The dormitory stank of damp stone and bodies that had been pushed too far.

  Amara sat up slowly, her muscles stiff from sleeping on what barely passed as a cot. The sheets were rough, unyielding, and held a faint scent of something earthy and bitter—like whatever had been stuffed inside hadn’t dried properly.

  Somewhere in the room, something shifted.

  A faint clicking noise, slow and deliberate. She had heard rumors of creatures that slunk through the Citadel’s lowest levels. Vegranis. A type of burrowing scavenger, drawn to places where people were too weak to fend them off.

  Amara stilled. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her breathing even.

  In the dim glow of the single enchanted rune above the door, she could just barely make out its long, skeletal limbs curling over the foot of her cot. Its eyes were too large, too black. Its thin, clawed fingers flexed, testing, waiting.

  It thought she was weak.

  Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t move.

  A breath. A moment.

  Then—the door creaked open.

  The Vegranis bolted before she could even register its departure, slipping through the cracks of the stone walls like a shadow that had never been there at all.

  She exhaled sharply.

  Weak things get eaten here. That was the first rule.

  Amara wasn’t weak. But she had never been prey before, either.

  “Elira,” she murmured.

  No response.

  She turned her head—and found the other girl watching her from the doorway.

  Barefoot, arms crossed, still in her nightshirt, Elira tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable. “You let it get too close.”

  Amara frowned, ignoring the way her pulse hadn’t quite steadied yet. “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to fight off creatures in my sleep.”

  Elira snorted. She pushed off the doorway and padded into the room, moving with a natural ease, like she had walked these halls for years. “Most of the time, they just scurry by,” she said. “But if they think you’re easy pickings, they linger.” She leaned against the cot across from Amara’s, arching a brow. “So, tell me, Aurelian. You planning to be easy pickings?”

  Amara’s fingers curled around the edge of her blanket.

  She had grown up in pristine halls, among the powerful, where the worst thing to fear was an insult spoken through a smile. She wasn’t used to places where things lurked in the dark, testing you.

  She forced her expression into something neutral. “Not today.”

  Elira watched her for another second. Then she grinned, sharp and amused. Not mocking—just… entertained.

  “Good,” she said. “Now hurry up and get dressed. We’re late for the Hall.”

  The air inside the Hall was stifling.

  It wasn’t the smell—not quite. Though the mix of burnt grain, old wood, and too many bodies packed into one space certainly didn’t help.

  No, the tension came from something else. Something unspoken, something hanging in the air like a held breath waiting to be released.

  The new students were clustered, shifting, moving carefully. Some hovered near the already established groups—not quite bold enough to force their way in, but circling, testing for a way to get close.

  The smart ones weren’t looking for friends.

  They were looking for alliances.

  And the rest? They were pretending they weren’t nervous.

  Amara felt the stares as soon as she entered. Not all at once. That would’ve been too obvious. But in slow, cutting glances. Some lingered. Some flicked away quickly, feigning disinterest.

  They all knew who she was.

  They were just waiting to see what she would do.

  Elira moved with the confidence of someone who had already fought for her place and won. She led them toward the food line, grabbing a tray and not hesitating before piling it with whatever was available.

  Amara wasn’t as careless. She studied what was being served—thick porridge, charred strips of meat, bread that looked barely edible. Some of the students eyed her choices, as if judging whether she would turn her nose up at it.

  She didn’t.

  She picked what was safest.

  Elira gave her a sidelong look but said nothing.

  They found an open space near the far end of the Hall, where people were still figuring out who belonged where. The true rankings hadn’t been set yet. The real power plays hadn’t been made.

  That would come soon enough.

  Amara took her seat, placing her tray down carefully. Elira dropped hers with far less grace, biting into a piece of bread that looked dense enough to kill someone.

  “You don’t have to sit like you’re expecting an attack,” Elira said between bites.

  Amara didn’t answer.

  She wasn’t expecting an attack.

  But she was watching for one.

  The hum of voices ebbed and flowed around them, a constant, restless undercurrent.

  Laughter flared from one table, sharp and edged with too much enthusiasm to be genuine. At another, a group leaned in close, murmuring—conspiratorial. Near the center, a boy from one of the higher Threads barely concealed his sneer as a Fringe student spoke to him, then immediately thought better of it and walked away.

  Even here, there was a balance. And everyone was trying to figure out where they belonged.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It was easy to spot who had already secured their place.

