Page 66 of Unbound

The entire school is gathered, with first-years at the front as we're "celebrated" for our elemental tethers.

For our success.

For the luck of living where so many others died violently.

I can still see the empty spaces where students once stood. Students whose names I hardly dared to learn because I knew it would only make their likely deaths harder. The girl with the crooked smile from channeling class who once sent her summoned water sphere to my palm to save me a day of Sestra's lectures. The tall boy who I used to see doing extra push ups and training in the courtyard every evening. The pair of twins who always had smiles on their faces.

Gone.

My chest throbs with a familiar ache—that hollow, gnawing feeling that comes with surviving when others didn't. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

But I know I'm lucky to have an intact group of friends who survived with me.

Mireen and Beck are to my left, while Ambrose is to my right.

"He's handsome," Mireen whispers from beside me. She still bears scrapes and a few bandages, like everyone who made it out of the elemental plane alive.

"Shh," I say, giving her arm a subtle whack. She's not wrong, though. Rector Voss stands well over six feet tall with black hair streaked in gray at the temples. He has elegant features with a long, pleasant-to-look-at face, and his skin is tanned and unmarked, which I find odd. I would've thought the leader of a school for primals would be a primal himself.

Rector Voss is dressed in an immaculate black robe with a circular sigil I’ve seen around the Campus. It bears four marks, one for each of the affinities. Each of theknownaffinities, at least.

My fingertips idly trace the disguised mark on the back of my left hand.

Voss stands with hands folded behind his back, eyes scanning over us with an intensity that makes my skin crawl—like he's searching for something specific among the survivors. He doesn’t even seem to notice the rain, though most of us are already shivering by now.

All the instructors, both primal and otherwise, are lined up beneath the wall where Voss stands. There are also Empire guards present and selectors, which is the first time I've seen anybody who wasn't immediate staff of the academy since the day we arrived.

"First-years…" Voss continues after a long pause. "You've survived against all odds. Legacies. This was expected of you, but your journey to earning a primal tether was no less impressive. Aspirants. You took a risk coming here, and now you can see the fruits of your labor."

He gives another long pause, and I sense people shifting behind me. There are well over a hundred surviving first years spread out to my right and left. All tethered, now, or else they wouldn't have had a way to return through the rift.

I suppress a shiver for any who were unlucky enough to survive until the rift closed. I can't imagine the suffocating horror of realizing you had run out of time—of knowing you were untethered, and the only doorway back to your world was about to close.

The thought alone sends ice through my veins. To be trapped there, abandoned and alone, watching your only escape vanish while darkness closed in around you...

It makes me think the students I saw get turned to ash by the fire wolf may have been the lucky ones.

Behind me, there's a row of students representing each year, up to the fifth years. The entire school is gathered here, assembled in the courtyard. With everyone lined up and organized, it’s frighteningly clear how each class is smaller than the one before it. Fifth years seem to have less than a hundred surviving students.

The attrition never stops. Every year here is a trial to survive. A life-and-death struggle with no end in sight.

"Offerings," Voss finally says, lips spreading to reveal straight teeth with sharp canines. "Congratulations to you, especially. Confluence Academy is not a kind place, and offerings know this better than anyone. I'm happy to announce that your survival means you are offerings no longer. Today, you all become aspirants in every sense. You'll find new uniforms in your rooms, and student officers will help show you to your new quarters. You'll now have access to more areas in the library, you will not have to share your rooms, and you'll find your class schedule has been reduced to give you more time to pursue areas of interest and recover."

I look at my friends, eyes wide with excitement, a strange flush of heat spreading through my chest. We all assumed something like this was coming, but nobody was certain. All we knew was the second-years didn’t seem to have a single offering in their ranks.

"Also, I should note that aspirants and legacies are highly discouraged from killing fellow classmates. Yes, deaths will still occur in the course of your training, but we expect the number to be far smaller than what those of you in the offerings quarters will have grown used to. Our fragile alliance with the elemental plane and Empire's orders mean you have all just become far more valuable assets to us. Indispensable, even. So, again, wanton murder of classmates will not be overlooked any longer. I advise you all to set aside any grudges or ill-feelings you may harbor from your first two months here on campus."

I can't tell if I'm imagining it, but I think I see Voss' gaze lingering on Malakai. Something passes between them—an understanding, perhaps, or a warning. My muscles tense.

No matter his words, I don't feel any of the lingering tension between my shoulders lighten. Killing each other may be discouraged, but I imagine some will still find a way. The only difference is they'll have to be more discreet and creative, now.

"Today, you have all formed the beginnings of a tether with your elemental companions. You'll spend the next five years learning to strengthen that tether, growing your personal power and the abilities of your elemental in the process. By the time you graduate, you'll cease simply being a tethered and you will become primals, the deadliest weapons in Empire's army."

There's a sudden cheer from the courtyard that drowns out the falling rain. I look around, wondering how anyone could cheer right now when it still feels like we're prisoners. I notice just a few others who aren't cheering, Bastian included.

It warms me to him slightly to see he's not celebrating. If Raith wasn't still recovering in the healer's room, I imagine he would be stony-faced now, too.

So many died for us to get here. If this is a victory, it's one that was built on a pile of corpses so large it makes my stomach turn. And becoming weapons? The thought certainly doesn’t make me want to cheer.

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