The portal spat her into an expanse of biting cold, the air so sharp it cut through her cloak and stole her breath. Around her, the faint shimmer of the portal’s collapse lingered, curling into the frost-dusted ground like smoke. Amara adjusted her cloak, her fingers brushing against the embroidered Aurelian crest—a mark she loathed. The ground beneath her boots vibrated faintly, as though the Citadel itself had noticed her arrival.

  Her boots crunched against the frost-dusted stone, and she froze.

  Zarathis Citadel towered ahead, its jagged spires and shifting platforms moving with an unsettling grace. The Threads of magic holding them aloft pulsed faintly, veins of glowing energy weaving through the air like a living web. Runes carved into the black stone flickered in rhythmic patterns, their light growing sharper as Amara stepped closer. She hesitated, a shiver running through her as the platforms shifted—almost as though they were adjusting to her presence.

  Amara’s lips parted, but no sound came out. There was no air to spare for gasps or words. Only the reality that she was here. Finally. And it was already everything she feared it would be.

  Overhead, the floating gardens glowed with an otherworldly radiance, their blooms pulsating softly as if alive. The petals shimmered as they drifted down, leaving trails of glittering light that clung faintly to the stone pathways below. Amara paused beneath their glow, her breath catching at the sight—beautiful, yes, but unnatural. The air beneath the gardens was heavy, laced with the faint scent of magic and something metallic, like the tang of blood.

  The air grew heavier as Amara moved closer, her steps slow and deliberate. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though the courtyard was empty. One of the runes etched into a nearby spire flared briefly, its light casting a long, shifting shadow across the ground. Amara paused, her heart skipping a beat. Was it reacting to her? She shook her head and forced herself forward.

  Amara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to take a step. The ground beneath her seemed to shift slightly, a subtle tilt that almost made her stumble. She hesitated, glancing at the nearest platform as it lowered, aligning itself with her path.

  The stillness shattered with a hiss of energy, the portals flaring to life one after another. Amara flinched at the sudden burst of sound—laughter, shouts, and clipped orders weaving into a chaotic symphony that made the courtyard feel smaller. The biting cold clung to her skin, but the press of bodies and noise drowned it out, pulling her into the Citadel’s restless rhythm.

  Amara forced her feet to move. Each step felt heavier than the last. Her fingers gripped the edges of her cloak like lifelines as she stepped into the chaos of the Citadel’s courtyard. The ground beneath her shimmered faintly, as though remembering the thousands of footsteps it had borne over centuries.

  But it wasn’t the ground she noticed. It was the stares.

  Eyes found her immediately. Curious ones. Jealous ones. Some sharp with disdain, others heavy with expectation. Amara didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were saying. She could feel their judgments crawling over her skin, slithering into the cracks she worked so hard to keep sealed.

  And then she saw them—the Luminal Fringe.

  Their plain, unmarked robes stood out like voids amidst the vibrant hues of the major Threads. They lingered at the edges of the courtyard, heads low, movements cautious. They were ghosts in a world of blazing stars. And she was about to become one of them.

  The bile rose again, bitter and unrelenting. She swallowed it down. Not here. Not now.

  The weight of the stares pressed against her, the whispers carving into her like invisible blades. She focused on the path ahead, her steps deliberate, until a sharp laugh sliced through the noise—a sound too loud, too smug. Amara flinched, her pulse quickening as the tension in the air thickened.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “First time here?” The voice was smooth, the kind that carried a smirk even before she looked up.

  Amara’s gaze snapped to the boy now standing before her. Tall and wiry, he had the kind of face that looked like it was built for trouble: sharp cheekbones, a crooked grin, and dark eyes that gleamed with mischief. His plain robes marked him as one of the Fringe, but his posture carried none of the timidity she’d expected.

  “Yeah,” she replied warily, her words clipped.

  He leaned slightly closer, studying her with an interest that felt intrusive. “Didn’t think I’d see an Aurelian on the bottom rung. Must be a hell of a story there.”

  Amara stiffened. Her chin rose, defiance burning in her gaze. “If you’re looking for gossip, try someone else.”

  The boy grinned wider, unbothered by her sharp tone. “Jaren,” he offered, extending a hand. “Welcome to the Fringe.”

  She glanced at his hand but didn’t take it. “Amara.”

  “Amara Aurelian,” he added, letting her name roll off his tongue like a taunt. “That’s going to get you a lot of attention around here, you know. The fun kind, the dangerous kind. Mostly the dangerous kind.”

  She crossed her arms, the weight of his words sinking in whether she liked it or not. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. Just thought you might need a friendly face before the wolves come sniffing.” His grin faltered slightly, but the humor in his eyes remained. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t.”

  “Encouraging,” she muttered, stepping around him.

  He didn’t follow, but his voice chased her. “We’re not all bad, you know. The Fringe isn’t what it seems.”

  Amara paused but didn’t look back. Instead, she let his words hang in the air before moving forward, the hum of the Citadel growing louder in her chest.

  The pathway stretched ahead, its polished stone gleaming underfoot, each step amplifying the hum of magic in the air. Amara’s gaze flicked toward the towering spires, their shifting platforms casting fleeting shadows that seemed to shift with her movements. As she approached the massive doors of the Citadel Hall, the noise inside swelled—a tide of voices and anticipation that made her chest tighten.

  The Luminal Fringe banner hung at the far edge, dim and muted, as though even the Citadel itself had forgotten its existence. A sharp ache twisted in Amara’s chest, but she swallowed it down, clenching her jaw.

  A voice boomed from the front of the Hall, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Students. Welcome to Zarathis Citadel.”

  The crowd hushed instantly. A woman in pristine white robes stood on an elevated platform, her silver-trimmed cloak billowing slightly in the enchanted breeze. Her presence was a weapon: sharp, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.

  “Today,” the woman continued, her voice carrying a gravity that made Amara’s pulse quicken, “you take your first step toward discovering your true selves. Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your purpose.”

  Amara’s stomach twisted as the ceremony began. One by one, names were called, each student stepping forward to receive their placement. Cheers erupted for those chosen by the prestigious Threads: Ignithral, with its warriors and fire; Mystara, masters of illusion and intrigue; Luminara, healers and visionaries. The applause grew deafening, a tide of pride and approval that drowned out everything else.

  “Amara Aurelian.”

  The words echoed through the Hall, hanging in the air like a challenge. Silence followed, thick and suffocating, crashing over her like a tidal wave. Every head turned in unison, their stares slicing through her composure with ruthless precision.

  What’s she doing here?

  An Aurelian in the Fringe?

  Guess even a big name can’t buy power.

  “Luminal Fringe,” the woman announced, her tone sharp and final.

  The words hit harder than she’d expected. Amara’s legs felt like lead as she forced herself forward, her steps slow but deliberate. She felt their eyes—some pitying, most cruel. Someone from the Ignithral section laughed low and mean, the sound digging into her skin.

  When she reached the small cluster of Fringe students, she let her head dip for the first time, hiding her burning cheeks beneath a curtain of curls. She had known this would happen, had prepared for it, and yet the shame clawing at her insides was unbearable.

  But then she heard it—the faint hum of her locket, steady and warm against her chest. A reminder of who she was. Of what she carried. Her fingers brushed against it, and her resolve hardened.