  They sat in the middle of the Hall, where they didn’t need to glance over their shoulders.

  Amara shifted her gaze back to her food, tucking away every small detail, every unspoken rule.

  Then, movement—someone sliding into the seat across from her.

  She didn’t flinch.

  But Elira groaned. "Gods, Jaren, what do you want?"

  Jaren didn’t ask to sit down.

  Amara wasn’t surprised.

  He slid onto the bench across from them with an easy, practiced motion, as if this were something he always did. As if this table had already been claimed by him, and they were just temporary visitors.

  Elira groaned. “Gods, Jaren, what do you want?”

  Jaren took a slow bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “They’re making bets on her, you know.”

  Amara stilled.

  Elira didn’t. She just snorted. “That’s not new.”

  “No,” Jaren said, still watching Amara. “But the odds are interesting.”

  Amara’s grip on her fork didn’t change. “And what are the odds?”

  Jaren smiled. “Higher than I expected.”

  She let that sit for a moment.

  Elira leaned back on her bench, stretching out her arms. “You going to tell her, or do I have to?”

  Jaren’s smirk deepened. “They think you’ll last.”

  Amara tilted her head. “And you?”

  Jaren studied her for half a breath.

  Then—he shrugged.

  “I think the first test will be fun.”

  The chime of the central spire rang, signaling the start of the training session.

  Elira shoved the rest of her bread into her mouth, stood, and stretched. “That’s our cue.”

  Jaren pushed up from his seat with a lazy, unhurried motion. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of failing,” he said idly.

  Amara stood, adjusting her bracers. “Good.”

  Her voice was steady. Controlled.

  “Then stay out of my way.”

  Jaren grinned. “Now we’re talking.”

  The morning air was sharp as a blade as they stepped outside.

  The training grounds stretched before them—vast, unyielding, and built for pain.

  Rings of sparring mats, shifting platforms, and enchanted dummies flickered with runes that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The air carried the scent of sweat and scorched magic, and the ground was packed solid from years of bodies being beaten into it.

  Amara walked in silent, measured steps, her gaze sweeping the space.

  She had spent her life in halls of power, where the sharpest weapon was a well-placed word, where people played their games with whispers and veiled threats. But here? This was another battlefield entirely.

  And she was the weakest one in the room.

  That realization pressed against her ribcage like a tightening vice.

  Her name meant nothing here. No magic, no status, no protection.

  If she was going to survive, she had to think.

  The instructors didn’t introduce themselves. They didn’t explain what today would be, didn’t give encouragement or instructions.

  They simply began.

  The first trial was brutal, simple, and designed to break the weak immediately.

  Weighted runs. The enchanted stones they were forced to carry adjusted with every step—shifting their weight, throwing them off balance.

  Amara felt her muscles scream in protest.

  She had trained before. Fencing, footwork, controlled movements in a perfectly measured environment.

  But this? This wasn’t precision. This was suffering.

  The run turned into lunges. The lunges into holding a low stance while magic pushed against them—a constant force meant to keep their legs from locking, forcing them to stay balanced while exhaustion took over.

  By the time it ended, her breath came in sharp, ragged pulls.

  Her hands trembled faintly as she clenched her fingers into fists.

  Around her, others were worse off. Some had already collapsed, unable to keep up. A few were vomiting into the dirt, bodies refusing to obey.

  Jaren and Elira? Barely winded.

  Elira caught Amara’s gaze, grinning through her sweat. “Oh, honey. You’re in for a long day.”

  Amara didn’t answer. She was too busy memorizing everything.

  The instructors finally turned, scanning the rows of exhausted, shaken bodies.

  One of them—a man with a face like carved stone, all sharp lines and cold efficiency—spoke.

  “Watch closely. This is what it means to fight at Zarathis.”

  A sharp gesture. A call of names.

  Two upperclassmen Fringe students stepped forward.

  Amara straightened, her breath still unsteady, but her focus sharpening.

  The moment the fight started, she understood just how out of her depth she truly was.

  It was over in seconds.

  The first student moved—fast, brutal, without hesitation. Their opponent barely had time to react before a strike sent them crumbling to the ground, choking on air.

  The sound of the impact echoed through the yard.

  No hesitation. No wasted movement.

  It was efficient.

  Amara swallowed.

  “Vastra.”

  Elira rolled her shoulders as she stepped into the ring, loose and unbothered. The grin she flashed was the kind that could set a room on edge—too confident, too sharp, like she knew something her opponent didn’t.

