The light streaming through the enchanted dormitory window caught the faint gleam of the golden cuffs Amara had worked into her micro locs the night before. She ran her fingers down each one, a quiet ritual she’d developed over the years to calm her mind.

She wasn’t calm today.

The first day of classes wasn’t supposed to feel daunting—not for someone like her. She came from a family that thrived on order, preparation, and dominance in any space they occupied. And yet, her robe felt heavier than it should, the clasp at her throat too tight despite the effort she’d put into adjusting it just so.

Elira, still half-asleep, slumped against the doorframe. “It’s too early to look that prepared.” She yawned. “They’re just going to throw us into drills and bore us with speeches, you know. The usual indoctrination stuff.”

Amara shot her a sidelong glance. “Maybe for you. I’m here to learn something useful.”

Elira grinned, brushing a hand through her hair. “Keep telling yourself that. Just don’t forget to breathe when everyone starts whispering about your family connections.”

Amara didn’t answer. She’d heard it all before.

The dining hall buzzed with energy, the faint hum of magic threading through the air as students talked, argued, and jostled for their preferred meals. Amara entered quietly, her steps measured. Elira, on the other hand, darted ahead with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they belonged—or at least didn’t care if they didn’t.

Amara took her tray and scanned the room. The groups were distinct, a visual reminder of the Citadel’s unspoken hierarchies. Ignithrals congregated at one end, their robes as vibrant and fiery as their abilities. Hydravians sat in perfect formation, the faint sheen of their sector’s influence glinting in the candlelight.

The Luminal Fringe was scattered, a reflection of its place at the Citadel—a sector of misfits and outliers. Some students hunched over their food, avoiding eye contact, while others leaned into their indifference, openly mocking the rigid posture of the more “prestigious” groups.

“Over here,” Elira called, gesturing to a table near the edge of the room.

Amara joined her, sitting with her back to the wall. She didn’t miss the subtle glances from nearby tables, the murmurs too quiet to make out.

Elira grinned over her plate. “See? Not everyone’s as obsessed with you as you think.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “Did you miss the commentary on the way in?”

“Please,” Elira said, spearing a piece of fruit. “They’re just trying to figure out why you’re here. Most of us are here because we have something to prove. You? They probably think you’re here to expand your family’s influence.”

Amara let the comment hang in the air, her expression unreadable.

The training grounds stretched wide, lined with enchanted weights, sparring mats, and targets that flickered faintly with stored magic. The instructor stood at the center, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered students.

“Magic is not limitless,” he began, his voice cutting through the morning chill. “It is a resource—a finite one. To wield it effectively, your body must endure the strain. Stamina. Strength. Discipline. If you fail here, you will fail everywhere.”

The drills began immediately. Laps around the grounds blurred into sprints, followed by weights that adjusted to the user’s strength. Amara pushed herself through each exercise, her muscles burning as her breaths came faster and faster.

When sparring began, she was paired with a Terrosian girl—a broad-shouldered student with calm, steady movements that spoke of years of training.

“Focus on control,” the instructor barked. “Precision and power. Hesitate, and you’ll lose. Begin.”

The first strike came fast, a sweeping blow that caught Amara off guard. It landed squarely against her ribs, forcing her back a step. She clenched her jaw, readjusting her stance, and tried to counter with a strike of her own.

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Her movements were too slow. Her opponent deflected easily, her next strike landing hard enough to send Amara sprawling to the ground.

“Get up, Aurelian!” the instructor barked, his tone sharp.

Amara stayed down for a moment, her palms pressed into the cool dirt. She could hear the faint murmurs of the other students and feel the instructor’s eyes on her.

Pushing herself to her feet, she adjusted her stance again. Her opponent hesitated, her tone quieter this time. “You sure you’re okay?”

Amara exhaled sharply, her voice calm but firm. “Weakness isn’t permanent. And you’d be surprised who ends up lasting longer.”

The other girl blinked, surprised by the response, but nodded, stepping back into position.

The instructor’s gaze lingered on Amara, his frown deepening. “We’ll see if that mindset gets you anywhere,” he said before moving on.

The lecture hall was cavernous, its vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of the eye. The walls glowed faintly with enchanted runes, their light pulsing like a heartbeat, a reminder of the Citadel’s constant magic.

Amara sat near the middle of the room, her notebook open and her pen poised. Around her, students murmured softly, their voices fading as the instructor entered. He was an older man, his robes a deep blue embroidered with golden threads that shimmered like sunlight on water.

“History,” he began, his voice calm but commanding, “is a foundation. It is not a collection of dates or facts to be memorized—it is the blueprint of who we are, and more importantly, why we are.”

The room stilled as he stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the students.

“Take the Citadel,” he said, gesturing broadly. “A marvel of collaboration and unity, floating above the world. But it was not always so. There was a time when the seven threads of magic were divided, each claiming superiority over the others. Cooperation was unthinkable. The world burned for centuries because of that arrogance.”

Amara’s pen moved swiftly as she jotted down notes, her brow furrowing slightly.

The instructor continued, his tone sharpening. “It was only when the war reached its peak—when all sides were nearly obliterated—that the leaders of the seven threads realized their mistake. They came together to create the first Citadel, a symbol of unity and balance. Or so the official histories claim.”

At this, he paused, letting his words settle.

“Official histories,” he repeated slowly, “are written by the victors. But what of the others? What of those who were silenced, their stories erased? What of the cost of this so-called unity?”

A Hydravian student near the front raised her hand. “But isn’t the Citadel proof that unity worked? That the seven threads are stronger together?”

The instructor smiled faintly. “That is the popular belief, yes. But let me ask you this: if the threads are truly united, why are there still divisions? Why do certain sectors dominate while others are overlooked? Why do the same families hold power generation after generation?”

Amara’s pen stilled, her amber eyes narrowing slightly. The murmurs around her grew louder, students glancing at one another uneasily.

Elira leaned over, her voice low. “Spicy for a first lecture, huh?”

“Quiet,” Amara muttered, her focus on the instructor.

He walked to the center of the room, the runes on the walls dimming slightly as he spoke. “The Citadel is a marvel, yes. But it is also a reminder—of ambition, of betrayal, and of the delicate balance we walk every day. Remember this: magic does not care for balance. It seeks power. And so do those who wield it.”

The room fell silent as his words hung in the air.

That evening, Amara sat at her desk, methodically braiding her locs as her ribs throbbed dully beneath her robe. Each movement was measured, her focus sharp despite the exhaustion pressing at the edges of her mind.

The day’s lessons replayed in her thoughts, each one sharpening her resolve. Strength, control, precision—she would master them all.

Her gaze drifted to the faint glow outside her window, the Citadel’s spires cutting jagged shapes against the night sky. She reached for her notebook, flipping past neat rows of notes until her pen hovered above the blank space on the last page.

“To access what you are born with, you must first understand what you are.”

The words of the instructor echoed faintly, but they felt heavier now, like they carried a meaning no one had bothered to explain. Her pen stilled.

The hum in the air—the one she had barely noticed during the lecture—was back. Faint but steady, like a whisper threading through the room.

Amara glanced over her shoulder, her amber eyes narrowing. There was nothing there.

And yet, the faint pressure against her senses refused to fade.

Her fingers curled tighter around the pen, a chill brushing against her skin. For a brief moment, she wondered if it was her own magic—dormant, buried deep—or something else entirely.

She closed the notebook carefully, her expression unreadable.

The Citadel held its secrets close. But so did she.