The days had blurred together in a cycle of exhaustion, strategy drills, and bruises that never fully faded before new ones took their place.

  At first, Amara had thought she might get used to it. That the relentless training, the unyielding demands, and the careful political maneuvering of the Citadel would begin to feel routine.

  But the past few weeks had only sharpened the pressure.

  Every lesson reinforced what she already knew—this place did not tolerate the weak. Magic endurance drills had left students collapsed on the stone floors, their reserves burned out from overuse. Sparring sessions had been brutal, exposing the gap between those who had trained for this their entire lives and those who were scrambling to catch up.

  And strategy? That had been its own kind of battlefield.

  At first, the lessons had been structured—understanding terrains, analyzing past trial formations, studying survival patterns. She had watched, listened, learned. But as the weeks passed, the instructors had shifted from theory to live scenarios. Amara had been forced into war tables where quick decisions determined survival, where alliances were formed and shattered in the span of a single turn.

  More often than not, she had lost.

  Not because she wasn’t intelligent—but because experience mattered. And the others had it.

  Myles read people too well, baiting opponents into mistakes before they even realized they had made them. Orin operated with brutal military precision, never second-guessing his choices. Lorina was terrifying in her ability to dismantle a plan before it even began, cutting through tactics like she had already lived them before.

  And Amara?

  She had nothing but her instincts.

  But instincts weren’t enough.

  Because today was different.

  The tension in the Strategy Atrium was a living thing, pressing against her ribs as she stepped inside. Conversations were quieter, movements more restrained. No one had said it outright, but the shift in the air was undeniable.

  The weeks of theory and observation had come to an end.

  Now, they would have to prove they had learned anything at all.

  Suddenly the announcement had come without warning.

  No preamble. No last-minute instructions. Just a cold, sharp command from the instructor:

  “Move.”

  The students had been marched from the Strategy Atrium in silence, guided through winding corridors that pulsed faintly with the Citadel’s magic. The deeper they walked, the less familiar the halls became—until the stone walls gave way to open sky, and the temperature dropped.

  The moment Amara stepped onto the field, she felt it.

  Magic thickened the air, heavy and humming, coiling beneath her skin like it was waiting for something.

  The mist curled around Amara’s ankles, thick as oil, clinging to her skin like something alive.

  She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger.

  The trial had begun.

  The marshlands stretched endlessly before them, tangled with twisting roots, half-sunken pathways, and waters that glowed with a sickly blue sheen. The air was damp and suffocating, heavy with the scent of rotting vegetation and something metallic—something wrong.

  The Strategy Atrium was gone. The simulation had swallowed them whole.

  Somewhere in the distance, a scream rang out.

  It was cut off too quickly.

  Amara’s stomach twisted.

  Real or not, the fear was setting in.

  A voice crackled to life above them—cold, detached, utterly unimpressed.

  “You have three objectives,” the instructor announced. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, threading through the mist. “One—reach the checkpoint. Two—avoid elimination. Three—learn something before you die for real.”

  Myles sighed dramatically. “Loving the pep talk.”

  The instructor continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you are deemed ‘dead’ in this trial, you will be pulled out. That does not mean you are safe. It means you failed.”

  Amara exhaled through her nose, eyes flicking to her teammates.

  Myles was shifting on his heels, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a dance rather than a battle. Relaxed, but ready.

  Lorina was still as stone, her eyes scanning the trees, the water, the sky. She was already calculating.

  Orin…

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Orin looked like he was waiting for someone to test him.

  His expression was unreadable, but his stance spoke volumes. Braced. Rooted. Ready to crush something beneath his boot.

  Amara swallowed. This team wasn’t designed for her.

  It was built to win.

  And she was the weakest link.

  A second chime sounded.

  Then the world exploded into movement.

  The first five minutes were chaos.

  The moment the trial began, the terrain shifted beneath them. The ground sank unpredictably, the mud thickening, pulling at their boots like hands trying to drag them under.

  A beast howled in the distance—low, guttural, something between a growl and a death rattle.

  Amara’s pulse kicked into a sprint.

  She had no magic.

  No enhanced strength. No elemental power.

  But she had her mind.

  She scanned their surroundings, her brain working faster than her feet.

  The terrain wasn’t random. There was a pattern.

  The trees leaned unnaturally inward, their roots webbed beneath the swamp. The water reflected the sky too perfectly, like it wasn’t water at all.

  A trap.

  Myles darted forward first. “We need to move before—”

  A burst of air slammed into them.

  Myles barely managed to twist mid-step, catching himself before he tumbled into the waiting swamp.

  Lorina didn’t even flinch. Her dagger was already out, her stance shifting seamlessly.

  Orin growled, fists tightening. “Incoming.”

  A figure emerged from the mist.

  No.

  Not one.

  Four.

  Upperclassmen.

  Their weapons glinted in the dim, unnatural light.

  They weren’t here to win.

  They were here to hunt.

  Myles clicked his tongue. “Really? We just got here.”

  The first strike came fast.

  A blade whistled toward Lorina’s ribs.

  She ducked—barely.

  Orin blocked the next attack with his forearm, taking the impact like it was nothing, then slammed his elbow into his attacker’s sternum.

  A gasp of pain. A body hitting the mud.

  Two down.

  Amara…

  Amara had no time to think.

  One of the upperclassmen lunged for her—faster than she could react.

  Her mind screamed move, but her body lagged behind. The blade was already swinging—

  Then—

  A blur of motion.