  Across from her, Nyssa stood like a wall of steel.

  A wind user—not just fast, but controlled. Her stance was solid, and the way she flexed her fingers, already gathering magic, told Amara one thing.

  This would not be an easy fight.

  The moment the instructor gave the signal, Nyssa moved.

  Nyssa didn’t hesitate.

  She launched forward, wind whipping around her in a near-invisible current, shifting the dust at her feet. She was fast—faster than Amara had expected. The moment she moved, the air warped, and she was suddenly on Elira’s left, striking out with a sharp, controlled elbow aimed at her ribs.

  Elira barely twisted away in time.

  A blast of white-hot fire erupted between them, meant to force Nyssa back—but she didn’t retreat. She rolled with the momentum, using the heat to amplify her movement, gliding across the space like the wind itself carried her.

  She’s absorbing it.

  Elira narrowed her eyes. That was a problem.

  Nyssa pressed forward, relentless. She used quick, efficient movements, aiming jabs and kicks, never lingering in one place long enough for Elira to land a clean hit. Her magic wasn’t just speed—it was control.

  The wind warped around her limbs, redirecting heat, shifting pressure, making it impossible for Elira to get a solid hit in.

  She’s not just fast, Amara realized. She’s making sure Elira’s fire never lands full force.

  Elira growled under her breath, shaking out her arms. She wasn’t used to being on the back foot. Fire magic was overwhelming, destructive—it forced people to react to her. But Nyssa? She wasn’t reacting. She was controlling.

  Another blur of movement—Nyssa went low this time, aiming for Elira’s legs. A scything kick, boosted by the wind, meant to knock her clean off her feet.

  Elira let it happen.

  She collapsed with the force of the blow—but as she fell, she grabbed a fistful of damp, clay-like earth and flung it at Nyssa’s calf.

  Let’s see you dance through that, you smug bitch.

  The heavy, wet dirt clung to her leg immediately, weighing her down. Not enough to stop her—but enough to slow her.

  And Elira only needed a fraction of a second.

  She rolled back onto her feet, eyes flashing, fingers curling into fists.

  The next pulse of fire was brutal.

  Not just a burst—a concentrated, controlled ignition, aimed directly at Nyssa’s core.

  The wind came up, but not fast enough.

  The impact sent Nyssa skidding backward, her stance faltering for the first time. The flames licked at her arms, her uniform singed at the edges.

  Elira moved fast, closing the distance.

  One step. Two. And then—her fist slammed into Nyssa’s gut, heat still coiled around her knuckles.

  Nyssa choked on the impact, her magic disrupting for just a second.

  That second was all it took.

  She hit the ground.

  Hard.

  The instructor’s voice cut through the silence. “Match over.”

  The fire along Elira’s skin flickered once—then vanished.

  She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders, before glancing down at Nyssa, who was still trying to catch her breath.

  “Not bad,” Elira admitted. “You’re quick.” She flashed a grin. “Not quick enough, though.”

  Nyssa’s glare was sharp enough to cut. But she said nothing.

  Elira turned, walking back toward the lineup, sweat glistening along her brow. She caught Amara’s stare and winked.

  With the match brought to an end, Amara was no longer just watching.

  She was absorbing.

  Strength wasn’t enough.

  Speed wasn’t enough.

  Even magic had weaknesses.

  Elira had won because she forced her opponent to slow down.

  But more than that—she fought dirty.

  She used the environment, the distraction, the moment of hesitation.

  And it worked.

  Amara had nothing.

  No magic. No enhanced reflexes. No raw power.

  Which meant she would have to use something else.

  Something no one here was expecting.

  Deception.

  Misdirection.

  Strategy.

  She would not win with strength.

  But she could win by making others think they were stronger.

  And then, at the moment they were most confident—

  She would take it all away.

  The training grounds were still buzzing with energy when Amara left, her body aching but her mind sharper than it had been that morning.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from her first real session at the Citadel, but it wasn’t this. Watching, learning, breaking down every movement into something she could use for herself.

  She’d spent her entire life studying tactics, analyzing her surroundings—but now, she wasn’t just reading the game. She was in it.

  And she wasn’t winning.

  Not yet.

  The evening air was cool as she made her way back toward the Fringe quarters, the halls quieter than usual. Most students had already turned in for the night while others dragged themselves towards the dining hall. Tomorrow, they would wake up to Placement Day.

  Tomorrow, everything changed.