The Fringe dormitories weren't as bad as Amara expected—just worse than she'd hoped. The faint hum of magic in the walls wasn't quite enough to drown out the low murmur of voices or the occasional thud of something heavy being dropped. If the Citadel wanted the Luminal Fringe to feel like the lowest rung, they had succeeded.

Elira leaned against the doorway of their room, watching Amara unpack with an amused expression. "You really don't say much, do you?" she asked.

Amara glanced over her shoulder, her fingers smoothing the edge of her robes. "Depends. Are you planning to say anything worth responding to?"

Elira barked a laugh, pushing off the doorframe. "Damn, you're sharp. No wonder you made it into the Citadel's finest... oh wait."

Amara's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. She returned to her task, arranging her belongings with the precision of someone used to being watched.

Elira perched on the edge of her bed, kicking her boots off with a practiced flick. "So, what's the deal with you, anyway? Aurelian name, ethereal vibe... you've got the whole 'tragic but untouchable' thing going on. Let me guess—your family cried themselves to sleep when you got placed in the Fringe?"

Amara closed her bag and turned, one eyebrow raised. "Is this your way of bonding?"

Elira grinned. "You caught me. Icebreakers aren't really my style. But hey, if it makes you feel better, at least you're not Lyric's roommate. His last one lasted a week."

Amara sat on the edge of her bed, crossing one leg over the other. "Should I ask what happened?"

"Depends," Elira replied. "Do you like your nightmares with a side of sarcasm?"

By the time they headed to the common hall, Amara had already mapped the route in her mind. Her gaze swept over the hallway's worn walls and dim lighting, noting every uneven step and faintly glowing rune.

Elira pushed open the doors, revealing a space that was... functional, at best. Students were scattered across mismatched furniture, their voices blending into a low hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or exasperation.

Amara scanned the room, her gaze landing briefly on a familiar figure leaning against the far wall. Jaren. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes tracked the room with quiet precision, taking everything in without seeming to care.

"Friend of yours?" Elira asked, following her gaze.

"Not yet," Amara murmured, making her way toward him.

Jaren's lips quirked as she approached, his dark curls catching the faint light. "Aurelian," he greeted, his voice low but steady.

"Althas," Amara replied, her tone matching his. She inclined her head slightly. "Didn't take you for the observant type."

Jaren chuckled softly. "And I didn't take you for the type to waste time making friends."

"Who says I'm wasting time?"

Elira appeared at her side, leaning in with a grin. "Wow, look at you, all mysterious and brooding. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to impress him."

Amara turned her head just enough to give Elira a pointed look. "If I wanted to impress him, he'd already be impressed."

Jaren's smile widened slightly. "Good to know."

The murmurs began before Amara even stepped into the dining area. She felt them more than heard them—eyes shifting her way, voices dropping to whispers as she passed.

She ignored them, her focus on the buffet table where a student was currently arguing with an enchanted tray that refused to refill.

Elira appeared at her side, holding a plate piled high with food. "The Fringe buffet, ladies and gentlemen: a shining beacon of mediocrity. Try the bread. It's only slightly stale."

Amara reached for a plate, her gaze sweeping the room. The students here weren't like the ones she'd seen during the ceremony. There was a looseness to them, a lack of polish that spoke of hard edges and harder lessons.

But there were exceptions. A group of Hydravian students sat near the far corner, their movements fluid and practiced as though they were always performing. One of them glanced her way, their expression cool and assessing before they turned back to their companions.

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Elira nudged her with an elbow. "Hydravians," she muttered. "Think they're better than everyone because they can summon water out of thin air. Spoiler alert: they're not."

Amara's lips twitched.

Elira stretched her arms overhead as they left the dining hall, her expression one of reluctant curiosity. "You know," she said, "the orientation speech is a waste of time. Same spiel every year. 'You are the future of magic,' blah blah, 'don't mess it up.'"

Amara glanced at her sideways. "And yet you're still going."

Elira smirked. "What can I say? I enjoy a good train wreck. Plus, it's fun to watch the Ignithral kids pretend they aren't bored."

Jaren joined them as they approached the central spire, his steps measured. "Don't expect much," he said, his tone dry. "The Citadel likes to talk big and deliver just enough to keep you in line."

Amara didn't respond, but she filed the observation away. Jaren spoke like someone who had seen through the Citadel's glittering facade long ago.

