The Fringe dormitories were a fucking disgrace. The air was thick with damp stone, old wood, and the stale tang of failed magic. The walls hummed with weak enchantments, flickering in and out as if the Citadel had long since given up on this place. The wooden beams overhead groaned, and something scuttled within them—probably a cave skitter, possibly worse.

  Amara let the door swing shut behind her, the latch clicking with finality, sealing her in the dimly lit room that now served as her new reality.

  She dropped her satchel onto the cot. The mattress barely gave under its weight, stiff as a corpse. This was where they put her?

  An Aurelian. In a fucking broom closet.

  The injustice of it curled in her stomach like a slow burn. She had grown up in gold-threaded silks, polished marble halls, and perfumed air—where even the servants had better accommodations than this. And now? Crammed into a room barely big enough to stretch her legs.

  A sharp knock made her turn, fingers twitching instinctively toward her locket. A girl leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression a lazy mix of boredom and amusement. Wild auburn curls framed her face, and her amber eyes gleamed like she knew something Amara didn’t. The kind of person who had grown up in a place like this. The kind who already thought she had Amara figured out—but was waiting to see if she was right.

  “You must be the new one.”

  Amara didn’t respond immediately, just flicked her gaze over her, cataloging details—lean build, quick reflexes, a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. This girl wasn’t just confident; she was comfortable here.

  The girl grinned, sharp and assessing. “Figures they’d stick an Aurelian in here. You look like you’re about to set the place on fire just by existing.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “If that’s an option, I’d love to get started,” Amara said dryly, stripping off her cloak and tossing it onto the cot with a lazy flick. “Might even make this place livable.”

  The girl let out a sharp laugh. “Shit. I like you already.” She pushed off the doorframe and sauntered in like she owned the place, eyes still glinting with mischief as if she had already decided Amara was her next source of entertainment.

  “Elira Vastra,” she introduced herself, watching Amara with the same look a cat gave a caged bird. “Welcome to the shithole.”

  The pause stretched, both of them sizing the other up. Elira was testing her. Waiting to see if Amara would shrink, complain, or claw her way out.

  She wouldn’t. She’d adapt. She always did.

  “You really don’t say much, do you?”

  “Depends. Do you always talk this much?”

  Elira grinned. “Damn. Maybe you will survive—assuming the furniture doesn’t get to you first. It’s got a reputation for breaking spines.”

  Amara arched a brow, glancing at the cot. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to break mine.”

  Elira let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”

  The common hall was barely controlled chaos. Voices echoed off the stone walls, sharp with tension. The air smelled of burnt bread and something acrid, like old spell residue. Students filled the space in clusters, some hunched over meals, others arguing, others simply watching, waiting for something worth their attention.

  The Luminal Fringe had its own food chain, and Amara was at the bottom of it.

  Elira strolled through like she owned the place. "Welcome to the heart of our glorious little kingdom of outcasts," she said, spreading her arms dramatically. "Where dignity goes to die, and the food actively resents you."

  Amara surveyed the room. This was survival, raw and unfiltered. Power ruled here, not lineage. The name Aurelian meant nothing when there was no magic behind it. Here, strength wasn’t given—it was taken.

  Charming.

  Elira led them toward the food line. “First lesson: don’t eat anything that smells like it’s trying to escape.”

  A voice cut through the din. “Vastra, is this your latest victim?”

  Amara turned—and recognized him immediately. Jaren. The cocky bastard from the courtyard.

  He leaned against a pillar, all easy confidence and sharp edges, dark curls falling just past his brow. The smirk he wore was the same as before—like he’d already won some game she didn’t know they were playing.

  “Elira’s been trying to impress me since I got here,” she said smoothly, crossing her arms. “It’s tragic, really.”

  Jaren smirked. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and you might start to fit in.”

  “Gods forbid,” she deadpanned, stepping past him.

  Elira laughed, tossing a smirk at Amara. "You two have a spark. Should I be taking bets on how long it takes before one of you snaps?""

  They found an open table near the edge of the hall. Amara sat with her back to the wall, instinctively positioning herself to see the entire room, while Elira flopped into the seat across from her with an exaggerated sigh. The bread on her tray looked dense enough to bludgeon someone into next week, and the stew glistened with an unsettling film of grease.

