"Does that mean you don't care if we kill people?" a small girl asks, her voice fracturing with barely contained terror.

"You're all training for war. If you graduate from this academy, you'll leave as a fully tethered primal ready to become the most lethal weapon in the Empire's army." He says this as though reciting an old litany, words worn smooth with repetition. "Earn the right to be valuable. Prove your worth. Survive. That's your role here, so embrace it, offerings."

Murmurs ripple through our ranks, a wave of disbelief and fear that breaks our carefully maintained formation. He’s not denying the question. Maybe my classmates will realize we’re allowed to kill one another faster than Bastian thought.

"So other students can just... kill us?"

"They really don't care?"

"They just want the strongest to survive."

"Then don't get killed, idiot."

I keep my expression carefully neutral, even as my stomach flips and clenches in on itself.

Cull the weak. Strengthen the herd.

As part of the herd, I can’t say I agree with the strategy at the moment.

Beside me, Mireen looks like she's balancing on the knife-edge of panic, her face drained of color as her hands fall limply to her sides.

"Hey," I say quietly, angling my body to shield her from the instructor's view. "We got this. I think most people are too worried about surviving to start trying to kill each other yet. I'm sure we'll be fine."

Yet.

Even my flimsy attempt at reassurance falls flat. We both hear the unspoken truth hanging in the air between us.

She gives a shaky nod, tongue darting out to wet her chapped lips. "Thanks," she whispers, not looking convinced but offering a smile all the same.

The massive doors at the far end of the arena swing open with a groan that reverberates through the stone floor. Several figures in silver and gold enter—legacies, their presence commanding immediate attention despite their casual strides. Bastian is among them, his golden hair catching the light from the high windows. He scans the sea of offerings until his eyes find me. The subtle nod he gives is so quick I might be imagining it.

"Legacies," our instructor says. "Here to observe. Ignore them."

Easier said than done when I can feel Bastian's gaze following my every move like a physical touch. What does he want from me? What does he see when he looks at me—a curiosity? A responsibility? Something else entirely?

The other legacies stroll about the room, hands clasped behind their backs with military efficiency. They observe us with clear disinterest and disdain. For that much, I can’t say I blame them.

Other than Raith and a handful of standouts, we make a pretty pathetic picture as we resume stumbling through combat stances and practice drills.