1

I volunteered to die four days ago. Now that the carriage finally stops rolling, I know the end is almost here.

Outside the padded carriage walls, voices shout orders, wagon wheels creak, and boots stomp through mud.

The selector snaps his fingers for my attention. "We've arrived."

"Where are we?"

"You'll see soon enough.” He produces a small badge with the letter "V" from a pocket in his fancy robe. "Pin this to your tunic."

I take it, examining the metal. "What's this for?"

"It marks you as a volunteer."

I hesitantly pin the "V" badge to my tunic, feeling like I've been branded. My fingers tremble slightly as I secure it, the metal cold against my skin. Volunteer. Technically, I suppose it's the truth, even if I felt like I had no choice in the matter. "Why does it matter if I volunteered?"

"Confluence Academy keeps extensive records. It will be noted as you’re processed and then you’ll be free to discard the badge. The 'why' beyond that is none of your concern."

Confluence Academy? The words hit like a punch.

Confluence is the school where primals are trained. It is an even more well-kept secret than facts about the primals themselves. It's usually talked about with the same level of belief as vampires, siphons, and werewolves. Yet the selector just casually implied we're parked outside its doorstep.

"I thought Confluence Academy was just a story."

"It’s quite real, offering." He sighs the words, as if this is a tiresome conversation he's had dozens of times—as if dragging people from their homes to a place they hardly believed existed was ordinary. "Take her," he says, nodding to the guards.

I'm hauled to my feet, my legs stiff and aching from days of travel. My heartbeat quickens, a desperate flutter against my ribs as reality crashes down. A stupid, hopeful part of me wants to believe that if this really is Confluence Academy, I might actually have a chance to live.

An academy. As in, a place where people are trained. It's not a sacrificial pit. There's not a fire dragon waiting to eat me outside the carriage like kids used to whisper about when I was little.

But it still feels wrong. Empire takes one person aged between eighteen and twenty-one from every town and city each year. Nobody ever sees them again. If the offerings collected by selectors were becoming primals, surely some would come back to tell their loved ones. The truth would get out.

The guard shoves open the carriage door, and I'm thrust into a world of pure chaos.

The damp, earthy smell of mud churned by hundreds of horses and boots hits me first. Then the pungent stench of fear and stale sweat. And something else—like the air after lightning strikes, but sharper. More alive.