The morning of the trial came too soon.

  Amara sat before the mirror in her quarters, hands absently working through the motions of braiding her hair. The golden coils tumbled down her back in thick, springy waves, the weight of them familiar, grounding. One long braid—it would stay out of her way, keep her looking controlled, even if her insides felt like a storm barely contained beneath her ribs.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she secured the end, and she scowled at her reflection. Coward. It wasn’t a lack of skill that made them shake. It was the knowing—the certainty that by the time the sun set, some of the students walking into this trial would be dead.

  Maybe she was supposed to be among them. Maybe this was just fate balancing the scales. After all, what use was a powerless Aurelian?

  Her usual golden-brown skin looked ashen in the dim morning light, as if her body already knew what was coming. A preemptive funeral hue. How considerate. Tactical gear clung to her frame, dark and unyielding, a far cry from the silks and gilded embellishments of Illyria. She looked the part of someone prepared for war, but the sheen of sweat on her brow and the dull, twisting ache in her stomach told a different story.

  She hated this. Not just the fear, but the waiting. The gods-damned waiting. It stretched and pulled, making everything worse, letting the mind wander into all the ways this could go wrong. Maybe she’d trip the moment she stepped into the trial grounds. Maybe she’d get mauled within the first five minutes. Maybe—

  “Don’t look so miserable,” Elira’s voice cut through her thoughts as the other girl strolled into the room, tossing an apple in the air. “Or at least save it for when we’re actually bleeding out. You’ll make me nervous.”

  Amara snorted, shaking her head as she turned away from the mirror. “Didn’t know you could feel nerves, Elira.”

  “I don’t. I just think it’s poor strategy to look like you’re about to vomit before the fight even starts.” Elira flopped onto the nearest chair, legs spread out like she didn’t have a single care in the world. Then, more quietly, “You remind me of my sister.”

  “She—” A short exhale. “She didn’t have magic either.”

  Amara stilled.

  Elira didn’t talk about her family. Ever. The shift in tone was so rare it made Amara sit up straighter, studying her with narrowed eyes.

  “In commoner families, magic isn’t just power—it’s survival. She… didn’t have much of a future because of that. No one outright abandoned her, but they overlooked her. Like she wasn’t there.”

  Amara turned then, fully facing Elira. “She still alive?”

  Elira gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. Works in the inner city doing something dull and unimportant. She doesn’t talk to me much. Can’t tell if it’s because she resents me for having magic or if she just doesn’t care.” A pause. “Probably both.”

  Amara didn’t respond. What was there to say? That she understood? That being overlooked, being written off before you even had a chance, was a wound that never really healed?

  “I don’t have high hopes for you,” Elira continued, the smirk back in place, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But… I hope you survive. Because for some reason, I’m starting to care just a little.” She gave an exaggerated grimace. “Horrible feeling, really.”

  Amara huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And you’re still alive, so let’s see how long that lasts.” Elira jerked her head toward the door. “Come on. Orin, Myles, and Lorina are already at the dining hall. We eat before we die.”

  The dining hall was already bustling by the time Amara and Elira arrived. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on, and even the most confident contenders were quieter than usual, their movements sharp, their gazes darting toward the entrance every time another team walked in.

  Some students sat alone, methodically eating as if shoving down food could silence the gnawing weight of anticipation. Others huddled in groups, exchanging last-minute strategies, their voices hushed but urgent. The scent of bread, roasted meats, and fresh fruit lingered, but Amara’s stomach had no interest in any of it.

  At a table near the back, Orin, Myles, and Lorina were already seated.

  Myles was picking apart a roll with slow, careless fingers, his golden eyes tracking the room like a cat watching birds. He looked completely at ease, but Amara had spent enough time around him to notice the way his foot tapped under the table—restless energy, an outlet for nerves he’d never admit to.

  Orin, by contrast, was the picture of discipline. Back straight, arms crossed, eyes sharp. His plate was empty, but he sat with the stillness of someone who had already eaten, who had already prepared himself for what was coming and saw no point in wasting breath on anything else.

