"Mireen!" I whisper-yell, relief flooding my voice. “You survived the trial!”

"Focus!" the instructor snaps, his eyes finding me instantly in the crowd.

I straighten my spine and fix my gaze ahead, but the moment his attention shifts elsewhere, I’m smiling. Mireen lived. In this place of calculated cruelty, her presence feels like the first truly good thing since leaving Saltcrest.

The arena pulses with nervous energy as four distinct groups form around their respective instructors. The airs dominate with their superior numbers—nearly two hundred of them by my rough count. Waters are the second largest group with only a dozen or so fewer students than the airs. The earth affinities barely make thirty, and fires count only twenty-five among their ranks.

No black uniforms move among us. We all still wear the clothes of our homelands. It’s a rowdy mixture of color, dirt, and styles.

I wonder what the aspirants and legacies are doing right now. From the way they were already given uniforms and allowed to bypass the trial, I imagine they’re being fed grapes by beautiful men and women.

Lucky assholes.

My eyes drift inevitably to where Raith stands among the fires—tall, scarred, unmistakable. While nearly everyone in the room fumbles through basic forms, he moves with deadly precision, each strike and block executed with frightening efficiency. He looks like he was born to fight and bred to kill.

I'm not the only one watching Raith, I realize.

Every fire studies him with a mixture of respect and wariness, while girls from all affinities steal the occasional glance. His scars should make him grotesque, but instead, they only enhance the raw magnetism that emanates from him like heat from a forge. When his golden eyes catch the light, something deep and primal in my brain registers him as a predator—the most dangerous creature in a room full of prey.

I force my attention away, cheeks warming at my own foolish interest in the man.

Focus, Nessa.

"Waters, attention!" Our instructor—a lean man in his early thirties paces before us, intensity radiating from every inch of his body. His lilting accent hints of the Roselands in the deep south, soft syllables at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "Assessment begins in five minutes. I strongly doubt any of you are capable yet, but no channeling your affinity. You need to be trained before you can use magic without accidentally killing someone."

"What if we do kill someone by accident?" a boy calls out, his voice cracking midway through the question.

The instructor's eyes harden to chips of ice. "Then you should hope their friends don't seek retribution."

"That's it?" The words escape me before I can catch them, surprise overriding caution.

His gaze turns to me, measuring and dismissive in equal parts. I expect some kind of denial, even if I’ll know it’s false. His only response is to give the slightest nod.