  Myles yanked her back, spinning them both out of range.

  The sword missed by an inch, slashing only through the mist.

  Myles exhaled sharply, his grip tight on her wrist. “You good, princess?”

  Amara’s heart slammed against her ribs.

  She gritted her teeth. “Don’t call me that.”

  Myles laughed. “Oh, she speaks. Fantastic.”

  Before she could retort, Lorina’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Stop wasting time. Move.”

  They had to run. Now.

  Orin sent one final, bone-shattering punch into his opponent’s gut, then stepped back.

  They ran.

  The marshlands shifted beneath them. The fog thickened. The air hummed with unseen dangers.

  No one spoke.

  Because for the first time since the trial began—they all knew the same thing.

  This wasn’t about fighting.

  This was about surviving.

  And they were already running out of time.

  A chime rang out above them.

  Then—

  The ground lurched.

  Lorina’s voice was razor-sharp. “Move.”

  They ran.

  The once-solid pathways between the mangrove roots collapsed, the mud sucking inward like a mouth slamming shut.

  Myles nearly lost his footing. “Would love to have a map right about now—”

  Lorina snatched his sleeve and yanked.

  A jagged vine whipped through the air right where his head had been.

  Myles exhaled hard. “Noted.”

  Amara didn’t answer. She was too busy trying not to die.

  The mist thinned for a moment.

  And then she saw it.

  A shape.

  Looming in the distance, hunched, shifting unnaturally. Limbs gnarled like twisted roots, movements jerky like a puppet with tangled strings.

  No eyes. No face. Just a hollowed-out space where a head should be.

  Its posture snapped toward them.

  Amara’s stomach dropped. Oh, that’s bad.

  Orin let out a low grunt, feet braced, jaw tight. “Something big.”

  “Something coming,” Lorina corrected.

  Myles dragged a hand down his face. “Do we ever get a normal Tuesday, or…?”

  No one laughed.

  Orin was already moving. Myles grabbed Amara’s wrist and yanked. “Come on, princess, let’s not get eaten just yet.”

  They ran.

  The swamp fought them.

  Mud clawed at their boots, vines snapped toward their arms, and above them—

  The sky cracked.

  Not thunder.

  Not lightning.

  A signal.

  A second chime vibrated through the air.

  Then, a voice.

  Flat. Cold. Uninterested.

  “The hunt begins.”

  Myles groaned. “Oh, I hate that.”

  Amara barely heard him.

  Because ahead—

  Beyond the mist.

  Beyond the twisted roots and shifting swamp—

  Other figures were moving.

  Not students.

  Not instructors.

  Hunters.

  The Citadel had never intended for them to reach the checkpoint unscathed.

  This wasn’t endurance.

  This was a culling.

  The hunters came fast.

  No hesitation. No mercy.

  The first hit blindsided Myles.

  A streak of light—then a solid crack as the impact slammed into his ribs, knocking him sideways into the muck.

  “Fucking—” He caught himself before he went fully under, gasping through gritted teeth. “Alright. That’s fair.”

  Lorina didn’t hesitate. She stepped in front of him, blade raised, her eyes locked onto the two hunters stalking toward them through the mist.

  Amara’s pulse pounded.

  Her feet refused to move.

  Her hand clenched tight around the hilt of her dagger. Too tight. Like it could somehow make up for the fact that she had nothing else.

  The first hunter struck.

  Orin caught the blade with his bare hands.

  A sickening grind of steel against reinforced bone echoed through the swamp.

  The upperclassman stared. Orin didn’t.

  He just twisted—hard.

  The sword snapped in two.

  Then, Orin punched him in the gut.

  The hunter crumpled, gasping, but before he could recover, Lorina moved.

  Fast. Precise.

  A flick of her wrist—and the second hunter staggered back, clutching his thigh.

  Not deep enough to maim. Just enough to drop him.

  Amara barely processed it.

  She was still stuck.

  Then—

  A shadow lunged at her.

  She tried to twist away. Too slow.

  The world jerked.

  A sharp yank at her collar, a blur of motion—

  And suddenly, she wasn’t on the ground anymore.

  Myles had grabbed her.

  Pulled her out of reach.

  Her boots hit the dirt a few feet back, heart slamming.

  Myles exhaled sharply, wincing. “You good?”

  Amara barely managed to nod.

  He gave her a look. “Yeah, no, that was bullshit.”

  Then, before she could react—

  He lunged forward.

  Straight at the hunter that had gone for her.

  His knife flashed. A single swipe.

  A line of red bloomed across the attacker’s cheek.

  Not deep. Just enough.

  The hunter hissed, stumbling back. Myles grinned. “There. Now we’re even.”

  A sudden chime rang out.

  Everything stopped.

  The hunters froze.

  The swamp went silent.

  A voice—flat, dispassionate, done.

  “Trial complete.”

  The arena flickered, dissolving around them in a shimmer of light. The weight of the swamp, the scent of blood, the distant screams—all gone.

  Silence.

  No one moved at first. Their breathing was too loud in the empty air. Amara’s fingers twitched at her sides, phantom tension still coiled in her muscles, her body unsure if the fight was truly over.

  Then, the instructor’s voice cut through the quiet. “That was an unmitigated disaster.”

  Amara said nothing.

  Because she hadn’t helped.

  Not really.

  Her throat felt tight.

  She had barely moved. Barely fought. Barely survived.

  If this had been the real trial…

  She’d be dead.