I was late.
Of course, I was late. The entire fortress was a monument to my own stupidity, a black-stone maze designed to make me fail.
After Caelen, I was already refusing to think his name, he was just him, the prick in the perfect uniform, had walked away, I'd been left vibrating with a rage so hot I was surprised the marble under my feet wasn't scorching. The feeling of him, of our magic colliding, had left a sick, crawling residue on my skin. I'd wasted precious seconds scrubbing my hands on my rough tunic, trying to wipe the push-pull of him away.
I found the Crucible by following the sound. A low, grinding groan of machinery.
I burst through a set of iron-barred gates and skidded to a halt on a floor of packed, black sand.
The "Crucible" was a massive, circular pit, open to the gray sky. It was a bowl of stone, a hundred feet deep, and the walls were lined with... things. Gears. Scaffolding. Sconces for fire. It was an arena built for one purpose: to inflict pain in creative ways.
The other rooks, maybe forty of us left were already here, standing in a terrified, silent line on the sand.
At the front stood Professor Varrick. He was tapping a heavy, metal-shod boot on the stone. He looked up when I entered, his scarred eye fixing on me. I didn't get a "you're late" roar. I just got a look. A cold, measuring, disappointed look, which was so much worse.
He was... smiling. A tiny, horrifying upward tick of his scarred lip.
"Rostova," he growled, his voice echoing in the cold. "How kind of you to join us. You're just in time for the introduction."
He turned his back to me, facing the line. "Welcome to Trial One. We call this... The Gauntlet."
He gestured to a dark, square tunnel on the far side of the arena.
"Your first trial is not about combat," he said, his voice full of a dark, almost happy, rumble. "It is not about magic. It is about will. It is an obstacle course. You will go in one side, and... if you are smart, fast, or just plain lucky... you will come out the other."
I squinted. High above, on a stone balcony, I saw observers. Students. Elites. I saw Seraphina's golden hair, a bright spot of color. And I saw him, standing there with his arms crossed, a perfect statue of arrogance, looking down on us all.
My stomach clenched. I wasn't just in a trial. I was in a show.
"The Gauntlet is simple," Varrick continued. "It is a series of traps. Some are physical. Some... are not. Some are new. Some are very, very old. Your goal is to get to the other side. You will be graded on if you finish, not how. Your secondary goal is to... survive. This is a pass or a fail. You pass, or you are... removed. Begin."
There was no "ready." No "set."
A loud, grinding KLANG sounded, and the iron-barred gate I'd just entered slammed shut. At the same time, the dark tunnel Varrick had pointed to lit up with a sickly, green light.
For a second, everyone just stared.
Then, one boy, a low-elite with a clean uniform, shouted, "For the honor of my", and charged into the tunnel.
The stampede started.
I hung back, my heart hammering. This is stupid. This is a meat-grinder. But I had no choice. I let the main crush of rooks go first, a wave of shouting, terrified bodies, and then I slipped in behind them, a shadow in their wake.
The tunnel was dark, and the floor was uneven. This... this was my world.
This was the rusted-out, collapsing ironworks of The Dregs. This was a Tuesday.
The first trap was a pit. I didn't see it; I heard it. The boy in front of me, the one who'd been shouting, just... vanished. His scream was cut off.
The rooks behind him piled up, shoving and screaming. "A pit! A pit!"
I didn't stop. I ran at them, using the wall as a springboard. I put my boot on the shoulder of a screaming boy, vaulted over the gap, a good ten feet, and landed in a running roll on the other side. I didn't look back.
The next section was a low-ceilinged passage. Darts. I saw the tiny, perfectly round holes in the wall, a glint of metal. I saw the pressure plates on the floor, sections of stone that were just a little too clean.
I didn't run. I flowed. I moved like a Dregs-rat, my body low, my feet landing only on the joins of the stone, my hands bracing on the ceiling. I was fast, I was quiet, and I was in my element. I heard thwip-thwip-thwip behind me, and a few wet, gurgling cries, but I didn't turn.
Elara. Elara. Elara. My feet hit the stone in time with her name.
I was pulling ahead. I'd passed at least a dozen rooks. Some were just sitting on the ground, crying. Some were... not moving at all.
