The Citadel never truly slept.

  The runes in the walls flickered faintly, pulsing with slow, rhythmic energy—almost like breathing. The structure shifted in the dark, quiet but never still. Somewhere beyond the dormitories, the distant hum of moving platforms echoed through the halls.

  Amara lay awake, her body exhausted but her mind unwilling to rest.

  Her cot was barely more than a slab of fabric stretched too thin over hardened stuffing, but she knew discomfort wasn’t what kept her up. It was the inevitability of tomorrow.

  She rolled onto her side, staring at the uneven ceiling. The events of the day replayed in her head—Elira’s fire, Nyssa’s wind, the sharp precision of every movement. She wasn’t ready.

  Not for this.

  “Stop thinking so loudly.”

  Elira’s voice drifted through the quiet, lazy but aware. Amara glanced over, finding her sprawled on her cot, one arm behind her head, eyes half-lidded but sharp. She wasn’t sleeping either.

  Elira shifted, watching her. “You ready?”

  Amara didn’t answer immediately. She wasn’t sure the truth mattered.

  “Does it matter?” she murmured.

  Elira let out a short chuckle. “Not really.”

  Neither of them said anything else after that. The Citadel continued its quiet breathing around them. The walls pulsed. The halls shifted. Somewhere in the dark, something skittered between the cracks in the stone.

  Amara eventually closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she ever really slept.

  The usual chaos of the dining hall had been muted. Voices were lower, movements more deliberate.

  People weren’t just eating. They were watching. Calculating.

  It was the first time since arriving that Amara truly felt the weight of the Citadel’s unspoken rules pressing down on her.

  She had known that Placement Day was important. But now? She could feel it.

  Elira moved ahead of her with practiced ease, grabbing food without hesitation. She wasn’t worried—she had already been through this.

  But Amara had never been here before.

  She chose her food carefully, avoiding anything that looked questionable. It wasn’t about being picky—it was about being smart. She needed energy, not a stomachache before the trial.

  Jaren had already claimed his usual spot near the far end of the hall, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.

  When he saw her, he didn’t nod, didn’t call out.

  He just watched.

  Amara took her seat beside Elira, setting her tray down with careful precision.

  Amara’s hands were still. Too still. The kind of stillness that came not from composure, but from tension wound so tight it locked every muscle in place.

  She sat rigid at the edge of her bench, her fingers curled loosely around the dull metal of her fork, but she wasn’t eating.

  Across the hall, students moved with a controlled ease that set her further on edge.

  A Hydravan girl traced absent circles into the condensation on her cup, the water inside rippling with each movement.

  At another table, a Terrosian boy cracked his knuckles, his magic manifesting in the faint tremor of stone dust rising from the floor beneath his boots.

  Some flickered with power so subtly it could almost be missed—small, instinctual uses of their gifts, entirely unconscious.

  Even the weakest among them had something. Magic that pulsed just beneath the skin, waiting to be wielded.

  Amara had nothing.

  Her stomach twisted, but she forced down a mouthful of food anyway. It tasted like dust, thick and dry on her tongue.

  Her whole life, she had been the exception. The anomaly. The powerless Aurelian.

  It should have broken her.

  It hadn’t.

  Because back home, power was currency, but so was beauty, intelligence, and the weight of a name like hers.

  And she had never lacked for those.

  Here? None of it mattered.

  She wasn’t untouchable anymore. She was replaceable.

  A sharp clang of metal against stone jolted her from her thoughts. Across the hall, a student had dropped his tray, food splattering across the floor. Silence barely lasted a breath before conversation surged again—an easy, fluid return to normal.

  But Amara had felt the shift.

  The way people had looked. Assessed. Measured.

  They were watching. Waiting.

  Her stomach tightened. It wasn’t just the Placement Test looming ahead—it was what came after.

  The unspoken rankings, the subtle shifts in power, the alliances that would be forged or abandoned in the aftermath.

