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)
Beck lets out a low whistle as he comes back with the others. "What the hells was that about? And how the hells did you get in the pants of a legacy? I tried that the first week and nearly got myself turned into lava. Totally worth it, but still."
"You tried to fuck a fire? And a legacy, at that?" Mireen asks, mouth hanging open in shock at the sheer stupidity of it.
Beck rubs the back of his neck, grinning crookedly. "I only made my willingness apparent. She… didn’t seem to appreciate my interest.”
"Beck is suicidal. Good to know," Ambrose mutters. "Can we please go eat now, before someone else decides to threaten us in the hallway?"
There's no place in Confluence where the social divides are more obvious than the dining hall. The large space is full of long, wooden tables with bench-style seating, the polished oak surfaces reflecting the golden light from dozens of lanterns hanging from iron chains.
The Academy sets out food of all kinds at regular times. Roasted duck, carved chicken, steaming potatoes, delicious sweets, soft bread with salted butter, and just about anything else I could imagine out for the taking. The abundance still makes me dizzy sometimes.
Across all years and social groups, the students always cluster together by affinity. The colored marks on their hands showing clusters of blue, white, green, or red. Legacies sit with legacies, aspirants with aspirants, and offerings with offerings. Affinity, social status, and class year divide us as clearly as the border markings on a map between warring countries.
I glance upward at the upper years, noting how much less rowdy they seem. How much more hardened. Some are only a year older than us, but the way they carry themselves is a testament to what it takes to survive this place. To how much we’ll all change if we make it through our first year alive.
I look around at my slowly growing group of friends and hope beyond hope that we’ll all make it together. I can’t stand the thought of losing any of them, even our new addition of Beck. I guess the last three years were so fucking lonely in Saltcrest that I’m desperate for connections, now. Hungry for friends. For meaning.
Beck slathers honey and butter on a piece of bread and takes a large bite, closing his eyes in momentary bliss. Mireen, Ambrose, and Beck have been making increasingly outlandish guesses about what the water trial will be as we eat. For my part, I'm shoveling down food as quickly as I can because I want to have as much time as possible to look over the unbound book Bastian gave me last night.
That book feels like my best hope of surviving the trial, especially if anything in there talks about how to make better use of my powers. My marked palm burns slightly beneath its disguise, a constant reminder of how I don't truly belong with any affinity group here. I'm something else. Something different.
And if last night's brief reading of the book is any indication, I'm something dangerous.
It would be the ultimate irony if I sacrificed myself to the selector because I thought Saltcrest and my family would be better off without me, only to wind up unlocking an even more poisonous and dangerous potential by coming here.
The thoughts are sour, and I set down what's left of my food, appetite suddenly vanishing.
But I can't feel sorry for myself. There's no room for that here. I'm too far behind, and I desperately need to learn to improve my channeling skills before the water trial and Confluence Day.
The other students are already beginning to specialize—finding unique magical talents beyond the simple things we practice like creating water orbs. Some can already make intricate shapes or move their magic through the air with speed and velocity.
And me?
I'm not making any progress, and the gap between me and the others is growing by the day. It's only a matter of time before someone notices just how different I am.
"What do you think, Nessa?"
I jerk my eyes up, realizing I'd been staring at my disguised mark as the others talked, my thumb unconsciously rubbing over the altered skin. "Hm?" I say.
Mireen frowns, her red brows drawing together. "About the water trial. What do you think it's going to be?"
"Oh. I don't know. Maybe they'll see which of us can swim fastest." I try to keep my voice light, as though I haven't been calculating my odds of survival and finding them dismally low.
"Yeah, I wish," Beck says, wiping honey from his chin with the back of his hand. "I swim like a fish."
“And fuck like a bear, from what I hear,” Mireen adds with a wiggle of her brows.
They all laugh as the conversation drifts to who is sleeping with who—a regular topic here at Confluence. From what I can gather, most of the first-years here are sleeping around like every day could be their last day on this Earth. Even the occasional story of someone getting killed when they agreed to meet somewhere private for sex hasn't seemed to slow the practice.