  Amara prodded at her own bread with a finger, then gave Elira a flat look. "Should I be worried?"

  “Depends,” Elira said, stealing a bite of Amara’s bread, then grimacing. “Shit. Did they hex the pot?”

  Jaren dropped into the seat beside them, exuding the kind of effortless arrogance only someone who had nothing to prove and everything to gain could have. “If you hate it so much, why do you keep eating it?”

  “Because starving would be boring,” Elira said, tossing the bread back onto Amara’s tray. “And I have a reputation to uphold.”

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  Jaren smirked. “Reputation for what? Poor life choices?”

  Elira grinned. “Among other things.”

  The laughter and noise of the common hall started to fade as students began drifting toward the spire. A faint chime echoed through the Citadel, threading through the air like a summons. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—the mood turned heavier, sharper.

  “What’s happening?” Amara asked, voice low.

  “Orientation,” Elira muttered. “Big speech. Lots of pomp. ‘We’re better than you’ energy. You’ll love it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “And we’re supposed to be there already?”

  “Technically.” Elira shoved the last bite of bread into her mouth. “But what’s the fun in showing up on time?”

  Elira shoved the last bite of bread into her mouth, chewing with a lazy grin as she leaned back in her chair. “I say we show up late just to piss them off.”

  Jaren smirked. “Bold of you to assume they’d care.”

  Amara rolled her eyes but stood anyway, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her cloak. “You two can test your luck. I’d rather not make enemies before I’ve figured out who’s worth pissing off.”

  Elira groaned, dramatic and drawn out. “Ugh. You’re one of those.”

  “One of what?” Amara asked as they made their way toward the towering spire.

  “The ones who think strategy makes up for good old-fashioned spite.”

  Jaren chuckled. “That’s funny. I thought you liked her.”

  Elira nudged Amara with her elbow. “Jury’s still out.”

  They moved through the corridors, weaving past students who barely spared them a glance. The halls were a dull mix of stone and faintly glowing runes, their light pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

  “Since you’re so determined to stay on everyone’s good side,” Elira said, “you should probably learn the rules of the Fringe.”

  Amara raised a brow. “Isn’t it the same as the rest of the Citadel? Follow orders, don’t die?”

  Elira snorted. “That’s the surface-level version. But the Fringe has its own… structure.”

  Jaren tilted his head. “Hierarchy is a better word.”

  Elira waved a dismissive hand. “Semantics. Point is, out here, we don’t have noble names or legacy backing. We have two options: get stronger or get stepped on.”

  Amara frowned slightly. “So, what? Strength determines rank?”

  “Exactly,” Jaren said. “Officially, the Overseers act like everyone’s equal. Unofficially? The Fringe sorts itself.”

  Elira shot him a look. “You make it sound poetic. It’s really just glorified survival of the fittest.”

  Jaren shrugged. “You’re not wrong.”

  Elira turned back to Amara. “First rule—don’t pick fights unless you’re sure you can win. If you lose, you don’t just take a hit to your pride. You lose status, favors, protection.”

  “Second rule,” Jaren added. “If someone challenges you, backing down is worse than losing. At least if you fight, they’ll respect you.”

  Amara’s brows furrowed. “Even if I get my ass kicked?”

  Elira smirked. “Especially if you get your ass kicked. No one likes a coward. A weak fighter can get stronger. A coward stays a coward.”

  Jaren leaned against the stone archway as they neared the entrance to the orientation chamber. “Third rule—alliances matter. The strong stick together, and the lone wolves get picked off.”

  Elira shot Amara a knowing glance. “Which means you should probably stick with us.”

  Amara let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “And what do I owe you in return?”

  Jaren’s smirk was lazy. “Nothing yet. But it never hurts to have friends.”

  Elira clapped her hands together. “And finally—last rule: if the elites start messing with you, don’t expect help from the Overseers. Out here? No one gives a damn about fairness.”

  Amara took in their words.

  The spire loomed ahead, its jagged edges glowing faintly with embedded runes. The closer they got, the more the air seemed to shift, the weight of the Citadel pressing down on them. The entry doors stood wide open, revealing a vast, circular chamber lined with ascending rows of stone seating. At the center, a raised platform gleamed beneath the floating light orbs illuminating the space.