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  Aurelian. The name alone had been enough to turn heads her entire life.

  But here? It meant nothing.

  And when the test began, when she stepped onto that platform to prove she deserved to be here, she wouldn’t have magic to fall back on.

  If she failed, the humiliation wouldn’t just be hers.

  It would stain her mother, her brothers, her entire bloodline.

  The golden daughter, the untouchable heir—reduced to a footnote in the annals of failure.

  She swallowed hard, but the food sat like lead in her gut.

  Elira nudged her shoulder, dragging her out of her thoughts. “You’re sitting too stiff,” she murmured.

  Amara blinked. “What?”

  Elira tore off a piece of bread, chewing lazily. “You’re doing that thing.”

  She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

  Amara knew what she meant.

  Jaren’s voice cut in smoothly from across the table. “They’re already making bets.”

  That got Amara’s attention.

  She set down her fork, turning her gaze toward him. “On who?”

  Jaren took a slow sip from his cup before answering, his expression unreadable. “Everyone.”

  Her grip tightened beneath the table.

  The morning chime rang through the hall, signaling the beginning of Placement.

  Conversations cut short. Benches scraped against the floor.

  All around her, students rose from their seats in unison, some eager, others hesitant.

  Elira cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

  Amara stood, adjusting the bracers on her wrists.

  Jaren pushed away from the wall, stretching lazily.

  The three of them stepped into the hallway, blending into the current of students moving toward the training grounds.

  The air was thick. Tension pressing in like a too-tight cloak.

  No one was speaking anymore.

  Amara exhaled.

  The first names would be called soon.

  And when they were—there would be no more room for hesitation.

  The Citadel’s training grounds weren’t built for fairness.

  Amara had known that in theory. She’d overheard it in passing, picked up on the tension in the dining hall, seen the bruises blooming across students who’d trained before her. But standing here now, surrounded by the sheer violence of it—she realized how little she had truly understood.

  This wasn’t training.

  It was survival.

  The first match had already begun.

  A Hydravan and a Terrosian stood in the ring, their bodies locked in a brutal, methodical dance. The Hydravan’s magic curled around her arms, shimmering like liquid silver, twisting in unnatural, fluid arcs. The Terrosian moved like a mountain brought to life—each stomp sending tremors through the packed earth, each strike a slow but devastating attempt to break his opponent’s guard.

  And fuck, they were fast.

  Amara’s hands were sweating.

  She wiped them against the rough fabric of her training gear, only to find them damp again seconds later. Her pulse slammed against her ribs, an erratic, uneven rhythm, drowning out the distant shouts of students betting on the fight.

  This wasn’t like watching Elira fight yesterday. That had been impressive. Controlled.

  This was raw brutality.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Not even when the Hydravan dodged just a second too late—her opponent’s stone-coated fist colliding with her ribs with a sickening crack. A sharp wheeze escaped the girl’s lips before she crumpled onto the ground, arms curling inward in instinctual pain.

  A heartbeat later, the instructor called it.

  Over. Just like that.

  The Terrosian stepped back, his breathing only slightly uneven. The Hydravan didn’t get up right away.

  Amara swallowed, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

  It was just a fight. Just a test.

  She had no choice but to step into it when her time came.

  Shit, I am so dead.

  Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails pressing crescents into her palms.

  Not dead, she corrected. They can’t kill me.

  Not an Aurelian. Not unless they wanted to deal with the consequences.

  …But nothing said they couldn’t break her.

  Her name wouldn’t protect her from that.

  Across the yard, Elira and Jaren stood watching. Not fighting—just watching, arms crossed, expressions unreadable. They were from the upper sectors of the Fringe, the ones who had already proven themselves. They didn’t need placement the way she did. They weren’t standing here, waiting for their name to be called.

  She could feel their eyes on her.

  Elira’s fire-bright gaze held an edge of interest, but Jaren’s was harder to read. Assessing. Calculating.

  They weren’t worried.

  They should be.