  And Lorina—Lorina looked as unreadable as ever, quietly stirring her tea, the steam curling around her face like the ghosts of unspoken thoughts.

  “About time,” Myles drawled as they approached, tossing the remains of his roll onto his plate. “I was starting to think you two had run off to escape this gods-damned nightmare.”

  “Would you be surprised?” Elira muttered, flopping into the seat beside him.

  “No,” Myles admitted, then turned to Amara with an exaggerated tilt of his head. “So, how’s the dead girl walking? Last chance to bolt.”

  Amara pulled out a chair and sat, leveling him with a dry look. “Tempting, but I’d hate to leave you all to die without me.”

  Myles grinned. “Spoken like a true martyr.”

  Lorina finally spoke, voice smooth and clipped. “Did you bring them?”

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  Amara exhaled slowly, then reached into her belt, unfastening the concealed clasp. The golden Auris Threads slipped loose from their binding, pooling in her palm like strands of spun sunlight. The delicate metal was cool against her fingers, thrumming faintly, waiting.

  Orin’s gaze flicked to them, then to Amara’s face. “You sure about this?”

  “They’re weapons,” Amara said simply. “Not magic.”

  “They enhance you,” Orin countered.

  Amara tilted her head. “If you strapped them on, they would count as a magical enhancement. But I don’t have magic, which means they’re just physical enhancements.”

  Myles let out a low whistle, leaning forward with interest. “Oh, that’s clever.”

  “It’s a loophole,” Lorina said smugly, taking a sip of her tea. “The trial forbids magical enhancements, but Amara’s threads only function as such if the wearer has magic to interact with them. On her, they don’t amplify any existing power, because there’s no power to amplify.”

  “They function as weapons instead.” Amara let the threads slide through her fingers before securing them back into place. “They don’t strengthen my magic, they just give me a means to fight, same as a dagger or a blade.”

  Orin nodded slowly, considering this. “And if they call you out on it?”

  “They won’t,” Lorina said smoothly. “The rules are clear. No magical enhancements.” She gestured vaguely toward Amara. “This one doesn’t qualify for that restriction.”

  Myles laughed. “Damn. Loopholes never sounded so sad.”

  Elira popped a grape into her mouth. “No point in arguing. It’s valid. Let her have this.”

  A sharp chime echoed through the hall.

  Silence followed instantly.

  A voice, crisp and authoritative, rang out over the dining hall:

  “All contenders will now report to the trial grounds.”

  The moment had arrived.

  Chairs scraped against stone as students stood, the energy in the room shifting in an instant. Some inhaled sharply, bracing themselves. Others exhaled like it was their last chance to release their nerves before the storm began.

  No more eating. No more talking.

  No more waiting.

  Amara followed the others out into the corridor, her footsteps measured, her breath steady—but beneath the surface, that pulse of anxiety crawled through her veins, relentless and sharp-edged.

  The march to the trial grounds was eerily silent.

  The halls of Zaradis Citadel, usually filled with the low hum of conversation, now echoed only with the rhythmic clank of boots against polished stone. No one spoke. No one laughed.

  For once, even Myles had nothing to say.

  The air outside was brisk, edged with the crisp bite of morning, but Amara barely felt it. Her pulse was a constant drumbeat in her ears, her skin electric with anticipation.

  As they stepped into the vast amphitheater-like arena, the sheer magnitude of the event finally settled onto her shoulders. The trial grounds stretched out before them—a sprawling, ever-shifting landscape that had been meticulously crafted to test their limits. Jagged cliffs jutted from the ground like the ribcage of some long-dead beast. Dense forests loomed in the distance, their canopies dark and unwelcoming. Pockets of ruins were scattered throughout, remnants of structures that had long since crumbled.

  A proving ground. A battlefield. A graveyard waiting to be filled.

  Rows of instructors stood in the high observation posts above, their gazes sweeping over the gathered students. Some whispered to each other, others merely watched.

  At the center of it all, Instructor Caelum stepped forward, his towering form casting a long shadow across the arena floor. His presence alone was enough to quiet even the most restless contenders.

