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)
I keep to the edges of the room, shoulder brushing against the cold stone wall. A few heads turn as I pass, eyes lingering on my pocket where my hand remains hidden. Do they know? Can they sense the wrongness of my mark? My skin crawls under their scrutiny, each glance feeling like an accusation.
It's clear how quickly the survivors are sorting themselves by affinity. My hidden hand is drawing more and more attention by the second.
"—supposed to report to the combat arena next," a tall boy says nearby, his voice pitched high with barely contained panic.
"Combat? Today?" A stocky girl with cropped hair shakes her head, fingers unconsciously tracing the blue wave on her palm. "We just survived that nightmare, and now they want us fighting?"
"That's the point," replies another boy with an edge of false bravado. "They want to see who's worth training. If we want to be primals, we need to learn to be tough, right?" The words sound hollow, a lifeline he's clinging to.
I edge toward the corridor that leads deeper into the building, where a guard directs survivors, checking their marks before sending them along with instructions.
My throat goes tight, skin breaking out in a light sweat. There's no way out of this damn area without passing that guard. Without showing my mark—my impossible, unexplainable mark that had the elementals acting as if I was some sort of monster. The fire elemental even tried to kill me for it. So what the hells would the guards here do if they saw it?
Fingers close around my shoulder, making me jerk my head around.
I turn to see three students.
The first is a lean boy with platinum blonde hair and hard eyes. His green mountain mark—earth affinity—glows on the back of his hand.
Beside him stands a girl who is shockingly pretty and has a deadly edge to the way she holds herself. The sides of her black hair are clipped short and the top is braided down her back. The red fire mark blazes on her palm, seeming to draw light into itself rather than emit it.
The third towers behind them, broad-shouldered and scarred. I recognize him immediately—the volunteer from before the trial.
Raith.
His eyes are that impossible blend of yellows and oranges that seems to shift even as I stare up into them. He radiates intensity like a furnace radiates heat, commanding all of my attention despite the danger obvious in the other two.
My gaze drifts to his left hand where the red fire mark spreads across his scarred skin in unusual patterns, red tendrils snaking through the damaged tissue like molten metal.
"Yes?" I ask, driving my marked hand deeper into my pocket until my fingernails bite into my palm.
"Your mark," the girl says. Even her voice is beautiful—sultry and soft—but she carries herself like someone who is anything but. There's something calculating in the way she watches me that I don't like in the slightest.
"What about it?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Show us your mark," the earth affinity demands, nodding toward my concealed hand.
"She looks like a water," the girl says, eyes narrowing. "Or maybe it's just that she smells like a fish." She crinkles her upturned nose, lips curling in a grimace.
The comment hits like a slap. I think of my family, of the sea that gave us sustenance before swallowing them whole. Of salt-crusted hands and the smell of home that I'll never know again. "Fuck you," I spit back. It's not clever, but patience and wit feel like far away memories at the moment.
I brace for her to hit me, but the cold fire in her eyes is somehow worse. It smolders there, deeper than simple anger. It's the quiet stare of someone who's killed before and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. It's the look of somebody who doesn't forget a sleight—someone who won't stop until they've collected their due in blood.
She steps closer until I can feel her breath hot against my face and can count each perfectly curled eyelash. "Show me. Your mark," she says through her straight white teeth, the words barely above a whisper. “If you’re loyal to Empire, then you should have nothing to fear. Unless you’re not?” her head tilts, the question lingering like a blade at my throat. “Are you a traitor?”
I force myself not to flinch. Every instinct screams to back down, to submit, but I've seen enough of this place to know that weakness is a death sentence. My eyes shift to the scarred volunteer. He stares back, his expression unreadable.
"Show her," he says, voice low and rough.
"Is she your leader?" I ask with a half-smile that feels more like a grimace. "I didn't take you for the follower type."
A muscle in his jaw tightens. Raith steps forward, one large muscled arm pushing the girl aside as if she weighs nothing. He towers over me, radiating heat like a furnace. "Mark," he repeats. "Show it."