The central spire was a masterpiece of architecture and magic, its vaulted ceilings carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Rows of students filled the seats in the circular hall, their voices a low hum that echoed against the stone walls.

Amara took a seat near the middle, her gaze sweeping the room. She noted the clusters of students from each group—Ignithral with their fiery insignias, Hydravians practically shimmering with water-like auras, and Aetherions perched as if they owned the air itself.

The Luminal Fringe students were scattered, their postures less rigid, their presence quieter but no less significant.

A figure stepped onto the dais, their robes flowing as if caught in an invisible breeze. The speaker's voice carried effortlessly across the hall, their tone both commanding and rehearsed.

"Welcome to Zarathis Citadel," they began. "You are here because you possess potential. Magic flows through your veins, tying you to a legacy that stretches back thousands of years. But let me be clear: potential is not enough. What you make of it—that will determine your place here, your worth, your future."

Amara tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. She'd heard variations of this speech before—formal dinners at the Aurelian estate, gatherings meant to inspire ambition while quietly reminding everyone of their place.

"Typical," she muttered under her breath.

Elira, seated next to her, leaned in. "Careful. They might revoke your 'legacy' badge if you roll your eyes too hard."

As the speech continued, Amara's attention drifted. The room was alive with magic, the air itself charged with an energy that pulsed faintly against her senses. Her locket warmed against her chest, its faint hum almost imperceptible beneath the speaker's words.

Her gaze landed on a group of Ignithral students seated near the front, their posture perfect, their focus unwavering. One of them turned slightly, as if sensing her eyes, and met her gaze. The contact was brief, but the smirk that followed lingered just long enough to feel like a challenge.

Amara returned her attention to the dais, her expression unreadable.

"Here at the Citadel," the speaker continued, "you will learn to master your abilities, to push the boundaries of what is possible. But let me warn you: those who cannot rise to the occasion will find themselves left behind."

After the orientation, the students were dismissed, and the hall emptied in a wave of motion and muted chatter.

"Thoughts?" Jaren asked as they exited the spire, falling into step beside Amara.

Amara's lips curved faintly. "Overly dramatic, but effective. They know how to intimidate."

"Intimidation is their specialty," Elira added, flipping a stray curl out of her face. "That, and overcharging for enchanted robes."

The three of them wandered through the Citadel's sprawling grounds, Elira taking it upon herself to point out landmarks with a mix of sarcasm and genuine insight.

"That's the Hydravian sector," she said, gesturing toward a series of domes that shimmered like water. "Fancy, isn't it? They claim it's practical, but I'm pretty sure it's just for show. And that over there—" she pointed toward a spiraling tower "—is where the Aetherions practice making everyone else feel small. Literally."

Jaren's gaze shifted toward a darker corner of the Citadel, where the shadows seemed to cling to the walls like a second skin. "And that's the old ritual wing," he said, his tone quieter.

Amara followed his gaze, her locket pulsing faintly as her eyes narrowed.

"What's in there?" she asked.

"Nothing good," Jaren replied. "The Citadel sealed it off decades ago. Rumors say it's full of failed experiments and magic that went rogue."

Elira snorted. "Rumors. Right. The Citadel never admits when it screws up. If they sealed it, it's because they were too scared to fix it."

Amara stepped closer, the pull of the locket growing stronger. The archway leading into the wing was faintly lit, the runes etched into its surface worn but still thrumming faintly with power.

"Interesting," she murmured.

Jaren raised an eyebrow. "That's one word for it."

Elira folded her arms. "Please tell me you're not planning to go in there. You know how this ends—someone gets cursed, we all get detention, and I miss lunch. Don't ruin this for me."

Amara turned back to them, her expression unreadable. "Not today," she said, though the locket's glow told her otherwise.

Returning to the Fringe

As they made their way back to the Fringe dormitories, Elira let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, that was... something. We learned nothing, avoided certain death, and still managed to look good doing it. I'd call that a success."

Jaren smirked faintly. "Your standards are inspiring."

Amara said nothing, her thoughts still lingering on the ritual wing. Whatever the Citadel was hiding, she would find it.

Later that night, Amara sat by the window, the locket's glow casting faint shadows across her hand. Its hum was steady now, as though waiting for something.

Her gaze drifted to the skyline, the Citadel's towers rising like jagged shards against the night sky.

The Fringe might have been where she'd been placed, but it wouldn't define her.

She would make sure of it.