  “Today,” he began, voice sharp and unwavering, “you fight to prove you deserve to be here.”

  His golden eyes swept over the gathered students, cold and appraising. “This trial is not a test of who is the strongest, but who is the most capable. It is not enough to be powerful. You must be strategic. You must be ruthless.”

  A ripple of tension passed through the students.

  Caelum’s mouth curled slightly. “Many of you will fail.”

  No one moved.

  “No magical enhancements will be permitted,” he continued. “Your skills, your training, and your natural abilities will determine your success. Those who cannot adapt will be removed from the Citadel. Permanently.”

  Beside her, Elira muttered under her breath. “Removed is a very polite way of saying ’carried out in a body bag.’”

  Amara’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

  Caelum raised a hand. A mechanical chime rang out, signaling the beginning of the countdown.

  “Teams will be called in one by one. The moment you enter, the trial begins. Adapt accordingly.”

  One by one.

  Amara inhaled slowly. This was the worst part—the waiting. Standing still while the weight of the unknown pressed down, thick and suffocating.

  The first names were called.

  A group strode forward, faces set in grim determination, and disappeared through the massive gates.

  Minutes passed. Another name was called. Then another. More teams vanished into the trial grounds, swallowed by the unknown.

  From the stands above, spectators watched, their expressions unreadable. Some of them bet on who would survive. Some had already written names in the book of the dead.

  Silence followed before the next group was called.

  Elira’s name.

  She exhaled sharply through her nose, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of tension. Then, with her usual casual bravado, she turned to Amara, smirking. “Try not to die too quickly, Aurelian.”

  Amara huffed. “No promises.”

  Jaren was already waiting for Elira a few feet away, arms folded, his gaze cool and steady. When Amara’s eyes met his, he gave her a slow, deliberate nod, then mouthed a phrase in their native tongue—a saying passed down through generations of warriors.

  “Walk steady, strike true.”

  A quiet, unspoken wish for survival.

  Amara’s throat tightened. She gave a curt nod in return, watching as Elira and Jaren turned, walking toward the gates that would swallow them whole. The moment they stepped past the threshold, their figures disappeared into the landscape beyond.

  One by one, more names were called. More teams entered the battlefield.

  The air around her felt stretched too thin, tension crackling beneath the surface of every measured breath.

  Myles tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Why the hell are they making us wait so long?” he muttered.

  “Because we’re the entertainment,” Lorina murmured, barely moving her lips. Her silver eyes were unreadable as they flicked toward the high observation stands. “The longer we stand here, the more time they have to measure us. See who cracks before the fight even begins.”

  Orin exhaled sharply, adjusting the wraps around his hands. He was the only one who looked remotely at ease, though Amara knew better. His focus was razor-sharp, the way a blade was sharp before a kill.

  A mechanical chime rang out again.

  “Team Aurelia,” the instructor called.

  Their turn.

  Amara forced her body into motion, swallowing down the last traces of hesitation. She could feel the weight of dozens of eyes pressing against her skin as they stepped forward.

  This was it.

  As they neared the threshold, she felt the Auris Threads coil tightly around her forearms, as if sensing the shift. She was hyper-aware of their presence, of the loophole she and Lorina had devised to bring them here.

  No magical enhancements were allowed in the trial. That was the rule. But Amara had no magic—her Threads, while infused with energy, functioned as nothing more than an extension of her physical ability. A weapon, not an enhancement.

  If anyone else had wielded them, they would have been disqualified. But for her, they fell under the category of permitted arms.

  A technicality. A loophole. But one she was willing to exploit.

  She could feel the weight of it, the unspoken gamble. Would the instructors call her out? Would they strip her of her only advantage?

  She didn’t know.

  She only knew that, once she crossed that threshold, there would be no turning back.

  The moment they stepped through the gates, the trial began.

  And the world, for just a moment, was eerily, impossibly still.

  Then—

  The ground trembled. A distant, unnatural sound echoed through the trees.

  Something was waiting for them.