Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
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.
I join a group of other first-year offerings heading from the showers. The other affinities have some kind of bathing facilities, too, but I've heard the water showers are the envy of every affinity. The annoyed looks we get from other affinities as we emerge with wet hair add credence to the rumors.
We walk in a loose group of white-uniformed offerings through the halls of Confluence. I feel like sheep waiting for slaughter. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on where I'm going and not making eye contact with any passing upper-year students or even the first-year aspirants and legacies.
The corridors are wide and high-ceilinged, crafted from ancient stone that seems to absorb sound in a way that makes our footsteps echo ominously. Arcane symbols are carved into the walls at regular intervals, glowing faintly with stored power.
Most areas of the castle are, at least, well-lit and beautiful.
A beautiful place to die with the sunlight on my face. How wonderful.
The castle is large, but relatively simple to navigate. It's a three-story rectangle with one affinity tower at each corner and a large, central courtyard in the middle. Each section of the rectangle houses a different style of class or training. The northern section is for academics. The eastern section is dedicated to physical training, which is where we spar and exercise. The southern section is for channeling. The western section is the only one we haven't used yet, and my best guess is because it has to do with elemental tethers.
Every inch of this place is full of tapestries and relics that make it feel ancient, as if it has been standing since before time itself. The ghost of centuries of other primals in training feels like a thick presence everywhere I go, as if the screams of the dead and their blood lingers even now, reaching for us.
Military Tactics is the only class where first-year offerings, aspirants, and legacies all mix. It's a large lecture-hall style room and has more than enough space for every single first-year to sit at once.
Legacies sit at the very front of the room in comfortable, cushioned chairs.
Aspirants sit behind the legacies with a better view of the maps and chalkboards at the front of the class.
Offerings form a sea of white behind the smaller, black uniforms. A sea, maybe, but it's a thinning sea.
Only two weeks have passed and the room already feels noticeably less full. How many of us will be left by Confluence Day? How many of us will come back from the elemental plane at all?
I take a seat near the very back with Mireen, and we're joined by a dark-skinned boy with wire-framed glasses, intelligent eyes, and a freshly split lip.
"You okay, Ambrose?" I ask as he sits.
He idly touches his lip, then shrugs. "You should see the other guy."
"Should we?" Mireen asks, leaning past me to smirk at him.
"No, actually. He's completely untouched. I didn't even land a punch." He adjusts his glasses, which sit slightly crooked across his nose. "Just another day of getting my ass handed to me in sparring."