The dream came fast.
Too fast.
Darkness swallowed her whole before she could fight it, dragging her down into the suffocating black.
Then—
Footsteps.
Screeching.
Screams.
Amara ran.
The ground beneath her wasn’t solid, shifting like wet sand, pulling at her ankles. The air was thick—too thick—clogging her throat, filling her lungs with something humid and sour. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop.
Somewhere ahead, a voice—shouting.
Myles? Lorina?
Another scream.
Then a sharp, wet crack.
Her stomach lurched. No—no, she had to move faster—
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She whipped around—nothing. Just darkness. Just the sound.
A low, rattling exhale.
Too deep. Too wrong.
Something was behind her.
The air turned ice-cold. A presence loomed over her, a hulking shadow that wasn’t human, wasn’t anything that should exist. Limbs too long. A face that wasn’t a face.
It opened its mouth.
Not a roar. Not a scream.
Laughter.
Then teeth.
The knock came sharp and impatient.
Amara flinched, heart still racing in her chest. Her lungs ached, still convinced she was suffocating in the swamp.
“Elira’s looking for you.”
The voice was male, but not familiar enough to place instantly. A student.
Another knock. “You alive in there?”
She forced herself upright, swallowing the bile that burned at the back of her throat. The world tilted slightly, the ache in her limbs settling in full force now that she was awake.
Her quarters were small but private, tucked in one of the many dormitory wings of the Citadel. Sunlight hadn’t fully risen yet, casting only the faintest glow across the stone walls. The air was cold, untouched by the heat of the day to come.
Her fingers dug into the blanket beneath her. The nightmare still clung to her skin, too real.
Another knock. “Hurry up.”
Jaren.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. Of course it was him.
“Give me a damn minute,” she muttered.
Silence. Then a short, amused exhale. “One minute. Then I’m dragging you out.”
Amara ran a hand down her face, then slowly untangled herself from the sheets. Her body protested immediately, the dull throb of bruises and exhaustion settling deep in her bones.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the trial ended.
Twelve hours? Sixteen?
Not enough.
But she could still hear the screeching in her head. Could still feel the blood under her nails.
The trial was over.
So why did it still feel like she hadn’t survived it?
Jaren was leaning against the doorframe when she finally yanked it open.
His gaze swept over her immediately, eyes flicking over the bruises, the exhaustion, the fact that she still looked like she hadn’t actually slept.
She scowled. “What?”
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just surprised you’re still standing.”
She ignored that. “Where’s Elira?”
“Courtyard.” Jaren pushed off the doorframe, already turning. “She’s been looking for you since sunrise. Figured you’d be holed up in here trying to disappear.”
Amara gritted her teeth but followed.
The halls were quiet—too quiet.
Usually, the Citadel was never silent. There were always students training, strategizing, living. But now, every step felt like it echoed.
The Trial had thinned their numbers.
Amara knew what that meant.
She just wasn’t ready to see it.
The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Magic. Blood. Smoke. Lingering remnants of the dead.
Even though the sun had barely risen, a handful of students were already moving through the courtyard—some limping, some bandaged, some whispering.
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And then—
The rows of stacked bodies.
Her steps faltered.
Jaren noticed. He didn’t say anything.
But Amara’s gaze was already locked on the bodies covered in dark cloth.
Lined up. Neat. Orderly.
Like the Trial had been nothing more than a lesson.
Like the people who died were just mistakes to be cleaned up.
Elira was waiting for her near the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed. The moment she saw Amara, her eyes narrowed.
“Took you long enough.”
Amara barely heard her.
Her fingers curled into fists.
She should have known. She should have fucking known.
The Citadel didn’t care.
How many of them died?
How many of them were sent into that swamp with no warning, no real chance?
And for what? To prove themselves?
To prove what? That they were just strong enough to survive the slaughter nobles had designed for them?
Jaren shifted slightly beside her, his jaw tight. “You should eat something.”
Amara let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Eat?
Her gaze flicked back to the dead.
To the students who weren’t standing here right now.
Her stomach turned.
Jaren saw it. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Figured.”
Elira hadn’t looked away from her. “You’re pissed.”
Pissed?
No.
She was furious.
The Truth in Pieces
Amara clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms. She needed to walk away. To move, to breathe, to do something other than stand here and watch the neat, silent display of the dead.
But she didn’t move.
Elira studied her, sharp-eyed. “Say it.”
Amara’s jaw tightened.
“What?”
Elira tilted her head, arms still crossed. “Say what you’re thinking.”
