Weeks measured only by the ache in her muscles and the gradual ease with which she moved through training had passed. Time in the Citadel was relentless—three passing seasons had never felt so brief, so ruthless in its expectations.

  The training yard was unrelenting, a constant churn of movement and breathless exertion beneath the looming stone spires of the Citadel. The air smelled of scorched earth, magic residue clinging thick to the space where countless students had broken and rebuilt themselves.

  Amara adjusted her stance, the Auris Threads coiling lightly around her wrists like sleeping serpents. They were light, deceptively delicate in their intricate loops and twists of gold, but she had learned by now that their beauty was misleading. The moment she activated them, they became something else entirely—something she still couldn’t fully control.

  She flexed her fingers, feeling the cool weight of the threads shift. Across from her, Orin stood waiting, arms crossed, unimpressed as ever. His stance was casual, but she knew better than to mistake that for anything other than well-trained readiness.

  “You’re going to use them this time,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

  Amara exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders. “They don’t always listen.”

  Orin’s expression didn’t change. “Then make them.”

  Easy for him to say. His magic had always obeyed him.

  Elira leaned against a nearby post, arms folded. “I, for one, can’t wait for this. Either she gets them under control or we all get to watch her accidentally strangle herself.”

  Amara shot her a flat look. “Your faith in me is inspiring.”

  Elira smirked. “I know.”

  Orin sighed sharply. “Enough stalling.”

  Amara inhaled, bracing herself, then willed the threads to move.

  At first, nothing.

  Then—

  A flicker of motion. A slight tightening around her wrists.

  Orin moved. Fast.

  Amara barely had time to react before he was closing in, a blur of motion and honed instinct. Her body tried to respond, to block, to evade—but the threads had a mind of their own.

  One of them shot outward—not at Orin, but wildly to the side, wrapping around the training post behind her and yanking taut. The force nearly sent her sprawling backward, her own weapon betraying her in real time.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake—

  She barely twisted in time to avoid Orin’s strike, the threads still caught on the post, effectively tethering her to the spot like a trapped animal.

  Her eyes widened.

  Orin didn’t pause. He pivoted sharply, his next attack aiming for her ribs.

  The Auris Threads finally reacted in a way that didn’t make her look like an idiot.

  A sharp jerk—her wrist snapped free, the threads uncoiling and reeling back toward her like liquid gold. The release of tension sent her stumbling forward—right into Orin’s path.

  Shit. Shit.

  Instinct took over. She didn’t fight against the momentum, didn’t try to stop the forward motion. Instead, she twisted mid-step, ducking under his outstretched arm, narrowly avoiding the full force of the strike.

  A clean escape—almost.

  The second thread lashed outward again, but this time, instead of flailing uselessly, it snapped toward Orin’s ankle. A sharp tug—not enough to trip him, but enough to throw his balance for half a second.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was enough.

  Amara pivoted hard, aiming her own strike, putting her entire weight into it. It was messy, imprecise—

  But it landed.

  Her forearm slammed against Orin’s side. Not enough to hurt, not really, but enough to prove a point.

  Orin’s gaze flicked down to where the Auris Threads had actually done what she wanted for once. He exhaled through his nose, a shadow of something like approval flashing across his face.

  Amara blinked, her breath uneven. “Huh.”

  Myles arched a brow. “That was either very intentional or very, very lucky.”

  She didn’t answer. Mostly because she wasn’t sure which it was.

  Orin rolled his shoulders. “Again.”

  This time, she was ready.

  The training ground was quieter now, the air thick with the scent of sweat and dust. The looming presence of the trials sat on their shoulders like an unspoken weight, but no one was voicing doubts. At least, no one worth listening to.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lorina stood with arms crossed, gaze sharp as she took them in. "We don’t have time for mistakes," she said. "I don’t care how good you are individually. We win as a unit, or we lose as fools."

  Orin rolled his shoulders, unfazed. Myles just stretched, smirking like he had already won. Amara resisted the urge to whack him with his own staff.

  "Speaking of mistakes—" Myles mused, twirling the staff lazily. "Should we be concerned that Aurelian over here still looks like she wants to throw up every time she steps onto the field?"

  Amara shot him a deadpan look. "Only when you’re breathing."

  Lorina exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "Focus. We’re going again. Amara, use the damn Threads."

  Amara hesitated. She had gotten them to respond in controlled bursts, but every time she tried to activate them properly, they either did nothing or did too much. Last time, she had nearly taken out Myles’ legs when she just thought about tripping him. Not that she regretted it.

  Still, she flexed her fingers, feeling the slight shift of the Auris Threads against her wrists. They hummed faintly, waiting.

  The spar began fast. Myles lunged first, staff spinning, forcing her to dodge. Orin followed up, a low sweeping strike that would have taken her out at the knees if she hadn’t jumped back.

  She was handling it—until Myles made a particularly smart-ass comment she didn't even fully catch, something about form and grace, and her patience snapped.

  Her fingers twitched. The Threads reacted.

  Before she could stop it, the golden strands lashed out—directly toward Myles’ staff. The impact sent a sharp crackthrough the air as the staff wrenched from his grip, flying off to the side.

  For a second, silence. Then—

  Myles stared at his empty hands, then at her, then back at the staff. He blinked. "Did you just—"

  "Shit." Amara barely stopped herself from visibly panicking. That had not been intentional.

