Page 20 of Unbound

I do my best to focus on what I’m being told. Like how our schedule will include regular combat, weight training, and a full barrage of academic and magical training classes.Today, we're being shown a rare mercy and allowed to get settled in our rooms and rest for the remainder of the day.

Hoo fucking ray.

The instructors divide us by affinity, their voices cutting through the haze of exhaustion that's settled over us all. We're led from the training area through winding and confusing passages which are almost all lined with massive oil paintings depicting primals locked in battle—their elemental companions taking the forms of beasts from wolves all the way to fearsome dragons or great land worms large enough to swallow horse carriages.

I notice more than a few of us are limping, bleeding, or already swelling with bruises as we travel. The sounds of pained breathing and occasional whimpers echo off stone walls that I imagine have witnessed centuries of similar processions.

It must be settling in on everyone, just like it’s settling on me. This is real. Hours ago, we may have expected to die. To be sacrificed. Executed. Maybe even something worse. None of us expected to be thrown into a military academy and trained.

The castle itself is magnificent, I have to admit—all polished stone halls lined with lush carpets and tapestries in empire gold, silver, and black. Magical lights illuminate our path, hovering in ornate sconces and pulsing gently with arcane energy colored to match one of the four affinities. We pass countless rooms, some of which are occupied by older students already taking classes. They glance as we pass with expressions ranging from pity to disdain, seeing in us what they once were—or perhaps what they're glad they never had to be.

With interest, I note that I only see the silver trimmed uniforms of aspirants or, far more rarely, the silver and gold of legacies. Where are the upper year offerings?

My question remains unanswered as we move across a central courtyard and head toward a corner where I can see the blue water tower looming high above us, its upper reaches lost in the gathering evening mist. Magical water cascades down its exterior in perpetual, glimmering sheets that catch the last rays of sunlight in dazzling prisms.

With nearly two-hundred water affinities, we’re broken into smaller groups and guided to the tower by older students.

"At least we’re in far fewer pieces than I was expecting," Mireen whispers as we climb the spiral staircase of the water tower, her voice muffled by the constant sound of flowing water. One of her eyes is swollen shut, and her once-neat braid is a tangled mess, as if somebody tried to pull it from her scalp. She's limping slightly, favoring her right leg.

"Common room is on the fourth floor landing," explains the student assigned to walk us here, his tone bored as he recites what is clearly a rehearsed speech. "First-year offerings can use the main common area. Aspirants and legacies get access to the private areas. And don't bother the older students. None of them will want anything to do with you, since most of you will be dead after Confluence Day, anyway."

How encouraging. But there's a matter-of-factness in his delivery that says he's only stating a fact, not trying to scare us or show off.

“Surely not everyone here is an asshole?” a girl with deep brown skin asks.

“Assholes?” the older student replies. “Call it what you want. You’re all at the very bottom of the food chain. Stay alive long enough and you’ll get better treatment. But survive a few years here and you’ll learn it’s not worth getting to know the first-years.”

On that cheerful note, we continue climbing.

The water tower has an odd, magical kind of beauty to it. The stones are a deep, oceanic blue that seems to shift with the play of light across their surface. Water trickles down the inside of the walls in carefully channeled paths, filling the space with a sound like fountains and burbling streams. The flowing water brings a pleasant humid quality to the air and a coolness that feels good on my overheated, sweaty body.

All the water reminds me of home—the good parts of home, at least. Of being on the water. Of the days before…

I jerk my thoughts away from the unwelcome memory, focusing instead on the now. On surviving. On finding a way through this madness, one day at a time.

We're allowed to claim our own rooms from the empty ones along a circular hallway, each with a single window view of the world beyond. Each has two beds, so Mireen and I naturally pair up, taking one of the first open ones we find. It's sparse, with nothing but the beds, a washbasin, and a view pointed toward the academy grounds—though our view is filtered through a flowing stream of water that surrounds the tower, making the scene look like a shifting watercolor painting.

After the day we've had, I'm too tired to care about the accommodations. My body aches everywhere, and I can already feel bruises blooming beneath my skin in the shape of Raith's hands.

"Rest while you can," an older student warns as he passes our room. "Classes and more training begin at first light tomorrow. You likely won't have this much time to recover again, so make use of it."

Mireen collapses onto her bed with a groan that seems to come from her very soul. "I'm going to die here, aren't I?"

I should reassure her. I should find some words of comfort or encouragement to offer. Instead, I find myself staring at my disguised mark and wondering what the hell I am.

"We'll find a way," I say, my voice lacking real conviction even to my own ears.

A few quiet moments pass before she speaks again, thoughts apparently shifted to less morbid topics.

"What happened with that guy? The hot one with the scars?" Mireen asks suddenly, her voice hushed as if afraid he might somehow hear us even here. "I saw him talking to you quite a bit. Did he say why he challenged you?”

I open my mouth to deflect, but my mind is still full of his words. Full of the way it felt to have his hands around my neck. Full of the strange fire that came when I most needed it—and the fear that flashed across his face.

Part of me wants to tell Mireen everything, to share the burden of whatever the hell is happening to me. But another part suspects my secrets could have deadly consequences. Sharing them with Mireen would only put her in danger, and I won't take that risk.

"He didn’t say much," I say finally, staring at the ceiling where water-light dances in rippling patterns. "But I think he's trouble."

Mireen sighs as she adjusts herself in the small bed, wincing as she finds a particularly tender spot. "I saw the way he was… mounting you. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to put his hands on you."

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