Page 12 of Unbound

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."

I stare up at him, uncomfortably aware of how easily he could break me. With those huge arms and hands, I imagine he could snap my bones like kindling without breaking a sweat. Even the pretty girl could probably kill me without much effort. And I'm the short-tempered idiot who pissed them off.

But what choice do I have? Flash my silver mark and ask them to promise not to tell anyone? That feels even more suicidal than continuing to defy these three.

"I'd rather not," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

The edge of his full lips twitches, almost imperceptibly. His eyes are all heat and dark promise. His right hand moves toward my pocket, and I'm suddenly, terribly certain that he's going to force my hand out and expose my secret to everyone.

A blur of gold hair flashes across my vision and suddenly a boy just as tall as the volunteer is standing between us. Bastian's legacy uniform gleams in the torchlight, the gold piping catching the light.

"Is there a problem, here?" he asks, voice carrying that casual authority that comes with generations of privilege. His eyes flick between me and the trio.

Only then do I realize we've drawn quite the crowd. Students have risen from their seats, eyes hungry for the first blood to be spilled.Great. Trying to avoid attention and I end up center stage in whatever twisted drama is unfolding here.

The girl and the earth affinity slink back, eyes lingering on Bastian's legacy uniform. None of us have the full picture of how the social hierarchy here will work yet, but something about the legacies feels clear, even without being told: legacies are not to be fucked with. Legacies are special. We are not.

If the volunteer knows he shouldn't mess with legacies, he shows no indication. That, or he just doesn't give a shit. He meets Bastian’s gaze without flinching. "Is there a reason you’re here, legacy?”

Bastian's fists clench at his sides. The air around us shifts, as if pressure is building from nowhere and everywhere at once. The mark on my palm burns in response, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping. I can feel air slowly shifting and flowing in toward Bastian. I can even see the dark, tangled locks of hair on the Volunteer's head beginning to stir in the unnatural breeze.

The deadly scent of magic builds in the air.

"Your name, offering?" Bastian's voice could freeze flames.

"Raith." He doesn't blink, doesn't yield an inch.

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