  Orin and Lorina were both watching her now, unreadable. Myles looked between her and his discarded weapon, brows raised in something that wasn’t quite disbelief. "So. That’s a thing you can do."

  Amara swallowed. "Apparently."

  Lorina tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to the Threads. "Control it. Again."

  "Yeah, sure, let me just figure out how to use my completely unpredictable weapon in real time. Great plan."

  Orin arched a brow. "You wanted to be here, didn’t you?"

  Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face. This is going to be a disaster.

  Myles sighed dramatically and went to retrieve his staff. "Next time, just say you hate me and be done with it."

  "I don’t hate you," Amara muttered, still feeling the weight of everyone’s stares. "I just have… violent instincts."

  "And apparently," Myles grinned, spinning his staff once more, "so do your Threads."

  Lorina wasn’t laughing. "Then it’s time you figure out how to use them properly. Before they get us killed."

  Amara muttered something under her breath, but this time, she didn’t argue. Because as much as she hated to admit it—

  Lorina was right.

  Later that evening the air in the courtyard was crisp, the remnants of the day’s heat lingering in the stone underfoot. Above, the sky stretched in deep purples and blues, the stars flickering like embers scattered across the void.

  Amara leaned against the low wall, watching as Elira took a long swig from the bottle of Emberwine, her nose scrunching slightly at the taste before she passed it to Jaren. He took it with a quiet chuckle, tilting it back without hesitation.

  “You make that face every time,” he mused, passing the bottle to Amara.

  Elira shot him a glare, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Because it tastes like burnt honey and regret.”

  Amara arched a brow but took the bottle anyway, turning it idly in her hands. The glass was warm, the liquid inside sloshing with a slow, honeyed viscosity. It smelled faintly of charred fruit and something spiced.

  Elira nudged her. “Go on, Aurelian. Or do noble girls not drink?”

  Amara rolled her eyes and took a sip. Fire licked down her throat, spreading warmth through her limbs almost instantly. She coughed, biting back a grimace. “It’s strong.”

  Jaren smirked. “That’s the point.”

  They settled into a comfortable quiet, the night thick around them. The courtyard was empty aside from the three of them—most of the Citadel’s students were either deep in study or passed out from exhaustion. The lingering buzz of the city below drifted faintly through the air, mixing with the distant hum of the Citadel’s shifting platforms.

  Elira stretched her legs out in front of her, sighing. “Three passing seasons. Feels shorter than it should.”

  “Feels like a lifetime,” Amara muttered.

  Jaren shot her a sidelong glance. “That’s because you’ve spent most of it getting your ass kicked.”

  She huffed. “And yet, here I am. Alive. Functional. Somewhat.”

  Elira exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Functional is generous.”

  Amara took another sip, slower this time. The heat settled more gently now, easing the knots in her shoulders. For once, there was no training to dread, no Overseers watching, no silent expectations pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t shake. Just this—quiet, warmth, the slow lull of conversation.

  Jaren leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. “You know, I didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

  Amara snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

  Jaren's expression was steady, something closer to genuine. “I’m serious. Thought you’d be gone within a month. Too many expectations, too little real experience. Most people in your position would’ve broken.”

  She glanced down at the Auris Threads wrapped around her wrists. The gold caught the dim light, shifting subtly with her movements. She had broken. Over and over again. But she was still here.

  Elira tilted her head at Jaren. “And now?”

  Jaren hesitated, swirling the bottle absently in his grip before passing it back to Elira. “Now? I think she might actually survive.”

  Elira raised a brow. “High praise.”

  Amara scoffed. “It’s practically poetry.”

  Jaren just shook his head, watching her over the rim of his cup. “Don’t get used to it.”

  Silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The air smelled of rain in the distance, the faintest hint of storm clouds rolling in from the horizon. Somewhere beyond the walls, a nightbeast let out a low, throaty call, answered by another deeper in the woods.

  Elira tapped the bottle against the stone. “If we win the Gauntlet, I want something from the prize vault.”

  Jaren raised a brow. “Something specific?”

  She smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Amara leaned against the wall, rolling the bottle between her fingers. “What if my team wins instead?”

  Elira scoffed. “Then you better hope I’m feeling generous.”

  Jaren smirked. “Please. You’ll be lucky to place.”

  Amara gave him a flat look. “Big words from someone who still owes me for the last wager.”

  Jaren exhaled through his nose, feigning deep thought. “I don’t recall that.”

  Elira nudged him with her boot. “Because you lost.”

  He sighed. “Fine. If you somehow pull off a miracle, I’ll personally retrieve whatever you want from the vault.”

  Amara smiled, slow and measured. “And if I don’t?”

  Jaren’s grin turned sharper. “Then you owe me a favor.”

  Elira groaned. “Oh, gods. Don’t make deals with him, Amara. He collects.”

  Amara tilted her head, considering. Then she extended a hand toward Jaren. “Deal.”

  He clasped her wrist, shaking once, firm and certain. “Deal.”

  Elira exhaled dramatically. “This is going to be absolutely fucking horrid.”

  Amara leant against the stone walls, feeling the last remnants of tension ease from her bones. She still wasn’t sure what the future held, still wasn’t sure what she was truly capable of. But in this moment, with the warmth of Emberwine in her blood and the quiet presence of the two people who had somehow become her allies—maybe even her friends—it didn’t feel as impossible as it once had.