You already know.
Amara swallowed the words, forcing herself to look away from the covered bodies. The Citadel was already disposing of its losses. Some students were whispering in the distance, glancing toward the dead but never stopping for long. No one cried. No one looked surprised.
Jaren shifted beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t the worst Trial the Citadel’s had.”
Amara’s head snapped toward him. That was supposed to be comforting?
Jaren met her glare with an unreadable expression. “It’s a fact.”
“A fact,” she repeated, voice flat. “Not the worst?” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “How many more does it take before it is?”
Jaren didn’t answer.
Because there wasn’t a right answer.
Because this was normal.
Her stomach turned. Had it always been like this? She had heard stories of Trial deaths, but they were spoken of like unfortunate accidents, not… this. Not deliberate sacrifice.
Elira exhaled. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Amara’s brow furrowed. “Know what?”
Jaren made a low sound, something between a sigh and a scoff. “This was always meant to happen.”
Silence.
Elira watched her closely, like she was waiting for Amara to put the pieces together.
Amara’s lips parted, but no words came.
No. That wasn’t—they weren’t meant to die. The Trials were brutal, but they weren’t—
“Commoners,” Jaren said bluntly.
Amara stilled.
Jaren motioned toward the dead. “Most of them? Commoners.”
Her breath caught.
Elira continued, voice quieter. “The Citadel was never made for them.”
The weight of the words settled in her chest, sharp and suffocating.
She knew there was tension between nobles and commoners. Everyone did. But… this?
She turned sharply. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would they let commoners in just to—”
“To cull them?” Jaren’s smirk was sharp and humorless. “Ask the nobles.”
Elira folded her arms, gaze flicking toward the upper walkways of the Citadel where high-ranking nobles often watched from above.
“Magic used to belong to nobles,” she said simply. “Or at least, that’s what the noble houses believed.”
Amara knew that much. Generations ago, magic was nearly exclusive to noble bloodlines. A divine right, a mark of superiority. But over time, commoners had begun awakening to it.
And the noble houses? They hadn’t liked that.
Elira’s voice was cold. “They tolerated it at first. Until more commoners started arriving. Until they realized they weren’t special anymore.”
Amara felt sick.
She was one of them. A noble. A high noble.
Was this what she had been raised into?
Jaren motioned toward the courtyard. “So they made the Trials harder. Deadlier. Commoners had to prove they were worthy to be here.”
Amara shook her head. No. That—
She turned back toward the bodies.
And stopped.
Because now that she was really looking—
Jaren was right.
Most of them weren’t nobles.
Most of them hadn’t stood a chance.
Her stomach twisted.
Elira gave her a long look. “You get it now?”
Oh, she got it.
She got it, and she wanted to burn this place to the ground.
The weight of it pressed against her ribs. This wasn’t just some brutal test. It was calculated. A system.
Nobles thrived. Commoners fought to exist.
Amara had bled just as much as the others. She had almost died, too.
But she was still here.
And how much of that was because of what she was born into?
A new kind of nausea curled inside her.
Elira was watching her too closely. “What?”
Amara exhaled sharply. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Elira arched a brow. “You’d rather be in a pile with them?”
Jaren muttered something under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Gods, can we not do the self-loathing thing right now?”
Amara’s fingers twitched at her sides.
“Orin almost died,” she said, voice low. “Myles was—” She exhaled sharply. “We weren’t better than them. We just got lucky.”
Elira’s eyes narrowed. “You really think that’s it?”
Amara’s jaw tightened.
“What else would it be?”
Elira stepped closer. “You’re a high noble, Amara. You’re an Aurelian. You think luck is what got you through that?”
Amara went still.
Jaren looked away.
A beat of silence.
Elira tilted her head. “You think that thing in the marsh would have been there if you weren’t in the Trial?”
Amara’s breath caught.
No.
No, that was just paranoia.
Just—
Elira stepped back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Amara’s nails dug into her palms.
Her name had always been a weight. A shield and a chain.
She had spent her whole life trying to survive under it. Now, she was realizing how many people had died because of it.
She thought about the nobles who watched from above.
She thought about the bodies stacked in neat, even rows.
The Trial had never been about testing students.
It was about deciding who deserved to stay.
And she had been on the right side of that decision her entire life.
Her hands shook.
Elira sighed. “Go punch a wall or something. You look like you’re about to explode.”
Jaren hummed. “Or drink. Drinking’s good.”
Amara turned away.
She needed distance.
She needed air.
But most of all—
She needed to never forget this feeling.