  The room was already half-filled with students, many of whom barely glanced their way. Others, however, took notice—not of Elira or Jaren, but of Amara.

  She felt their stares coil around her like a noose, whispers brushing against her ears like ghosts.

  “What’s an Aurelian doing here?”

  “I heard she doesn’t even have magic.”

  “She’s pretty, but that won’t get her far.”

  Amara’s fingers twitched at her sides, her nails pressing faint crescents into her palms. It was the same everywhere. It didn’t matter if it was a gilded ballroom or a decrepit dormitory—people always talked. Always judged. Always waited for her to slip.

  She refused to give them the satisfaction.

  Elira, to her credit, either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Ooo, seats in the back? Perfect.” She grabbed Amara’s wrist and dragged her up the stone steps, Jaren following behind, hands tucked into his pockets as he lazily scanned the room.

  They settled near the upper edge of the chamber, where the light was dimmer and the noise less suffocating. Amara exhaled slowly, grounding herself as her fingers brushed against the cool metal of her locket beneath her cloak.

  “Look at that,” Elira muttered, nodding toward the front rows. “They really love their theatrics.”

  Amara followed her gaze and saw them—the favored few.

  Students wearing the sigils of the major Threads sat closest to the platform, their robes pristine, their posture composed, their gazes full of silent arrogance. They were the best. The elite. The ones who would never know what it meant to fight for a place here.

  Amara’s lip curled slightly, but she said nothing.

  A sharp chime rang through the chamber, and the murmurs died instantly. The Overseers had arrived.

  A line of figures emerged from the archway behind the platform, their robes flowing, their expressions unreadable. Each of them carried themselves with an aura of quiet dominance, their presence alone enough to demand attention.

  One stepped forward—a woman with silver-streaked hair and piercing, ice-pale eyes. Her voice carried through the chamber like a blade slicing through air.

  “Welcome to Zarathis Citadel.”

  Silence settled thick and heavy.

  “You are here because you possess the potential to wield power,” she continued. “To shape the world as generations before you have. To uphold the balance that keeps our civilization from falling into ruin.”

  Elira made a quiet gagging noise, and Jaren stifled a smirk. Amara didn’t react, though inwardly, she couldn’t help but think of the irony—the same institution that spoke of balance had cast her aside before she’d even begun.

  The woman’s gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on the major Threads before moving to the rest. “Some of you stand here today as heirs to legacies centuries in the making. Others”—her eyes flickered toward the outer rows where the Fringe sat—“are here to prove you are more than the circumstances of your birth.”

  A subtle shift in tone. A careful reminder of who belonged and who did not.

  Elira muttered under her breath, “Would it kill them to be less condescending?”

  Jaren shrugged. “They wouldn’t know how.”

  Amara barely heard them. Her focus remained on the woman, on the way the words were carefully chosen, calculated to remind them all that power was not freely given—it was earned. Or, in her case, stripped away before she could grasp it.

  “Your time at the Citadel will not be easy,” the woman went on. “You will be tested. You will be broken down. And those of you who survive will emerge stronger.”

  Something about the way she said it sent a shiver through Amara’s spine.

  The woman finally stepped back, and another Overseer took her place, this one younger, his features sharp but less severe. “Your first evaluations begin tomorrow at dawn,” he announced. “Fail them, and you will fall further than you already have.”

  A not-so-subtle threat.

  The room remained silent as the Overseers turned and disappeared through the same archway they had entered. A beat passed. Then another. The moment they were gone, conversation exploded back into existence.

  “Wow,” Elira drawled. “That was… dramatic.”

  Jaren exhaled, stretching his arms over the back of his seat. “At least they got to the point.”

  Amara said nothing. She simply sat there, her fingers absently twisting the chain of her locket.

  Another test. Another chance to be judged and found lacking.

  She would not fail.

  As students began filing out of the chamber, Elira nudged Amara’s shoulder. “Come on, Aurelian. Let’s get out of here before they decide to make us polish the floors for fun.”

  Amara allowed herself a small smirk and stood, following them out of the chamber and into the winding corridors of the Citadel. The halls whispered around them, filled with the murmurs of ambition, of fear, of excitement.

  For some, this was the beginning of greatness.

  For Amara, it was a battlefield. And she had every intention of winning.