I give that a moment's thought, because the idea of seasons continuing to change and the world going on, even while I'm trapped in these murderous walls is strange and alien. It was the peak of summer when I volunteered for selection. I was sweating that day, the sun beating on my exposed neck as I stood in the town square, wondering if I would actually do it this year.

And now I’m here. The leaves will fall soon, and life outside these walls carries on, oblivious to our struggles here. On the outside, passing weeks meant shifting where we looked for fish and what we could catch. It meant summer festivals, fall ceremonies, the harbor games that came every spring. Here, though?

Each new day only means I’ve survived a little while longer. Each new day brings the threat of approaching danger, like Confluence Day, which keeps creeping toward us like a prowling beast.

I pull my arms tighter around myself, suppressing a sudden shiver that has nothing to do with the bite in the air, the reality of it all sinking into my bones.

From here, I can see all four elemental towers glowing in the darkness. They’re all as beautiful as they are strange. With enough power, primals can apparently imbue objects with magic, which is how they were constructed centuries ago.

I'm halfway along the raised castle wall, hand trailing idly on the waist-high wall that's the only thing standing between myself and a hundred-foot drop, when I notice I'm not alone.

Raith stands at the edge, his scarred profile outlined against the night sky. He doesn't turn at my approach, though I know he hears me. His hands rest on the stone, shoulders rigid with tension, muscles coiled tight beneath his thin shirt.

For a moment, I consider retreating. Whatever brought him here in the middle of the night is his business, not mine. But something stops me—maybe the way his knuckles have gone white where they grip the wall, or the haunted set of his jaw.

I see something of how I feel in his posture. Sense some connection.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, my voice barely carrying over the soft night breeze.

He doesn't answer immediately. With Raith, the silence seems to be a kind of language in its own right. It carries weight and meaning.

His profile is sharp in the moonlight, the scarred side of his face catching the light in a way that makes my chest ache.

"No," he finally says, the single word rough around the edges.

I move to stand beside him, not too close, leaving space between us. We both stare out at the academy grounds, the green field where we were all unloaded from Empire carriages as offerings. It was only five weeks ago, but it already feels like I was another person then—naive, terrified, unaware of the power building beneath my skin. Unaware of what terrible potential might lurk within me.