The world still ached.

  Amara sat motionless in the infirmary, her body reduced to nothing but bruises and stiff, aching limbs. Even breathing felt like a battle. The Citadel’s healers had done what they could—closing the worst wounds, numbing the sharpest pains—but they hadn’t erased all of it. They never did.

  Pain was a lesson here.

  She traced the faint edge of a cut just below her ribs, her fingers pressing lightly over the bandages. The fight had been brutal, humiliating. She had known she wouldn’t win. That much had been obvious before she even stepped onto the platform. But she hadn’t expected it to feel like this—like every single person in that courtyard had watched her, measured her, and found her wanting.

  Her mind replayed it. The blows. The dust. The raw, animalistic instinct of it all.

  She had been outmatched. That was undeniable. And now, with her body barely holding itself together, she wasn’t sure which part of her hurt more—her ribs, or her pride.

  “Elira’s waiting outside,” the healer said, barely glancing up as she packed away her supplies. “You’re cleared to go.”

  Amara inhaled slowly and forced herself to stand. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she didn’t falter.

  She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  The hallway outside the infirmary was dimly lit, the usual flickering runes casting their eerie glow along the stone. The scent of herbs and old parchment lingered—medicinal, sterile. But just beyond that, the Citadel pulsed with life, with the aftermath of Placement still buzzing in hushed voices and whispered wagers.

  Elira was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, looking entirely unbothered by the bloodstains on her sleeves. She raised an eyebrow the moment she saw Amara.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Feel worse.”

  Elira grinned, pushing off the wall to walk beside her. “I was about to start a betting pool on how many ribs you’d cracked, but the healers weren’t in the mood.”

  Amara rolled her eyes, though the movement sent a sharp ache down her neck.

  They walked in silence for a while, footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. Every movement sent another reminder through her body—of every strike she hadn’t dodged, every mistake that had cost her. But the worst part was knowing it wasn’t just failure. It was expectation.

  She had lived her whole life as an Aurelian. The untouchable name. The perfect legacy. And now, in the Luminal Fringe, that name meant nothing. She wasn’t just weak. She was disposable.

  And then—

  “Faculty wants to see you,” Elira said.

  Amara’s steps slowed.

  Elira didn’t elaborate, just jerked her chin toward the stairway leading to the upper levels.

  No explanation. No context. Just faculty.

  Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to move forward.

  The office smelled of ink and old parchment.

  The walls were lined with shelves, stacked high with records older than anyone alive. A single rune-lit lantern burned on the desk, casting shadows against the polished wood.

  Seated behind the desk was Instructor Renna.

  Sharp-eyed. Unreadable. One of the few faculty members who had never bothered to mask their disdain for the Fringe students.

  Amara didn’t speak first. She had learned that much.

  Instructor Renna held her gaze for a moment before standing, turning toward the cabinet behind her. “You have something to collect.”

  Amara’s brow furrowed slightly, but she stayed silent.

  The instructor reached into the cabinet, lifting something wrapped in dark silk. She set it on the desk and slowly pulled back the fabric, revealing golden threads coiled in intricate patterns, glinting even in the dim light.

  Not rope. Not chain. Something in between.

  Amara felt her breath hitch.

  She knew this.

  The Auris Threads.

  Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t reach for them.

  Not yet.

  Instructor Renna studied her reaction with something like detached amusement. “I assume you recognize them.”

  Amara’s throat was dry. “My family’s.”

  “Aurelian craftsmanship,” Renna confirmed, her tone flat. “They were delivered to the Citadel upon your enrollment. The intention was for you to earn them.”

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  Earn them.

  The words sent a sharp, bitter wave through her chest.

  They had sent this with her. They had sent it knowing she was powerless, knowing she would be thrown into the Luminal Fringe. They had sent a weapon made for refinement, not raw strength.

  She clenched her jaw.

  “You could have given this to me before Placement.”

  Instructor Renna gave her a slow, measured look. “And what would you have done with it?”

  Amara’s hands curled into fists.

  She had a point.

  The Auris Threads were not a weapon of power. They were a weapon of precision. Of discipline. They demanded control—something Amara did not have. Not yet.

  The realization left a sour taste in her mouth.

  Her family had always had this. They had always had the means to give her something. But they had let her struggle first. They had let her fail.

  Amara’s fingers tightened around the fabric as she lifted the weapon from the desk. The golden threads gleamed in the lamplight, coiling loosely around her wrist like they already knew her.

  They felt foreign. Unfamiliar.

  Mocking her.

  Instructor Renna leaned back against the desk. “Your blood allows them to respond to you. But response is not mastery. If you want to wield them properly, you will have to prove you are capable.”

  Amara swallowed down the knot in her throat.

  She wouldn’t let them see doubt.

  Wouldn’t let them see how much this moment cut.

  She straightened, meeting Renna’s gaze without flinching. “Then I’ll learn.”

  A flicker of something passed through the instructor’s expression. Not approval, exactly. But recognition.

  “See that you do.”

  The Auris Threads were heavier than they looked.

  Amara pressed them between her fingers, the delicate golden coils deceptively soft against her skin. But beneath the intricate weaving, she could feel something more—something dormant but waiting, pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat.

