They reached the outpost, ducking into the cover of the half-collapsed structure. Crumbled stone and shattered wooden beams made it barely more than a skeleton of a fortress, but it would give them a chance to breathe.


    Amara set Orin down against the wall, pressing her fingers against his throat, counting each sluggish beat of his pulse. Alive. Barely. She exhaled sharply, her hands shaking.


    Myles slumped next to him, letting out a slow, ragged exhale. “So,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “good trial so far, huh?”


    Lorina ignored him. Her gaze flicked back to the ruins, watching for movement. Watching for the monster.


    But the marsh had fallen silent.


    It had already claimed enough bodies. For now.


    Amara pressed her forehead against her knee, trying to steady herself, trying to think. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the Auris Threads coiling lightly against her wrists. Not glowing. Not active.


    Useless.


    She grit her teeth.


    She had tried. Had reached for them. Had given them everything she had left. And what had they done? The bare minimum. They responded when they wanted to. Not when she needed them. Not when she was one second away from being torn apart.


    Her hands clenched into fists.


    She needed them to work. She needed something to work.


    Myles let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back against the wall. “Not that I don’t love sitting around bleeding to death, but what’s the plan?”


    Orin shifted slightly, groaning as he stirred.


    Amara watched as his eyes fluttered open, his body tensing the moment he registered where he was. He inhaled sharply, wincing as his ribs protested. “What—” His gaze flicked around. “Where’s—”


    “Gone,” Lorina said flatly. “We’re not its priority anymore.”


    Orin’s jaw tensed. He tried to push himself upright, but the moment he moved, a sharp, crackling pain raced through him, sending him collapsing back against the wall with a sharp grunt.


    “Don’t be stupid,” Amara snapped before she could stop herself. “You’re barely conscious. Moving like that isn’t going to do you any favors.”


    Orin exhaled through his nose but didn’t argue. He knew she was right. But knowing didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t over.


    Not even close.


    Lorina crouched near the opening, scanning the trees. “We don’t have time to sit here. The trial doesn’t pause just because we almost died.”


    Almost.


    The word sat heavy in Amara’s chest.


    She swallowed it down. “Where’s the checkpoint?”


    Orin inhaled carefully. “Northwest. About six clicks.”


    Six kilometers. Through this.


    Her fingers twitched again. She exhaled sharply.


    Myles groaned. “Great. A casual stroll through a swamp filled with murder and death. Sounds relaxing.”


    Lorina shot him a look. “If you can complain, you can move.”


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    Myles gave her a lazy grin. “I can do both.”


    Orin pushed himself upright again, this time slower. He exhaled, testing his ribs before nodding. “We move.”


    Amara hesitated. “You sure?”


    Orin turned his sharp gaze on her. “Would you rather stay here?”


    A flicker of something dark passed through her expression.


    No.


    They couldn’t stay.


    Even if her body was begging for rest. Even if she could still feel the blood drying on her skin. Even if her Threads wouldn’t work—


    No.


    She exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go.”


    The trek through the swamp was a silent, aching hell.


    Every step was sluggish, the marsh pulling at their boots like it wanted them buried. The mist curled around them, thick and humid, whispering through the trees.


    No one spoke.


    Orin’s breathing was slow and careful, pain evident in the tight line of his jaw. Myles still cradled his arm, but his usual complaints had faded into exhausted silence. Lorina walked ahead, her gaze constantly scanning the darkness.


    Amara just focused on moving forward.


    One foot in front of the other.


    One breath at a time.


    They were close.


    She could feel it.


    Then—


    A low chime rang through the air.


    The trial was over.


    Relief flooded through her, a sharp, almost painful thing. She could breathe. They had made it.


    Then she saw the checkpoint.


    And her breath caught in her throat.


    Bodies.


    Blood.


    The checkpoint wasn’t salvation.


    It was a massacre.


    Some slumped against the walls, their hands curled into fists even in death. Others collapsed mid-step, as if they had been running.


    And the blood—


    So much blood.


    Amara’s stomach twisted.


    They had expected losses. The trials weren’t designed for mercy.


    But this wasn’t just casualties.


    This was a slaughter.


    She recognized some of them. Not friends. Not enemies. Just… people. Students who had been forced into this just like they had.


    She scanned the field, searching for the instructors. The medics. Anyone.


    Then—


    Movement.


    Not students.


    Not instructors.


    Soldiers.


    They emerged from the mist—rows of them, clad in dark armor, their insignias gleaming in the low light. Not combat trainers. Not overseers.


    Citadel military.


    Amara’s pulse kicked up.


    Something was wrong.


    The lead officer—a man with short-cropped silver hair and a jagged scar down his cheek—scanned the clearing with a practiced eye. Unbothered. Unmoved.


    As if this was normal.


    As if the corpses didn’t matter.


    He nodded to one of his subordinates. “Clear the field.”


    Clear the field.


    Not help them.


    Not aid the wounded.


    Just remove the bodies.


    Amara’s breath came too fast, too sharp.


    Her fingers twitched against her Auris Threads.


    She turned to one of the soldiers, her voice like flint. “Where were you?”


    The soldier glanced at her. His expression was impassive. “Orders were to intervene only when necessary.”


    Amara’s jaw clenched. “You call this necessary?” She gestured—to the blood, to the bodies, to the students who would never leave this place.


    The soldier didn’t flinch. “This is the nature of the trials.”


    Amara stared at the silent, impassive soldiers.


    They didn’t care.


    None of them cared.


    A slow, simmering rage coiled in her chest.


    She had survived.


    Not because the Citadel protected its students.


    Not because of some fair, noble test.


    But because she was strong enough—and lucky enough—to survive the slaughter.


    If she had been weaker—


    If she had been one of them—


    She wouldn’t be standing here.


    She’d be just another corpse in the dirt.


    She clenched her jaw.


    Her breath came sharp and even.


    But inside—


    Inside, she was boiling.