  The next names were called.

  Another fight. Another student crushed.

  This time, an Ignithral who had burned himself out too fast, his flames sputtering at the worst moment, leaving him wide open for the blow that sent him sprawling onto the dirt.

  Amara exhaled sharply through her nose.

  She could still leave if she wanted.

  She could turn around, walk back inside, disappear into the Citadel’s winding halls before anyone noticed.

  But she wouldn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  Aurelians didn’t run.

  But fuck, she wished they did.

  Another fight. Another loss.

  The line thinned.

  Her stomach twisted, breath tightening.

  Then—

  “Amara Aurelian.”

  Her name cut through the air, sharp, clear, final.

  A breath. A single, slow step forward.

  The walk to the ring felt longer than it should have.

  When she stepped inside, she forced her shoulders back, chin high, movements careful but steady. Not like someone who had spent the last five minutes deciding whether throwing herself off the nearest ledge was a better option than this.

  Her opponent was already waiting.

  Lorana Venith. A Terrosian.

  Fuck.

  Amara had seen her fight just two matches ago.

  A small, detached part of her brain informed her that she was about to be obliterated.

  The rest of her focused on not throwing up.

  Lorana tilted her head slightly, looking bored. “I expected more.”

  A flicker of amusement passed through the audience.

  Amara gave a thin, humorless smile. “Yeah, me too.”

  The instructor raised his hand.

  “Begin.”

  Amara saw the first hit coming.

  That was the problem.

  She saw it. But her body wasn’t fast enough to react.

  The first strike knocked the air from her lungs before she even fully processed what had happened.

  Lorana’s fist slammed into her stomach, and Amara’s knees buckled instantly—a humiliating, instinctual response to pain. Her vision swam, her ribs lighting up with agonizing fire.

  But she didn’t fall.

  Get up, get up, get up—

  The second hit took her off her feet entirely.

  She hit the ground hard, pain bursting across her side. The world tilted, the sky and dirt blurring into one disorienting mess.

  Someone laughed.

  The roar of blood filled her ears.

  She clenched her teeth, digging her nails into the dirt, trying to push herself up.

  Her body was already betraying her, shaking violently, her limbs heavy, too slow.

  Her vision doubled.

  Lorana didn’t even look winded.

  “You should stay down,” she said flatly.

  Amara forced herself up onto one knee.

  “Not happening,” she bit out, voice rasping past the burning in her throat.

  Lorana sighed. Then kicked her in the ribs.

  The pain exploded through her skull first, then radiated outward—white-hot, sharp, unbearable.

  Amara barely registered her body hitting the ground again.

  Her limbs refused to obey as she tried to move, her breath coming in shallow, painful gasps.

  She wasn’t getting back up this time.

  Somewhere, the instructor said something. Called the match.

  It didn’t matter.

  The fight was over before it even started.

  Boots scuffed the dirt near her, and then hands grabbed her under the arms, hauling her up.

  The first thing she registered was the scent of charred wood and sweat.

  Elira.

  Her grip was firm, unyielding.

  “You lasted longer than I thought,” Elira murmured, voice low. “Which wasn’t very long at all.”

  Amara let out something between a groan and a wheeze.

  Jaren’s face came into view a second later, his expression carefully neutral. Too neutral.

  Elira half-dragged her off the platform, grunting under the weight. “Shit, Aurelian, you’re heavier than you look.”

  Amara tried to answer. Her mouth wouldn’t work.

  Her ribs felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them.

  They settled her onto the nearest bench, Jaren crouching nearby, watching with that same unreadable expression.

  Elira leaned close, tilting her head slightly. “So,” she drawled. “How’s that Aurelian pride holding up?”

  Amara let her head drop back against the stone wall behind her.

  Her ribs throbbed, her vision still threatened to black out at the edges.

  A sharp, wet laugh rattled from her chest.

  “Perfect,” she rasped. “Thanks for asking.”

  And then, finally, she let her eyes close.