castle is large, but relatively simple to navigate. It's a three-story rectangle with one affinity tower at each corner and a large, central courtyard in the middle. Each section of the rectangle houses a different style of class or training. The northern section is for academics. The eastern section is dedicated to physical training, which is where we spar and exercise. The southern section is for channeling. The western section is the only one we haven't used yet, and my best guess is because it has to do with elemental tethers.

Every inch of this place is full of tapestries and relics that make it feel ancient, as if it has been standing since before time itself. The ghost of centuries of other primals in training feels like a thick presence everywhere I go, as if the screams of the dead and their blood lingers even now, reaching for us.

Military Tactics is the only class where first-year offerings, aspirants, and legacies all mix. It's a large lecture-hall style room and has more than enough space for every single first-year to sit at once.

Legacies sit at the very front of the room in comfortable, cushioned chairs.

Aspirants sit behind the legacies with a better view of the maps and chalkboards at the front of the class.

Offerings form a sea of white behind the smaller, black uniforms. A sea, maybe, but it's a thinning sea.

Only two weeks have passed and the room already feels noticeably less full. How many of us will be left by Confluence Day? How many of us will come back from the elemental plane at all?

I take a seat near the very back with Mireen, and we're joined by a dark-skinned boy with wire-framed glasses, intelligent eyes, and a freshly split lip.

"You okay, Ambrose?" I ask as he sits.

He idly touches his lip, then shrugs. "You should see the other guy."

"Should we?" Mireen asks, leaning past me to smirk at him.

"No, actually. He's completely untouched. I didn't even land a punch." He adjusts his glasses, which sit slightly crooked across his nose. "Just another day of getting my ass handed to me in sparring."

“Join the club,” I say.

We all chuckle, but our laughter is cut short by the appearance of the fire offerings.

Raith walks at the front, and the others follow him in a tight group. The white offering uniform does absolutely nothing to hide the way his rows upon rows of muscles move beneath the fabric, fluid and powerful like some ancient predator. His scarred face and neck only add to the impression of barely contained danger. I force my eyes away, trying and failing to ignore the way my body reacts to him.

Skin flushed hot. A light sweat. Pounding heart. A pool of heat gathering in my lower belly.

He sits right behind the aspirants, and the other fires file in on either side of him, leaving an empty seat to his right and left, as if out of deference.

The dynamic within the water offerings is chaotic, with small packs of wolves and a larger group of—for lack of a better word—sheep.

The fires are a much smaller group, and they've already fallen into a military-like organization, with Raith as the apparent high commander.

The airs, as far as I can tell, get along better as a whole. If nothing else, fewer of them have died in training and I don’t see as much open hostility.

The earths keep to themselves, but the aura of general suspicion around airs and fires means people generally don’t make an effort to get to know them. Then again, everybody is too busy trying to stay alive to worry much about making friends.

"Can you believe that guy?" Ambrose asks. Like everybody else in white, he's watching Raith.

"Asshole," I say, as if agreeing with Ambrose's unspoken assessment.

"Asshole," Mireen agrees. She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "Very, very hot. But yes, an asshole."

I snort and shake my head, trying not to stare at the way Raith's broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist or how his hands—large enough to crush a throat without effort—are casually propped on the desk before him.

Looking at Raith has a way of bringing my mind straight to sex. To making me think that maybe a little nightly release wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, or how even if I’m sore as all hells, the right guy could still make it worth the effort. I'd blame my thoughts on the tension of knowing any of us could die at any moment, but that wouldn't explain why it's specifically him that triggers this response. In some ways, I think it’s how he wears scars on the outside that feel like a reflection of my inner self. Scarred. Broken. Both of us volunteered for this, and I wonder if that means there’s some kind of twisted kinship between us.

I tear my attention away, cheeks burning, and focus on the front of the classroom just as Instructor Pilton storms in, practically jogging down the steps until he's at the front, where he slams down a briefcase full of maps.

Instructor Pilton, like all in the north and eastern wings, isn't actually a primal. He's in his sixties with an explosion of gray hair and wild, tangled brows. His right arm is gone at the elbow, and the offering who asked about it on the first day got hit in the head with a piece of chalk.

In what I'm coming to see as "the usual," he spreads out his maps and begins going through historical battles and quizzing us on tactics and strategy. There's no introduction or preamble. He just launches straight into the topic.

Before he gets too deep, Mireen nudges me and points to something at the edge of the room. “Look!” she whispers.

I follow her finger and see a small gray rat scurrying along the wall.