This wasn't a school. This was a culling.
I turned a corner, my breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. The physical traps were done. The corridor changed.
The rough-hewn stone gave way to smooth, white marble. It was just like the hall where I'd met him. And the walls... the walls were glowing. Faint, blue, Aether-runes were carved into them, pulsing with a low, humming light.
A magic trap.
I stopped. My blood went cold.
I couldn't fight this. I couldn't outsmart it. I couldn't kick it in the side and run.
I was in a long, narrow hallway. It was a dead end, a solid slab of white marble blocking the path.
I turned to go back. Click.
A grate of iron bars slammed down from the ceiling, blocking the way I'd come.
I was sealed in.
"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. I ran to the bars, pulling on them. They were solid. "No! Let me out!"
And then I heard it. A sound that was not a sound. A deep, vibrating groan.
I looked at the walls.
They were moving.
The two, long, marble walls were... compressing. Sliding together, slow, steady, and unstoppable.
My heart just... stopped.
This was it. This was how I died. Not in a fight. Not with a knife in my hand. But crushed like a bug, in a clean, white, elite-fucking-box.
"HELP!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "HELP ME!"
The only answer was the groan of stone. The walls were five feet apart. Then four.
I shoved my shoulder against the wall. It was like pushing the mountain itself. The Aether-magic in it humred against my skin, making me feel that same, sick, invasive feeling.
I ran to the "door," the dead end. It was a solid slab. No handle. No lock. No seam.
The walls were three feet apart. I had to turn sideways.
My panic was a living thing, a screaming animal in my chest. Elara. Elara, I'm sorry. I'm sorry...
No.
The thought was a blade of ice in the panic. No. I am not dying here.
My rage at Caelen. My rage at Seraphina. My rage at the Archon, who was probably watching me die for entertainment. It all coalesced into a single, burning point of fury.
I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.
But I couldn't use my magic. Not like the Qualifier. If I let that bomb out in here, I'd bring the entire mountain down on my head. I'd unravel myself.
The walls were two feet apart. The stone was scraping my shoulder, my back. The pressure was building. I couldn't get a full breath.
Control.
The word was a laugh. I had no control.
But you can AIM.
I looked at the door. No lock. No handle. But the magic... the magic had to be coming from somewhere. The runes on the walls were just power. But the mechanism...
I saw it. On the floor, right where the door-slab met the ground. A single, complex rune, carved into the marble. It was glowing brighter than all the others. It was the lock. It was the knot that held the spell together.
The walls were inches from my chest. I couldn't breathe.
I braced myself, my back against one wall, my hands splayed on the other. I squeezed my eyes shut.
I didn't think about the walls. I didn't think about destruction.
I thought about that single, glowing knot of Aether. I pictured it in my mind. A tight, perfect braid of blue light.
And with all the desperation, all the fear, and all the Dregs-hate I possessed, I reached out with my cold, dark Anima.
Not as a bomb.
As a needle.
I focused all of me into one, tiny, invisible point. And I plucked one of the threads.
Unravel.
I didn't scream. I just pushed, and there was a sensation... not of an explosion, but of a single, cold, satisfying pop.
A CLANG! echoed through the stone, so loud it rattled my teeth.
The grinding stopped.
The walls... stopped.
I was still pinned, my chest and back held in a vice of cold marble. But they weren't moving.
I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. I was drenched in sweat. But I was alive.
A sound. A scrape.
The "door" at the end of the hall, the solid slab... it was grinding open, a dark, blessedly empty hole.
I fell out, collapsing onto my hands and knees on the black sand of a new corridor. I coughed, sucking in the dusty air, my lungs on fire. I'd done it. I'd controlled it.
Sort of.
A voice, Varrick's, echoed from a grille in the ceiling. It was dry.
"Impressive. Most rooks just cry and wet themselves before the end. Keep moving, Rostova. You're not done yet."
I pushed myself to my feet, my legs like jelly. I hadn't just passed. I had... I had done something new.
I'd turned my monster into a tool. And as I staggered down the new, dark hall, I wasn't sure if that made me feel better, or a thousand times worse.