"Malakai has killed the last two people he sparred with,” the guy continues. “And today, one of his buddies did the same. They're obviously trying to thin us out. We need to watch each other's backs."

My stomach turns. I'd witnessed one of those "accidents" myself yesterday—a sparring match that ended with a first-year water offering on the ground, gurgling as blood filled his lungs. The instructors had simply shaken their heads and called for someone to remove the body, as if they were asking for someone to clean up a spilled drink.

I turn to Mireen and see the tight set of her jaw. She's listening now, too, her eyes sharp despite the languid posture she maintains.

"Am I crazy, or is that not a terrible idea?" I whisper, keeping my voice low enough that it won't carry across the water. "Forming teams, I mean."

"I don't know," she admits, her voice equally quiet. A droplet of water slides down her temple. "But I don't like where an idea like that leads."

"I know. Forming teams sounds a lot like declaring war."

Mireen chews her lip. "We can at least watch each other's backs, even if we don't want to get involved, right?"

"Right." The part I don't say is how it won't matter if the rest of us decide to treat this like a war. All that matters is if one group of people does. If this Malakai guy is forging alliances, then he already declared war. The only question for us is whether we want to become participants or victims.

Her fingers tighten around mine beneath the water, and I feel the familiar, terrifying pull starting deep in my core. I jerk my hand away like I've been burned, splashing water between us. Mireen gives me a confused look, but I make a show of wincing. "Sorry. I think I may have tweaked something in my hand sparring yesterday. Still tender."

The last thing I need is to draw power from the one person who might actually have my back in this place. I'm still waiting for Bastian to bring that book and maybe reveal some answers about what the hell being unbound means.

After our shower, I change into a fresh offering uniform. We were all given matching white uniforms that make us stand out like sore thumbs. The older students all wear black with gold bars on their shoulders—one for each year they've survived in the academy.

I check the back of my left hand discreetly as I button my sleeve, making sure the disguise is holding. The silver threads beneath the false blue wave pattern shift slightly, as if responding to my attention. Thankfully, nobody ever looks too closely at the mark, or they would probably suspect something was wrong with it.

Our academic classes rotate throughout the week, and today is Military Tactics.