“He’s a little survivor. Just like us,” Mireen says. “So godsdamned cute. I wish we were allowed pets here…”

“You want a pet rat?” I ask with a sideways smile.

“I’ll would take what I can get, Nessa.” Mireen’s expression is wistful as she watches the rat slip between a crevice in the stones and disappear.

"Now," Pilton says half an hour later as he whacks a large map with a thin, wooden pointing stick. "Empire had intelligence reporting that Red Kingdom had already moved this deep." He jabs a point several miles in from the border at the time. "If you were given two primals and a thousand soldiers to handle the threat, where would you start?"

Questions are lobbed around the room.

"How many primals does Red Kingdom have?"

"Two," Pilton answers, his voice carrying easily through the space. "They have the same number of primals, but twice as many soldiers."

A few students complain about the impossible task. Their voices rise in a chorus of protests about the unfair odds.

Bastian sits at the front, his golden hair making him visible even at this distance. He leans forward, his voice loud and clear. Attack their logistics," he says. "They're already miles into enemy territory. Cut off their supply lines and wait to engage until they're weakened from hunger."

"Good," Instructor Pilton says, tapping his pointing stick against his palm. "Your enemy outnumbers you, so find a clever edge to gain an advantage. This is a wise line of thought."

Raith's deep voice surprises me, rumbling through the classroom like distant thunder. "Nerra River is a mile south of the enemy's position. Prepare an ambush. Destroy the bridge when the primals are on it. Use the element of surprise to slaughter them before they know what has hit them."

Pilton raises his eyebrows, nodding. "Ah. Good. The fifth element, if you will. Surprise. While Bastian's idea is less direct risk, we must also consider the enemy will steal and pillage whatever we deprive them of by destroying logistics. They'll take a toll in blood before they are weakened enough for the advantage to hold. Raith's plan has the advantage of nearly immediately dealing with the problem, rather than letting enemies continue to ravage our lands and claim lives. Very good."

I roll my eyes at Mireen, who bites back a smile.

In every class I share with Raith, he excels. Even our instructors already seem to be favoring him. We haven't shared the sparring ring since the first day, but I can see him easily enough dominating his opponents. He's the most skilled first-year offering in the sparring ring, the strongest in the weight room, and when he decides to speak up in class, he always earns the approval of our instructors.

In truth, part of me is just annoyed I can't dare try to show him up in our academic classes. But trying to flex my brain and prove how smart I am would only draw attention. Attention, I've decided, is something I must avoid at all costs. Attention means questions. It means scrutiny. And scrutiny would likely mean exposing my unbound mark.

"What do you think Pilton would say if I suggested talking to them?" I whisper to Mireen and Ambrose. If the situation Pilton described was real, I'd honestly just want to know why they were in our territory. Chances are, it would be on orders from their leadership, and there could be a way to negotiate. Maybe they just need supplies or some information. Compared to thousands of lives, it seems like a much better option.

"Talking to them?" Ambrose asks, eyebrows raised high above the rims of his glasses.

"I think he might throw chalk at your head if you suggest that," Mireen says, nudging me with her elbow.

Instructor Pilton is currently ripping apart Serena’s idea about attacking them head on "for the glory of Empire."

"The enemy is not human!" Ambrose mocks in a whispered impression of Pilton. "They're violent, bloodthirsty animals. Would you?—"

A piece of chalk bounces off Ambrose's forehead, stopping him mid-sentence. He adjusts his glasses, blinking in surprise.

"If you have something to add to this discussion, offering," Pilton says, his voice deadly calm, "I invite you to stand and share it with the rest of us."

Ambrose pales. "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

Pilton snorts and turns back to the map, but not before his eyes flicker briefly to me. I drop my gaze to my notes, suddenly very interested in the sketch I've made of troop formations.

I feel someone watching me and glance up to find Raith turned in his seat, eyes boring into mine. His expression is unreadable, but there's something assessing in his gaze that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I hold his stare for a heartbeat, or two, before he turns back to the front, leaving me feeling undressed by his eyes, measured me for a coffin, or both.

Charming.

When class is over, legacies rise first to leave. Aspirants follow, and then finally the offerings head out.

"Think Instructor Sestra is going to go any easier on you today?" Mireen asks as we head toward the southern wing of campus where channeling class is held.

"Doubt it." The thought of channeling class makes my stomach clench with dread. Two weeks of trying and I still haven't been able to produce even a drop of water.

Ambrose nudges me from my other side. "Have you tried... not being terrible at magic, Nessa? I imagine that would really work wonders with the woman."