I keep to the edges of the room, shoulder brushing against the cold stone wall. A few heads turn as I pass, eyes lingering on my pocket where my hand remains hidden. Do they know? Can they sense the wrongness of my mark? My skin crawls under their scrutiny, each glance feeling like an accusation.

It's clear how quickly the survivors are sorting themselves by affinity. My hidden hand is drawing more and more attention by the second.

"—supposed to report to the combat arena next," a tall boy says nearby, his voice pitched high with barely contained panic.

"Combat? Today?" A stocky girl with cropped hair shakes her head, fingers unconsciously tracing the blue wave on her palm. "We just survived that nightmare, and now they want us fighting?"

"That's the point," replies another boy with an edge of false bravado. "They want to see who's worth training. If we want to be primals, we need to learn to be tough, right?" The words sound hollow, a lifeline he's clinging to.

I edge toward the corridor that leads deeper into the building, where a guard directs survivors, checking their marks before sending them along with instructions.

My throat goes tight, skin breaking out in a light sweat. There's no way out of this damn area without passing that guard. Without showing my mark—my impossible, unexplainable mark that had the elementals acting as if I was some sort of monster. The fire elemental even tried to kill me for it. So what the hells would the guards here do if they saw it?

Fingers close around my shoulder, making me jerk my head around.

I turn to see three students.

The first is a lean boy with platinum blonde hair and hard eyes. His green mountain mark—earth affinity—glows on the back of his hand.

Beside him stands a girl who is shockingly pretty and has a deadly edge to the way she holds herself. The sides of her black hair are clipped short and the top is braided down her back. The red fire mark blazes on her palm, seeming to draw light into itself rather than emit it.

The third towers behind them, broad-shouldered and scarred. I recognize him immediately—the volunteer from before the trial.

Raith.

His eyes are that impossible blend of yellows and oranges that seems to shift even as I stare up into them. He radiates intensity like a furnace radiates heat, commanding all of my attention despite the danger obvious in the other two.

My gaze drifts to his left hand where the red fire mark spreads across his scarred skin in unusual patterns, red tendrils snaking through the damaged tissue like molten metal.

"Yes?" I ask, driving my marked hand deeper into my pocket until my fingernails bite into my palm.