  She clenched her jaw. They had always had this.

  Her mother. Her brothers. A weapon that had been within reach the entire time, locked away until she had proven herself sufficiently humiliated. Until she had bled for it.

  A sharp exhale left her nose as she exited the faculty office, stepping into the dim corridors of the Citadel. The walls pulsed faintly with rune-light, the ever-present hum of shifting stone beneath her feet reminding her that this place was alive. Watching. Always watching.

  Her muscles ached with every step, and the bruises along her ribs protested as she descended the stairs back toward the Fringe quarters. The Auris Threads coiled loosely around her wrist, neither warm nor cold. Just… there.

  Silent.

  Mocking.

  By the time she reached the quarters, the halls were quieter. Most students had already made their way to the dining hall, and those who remained were preoccupied—patching wounds, licking their bruised egos, or conspiring in hushed circles about who had impressed the right people today.

  She stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and worn fabric filling the small space. The thin mattress of her cot barely gave under her weight as she sat down, exhaling slowly.

  Elira was already sprawled on her own cot, one boot resting against the foot of the bed, the other dangling off the edge. She didn’t look up immediately, just flicked a small flame between her fingers, watching it twist and curl like a living thing.

  “You look like you just had an existential crisis,” she said lazily.

  Amara didn’t answer right away. She pulled the Auris Threads fully into her lap, letting them pool between her hands. The dim lighting caught on the delicate metalwork, casting intricate patterns across her bruised skin.

  Elira’s eyes flicked toward them.

  A beat of silence. Then—

  “Oh. ”

  There was something unreadable in her tone, but Amara was too tired to pick it apart. She ran a thumb over the gold strands, testing the way they flexed and coiled.

  “They were sent with me when I enrolled,” she said flatly.

  Elira hummed, finally sitting up properly. “And they just now decided to give them to you?”

  Amara’s mouth tightened.

  Elira gave a low whistle. “Damn. That’s actually worse than them never sending it at all.”

  Before Amara could respond, the door creaked open.

  Jaren stepped inside, carrying something in his hand. A small, rough-wrapped bundle. He tossed it onto Amara’s cot without preamble.

  “Eat.”

  She frowned, peeling back the cloth. A piece of dense bread, a strip of dried meat, and a handful of nuts. Basic, but practical.

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  Jaren shrugged. “Figured you wouldn’t bother getting food on your own.”

  “I was going to,” she muttered, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

  Elira snorted. “Right. And I have self-control.”

  Jaren leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His gaze flickered to the Auris Threads, a faint crease forming between his brows.

  “So,” he said. “They finally gave you .”

  Amara glanced up sharply. “You know them?”

  He made a small sound of acknowledgment. “I knew your mother wore them. Not exactly something you forget.” His gaze lingered on the delicate gold before shifting back to her. “What do they do?”

  Amara hesitated. “They… react to Aurelian blood.”

  That much had been obvious the moment she touched them. Even now, the threads responded to the faintest shift in her grip, coiling subtly, waiting.

  Jaren didn’t look surprised. “Makes sense. There are weapons like that in Zephyria—usually locked to bloodlines.”

  Elira gave a half-interested shrug. “Fancy. But can they do anything ?”Amara hesitated.

  Could they?

  Her fingers tightened around the strands. She had trained with them before, back in Illyria. But it had been in controlled settings—refined movements, discipline, form.

  Not survival.

  Not combat.

  And if she was being honest with herself… she had never been very good at them.

  They had always demanded

  Control. Precision. Things she had never needed before.

  Jaren’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “They’re not just ornamental.”

  Amara exhaled slowly, rolling the threads between her fingers. “No.”

  Elira arched a brow. “So, what? You going to sit there sulking, or are you going to put them on?”

  Amara shot her a flat look, but didn’t argue. Carefully, she unraveled the strands, stretching them between her fingers. They flexed easily, weightless yet solid, almost like they were shifting to fit her movements.

  She brought them to her wrists, wrapping them tightly, securing the coils in place.

  The moment they settled against her skin, something clicked.

  Not a sound. Not even a sensation. Just—something.

  A connection, faint but present. Like the first breath of air before a flame ignites.

  Jaren watched her carefully. “Feel different?”

  Amara flexed her fingers, testing the way the threads adjusted. The weight was subtle, but there. “Not yet.”

  Elira leaned back on her elbows. “Give it time. Maybe they’re waiting for the dramatic moment when you need them most.”

  Amara huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “Like during Placement?”

  Elira grinned. “Oh, definitely. Would’ve been much funnier that way.”

  Jaren rolled his eyes.

  For a moment, the tension in Amara’s chest loosened. Just a little.

  A sharp chime echoed through the halls—the dinner bell.

  Elira groaned. “Finally. I’m starving.”

  Jaren pushed off the wall, already heading for the door. “Try not to pick a fight before you get food this time.”

  Elira smirked. “No promises.”

  Amara exhaled, flexing her fingers one last time before following them out.

  The Auris Threads were still foreign, still unfamiliar.

  But they were hers now.

  And she was going to learn exactly what that meant.