"In matters of taste, there is no dispute.

Those with power decide."

~~The First Prophet, during his Lighthouse ascent

“You’re up, Callum!” shouted their teacher Irem from her place in the center of the room—she’d introduced herself right before the first bout of students had attempted the obstacle course. “Lenora’s still got the record to beat! Prophet be with you!”

Callam groaned and stood up slowly, trying to ignore the sweat drenching his skin from the fifteen minutes of alternating push-ups and laps he’d just been put through. How he’d manage to sit through the rest of his classes today in dirty clothes, he had no idea, but he found himself envious of those who’d thought to bring a fresh set to wear.

“ ‘Wardrobe expectations were covered in the schedules,’ ” he grumbled, repeating back what Irem had told him earlier when he’d complained. Again. he cursed his stupidity. Damp linen clung to his back as he walked up to the first obstacle in the four-star course: a rising, twisting ledge of stone just thick enough to balance on.

Yeah. I’ll definitely need more than two shirts.

With one hand, he tried to free the fabric sticking to his neck. With the other, he steadied himself against a stone railing. A sourness filled his mouth that had nothing to do with fatigue—the idea of spending last night’s winnings so quickly after acquiring them made him ill.

Yet it was clear he couldn’t continue to get on by washing all his clothes at night.

Not if he was expected to train like this every day. The harsh soapstone would sooner ruin his tunics than get all the sweat and grime out.

“On my count… three, two, one, run!” Irem yelled.

To Callam’s left and right, Seekers sprinted down their versions of the course. He joined in, nearly tripping when his feet found a patch of smooth stone on the rising beam that served as his first obstacle. Using a thieves tricks, he turned his fall into momentum and barreled his way up the ledge on all-fours, each hand in front of its corresponding foot, then stood and weaved between a series of jagged stalactites intent on forcing him off the path.

Memories of warm bread and angry guards flooded his mind. Of Sootskins' shouting convoluted directions from nearby rooftops, and of Merra laughing as he swerved between merchants’ carts.

Compared to that, this was easy.

Reaching the end of the beam, Callam leapt. Outstretched arms hugged rock and he gripped the massive stalactite that served as the second obstacle with all his might. The majority of his class had failed here—only Lenora and Feliv, the foreign boy with the bushy brows, had managed it so far.

Callam locked his ankles in place. With small, practiced movements, he shifted his weight until he’d bouldered the circumference of the rock, trusting the friction from his pants to help keep him from slipping.

A careful jump down and he’d made it to the narrow stone uprising on the other side of the obstacle. There, he had just enough space for his feet to fit next to each other.

“Ten seconds left, Tomebound!”

Rushing through a series of thin stalagmites meant to slow him down, he picked up his pace. The fourth challenge was just ahead—a massive, slick climbing wall that he knew from observation would erupt forth from the ground when he approached.

No one had cleared this one yet.

He scaled it in three big lunges, trusting his experience as a climber to keep him from falling off. Reaching the top, he dug his fingers in and threw himself over the lip, only to realize in the last moment that the other side of the wall was a slide. He shot down it with one leg out and one knee bent. Wind rushed through his hair. At the halfway point, he jumped—any farther and his momentum would’ve carried him to the floor. A clumsy roll on the landing platform later, and Callam’s eyes watered. Why, in the Poet’s good name, did everything need to be made of granite?

No matter. Coming to his feet, he rushed for the fifth obstacle—

“Time!” shouted Irem. “Next Seeker, approach!”

Callam took short, labored breaths while walking back to his group. His back felt battered as a wind-torn sail, and he was certain he shouldn’t have tried so hard on the last obstacle. Better he pace himself.

“Always the showoff,” Lenora teased, a playful curve tugging along her lips when he looked her way. Almost absentmindedly, she brushed a stray thread off the fitted tunic she’d traded her green dress for.

He tried not to notice how well it accentuated her figure.

“Have you a hidden… what’s the word? Tail?” joked Feliv, his attire tidy despite the rigorous training. Around him, the remaining four-star wielders nodded their respects: Melvin, a freckled boy from the Western Isles with thin, aristocratic features; Tige, a southern girl with a dark complexion and regal posture; and Medea, a blonde who soon excused herself to attempt the course for the first time. Of the four foreigners, she alone lacked the overt airs of nobility, though her poise still hinted at high birth.

Callam laughed. Hopefully, no one could tell he felt out of place.

“Clever, that… svélja you did with the wall,” Feliv said once Medea had begun the trial. “To take it at speed—I shall try such a thing too.”

Irem ran up to them before the boy was given the chance.

“Seekers, keep switching until the hour’s up!” she called over her shoulder, the ribbons of her robe forming a trail in her wake. Facing their group, she added, “Stronger tomes result in greater mana expulsion, so simple conditioning won’t cut it for you all in the long run. That’s why we’ve got these.” She grinned, passing off what looked like a bag of bricks. “Tie them onto your backs. Add one per attempt, up to four each. They’ll easily get you into dueling shape. ”

By the time Callam had finished his forth attempt, he’d fully committed Irem’s wicked smirk to memory. He could see every line on her face—the way that toothy smile stretched across her features and pulled at the corners of her jaw, more beast than human. It followed him everywhere, even when he closed his eyes. Sores burned where the bricks she’d handed him had rubbed against his clothes.

‘Easily,’ she said. He shook his foggy head, exhausted. There’s nothing easy about this class.

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And yet… despite the discomfort he was in, he found himself grinning. This, he could do. Even with the added weight, he’d managed to improve, having just reached the sixth obstacle before time ran out.

Muscle memory really was an incredible thing.

Callam’s heartbeat was still pounding when Irem’s voice cut through his daze. “Great work!” she said. “We’ve twenty minutes left—now the real training begins. Your weights, please?” Soft hands helped take his load off. Lenora's soft hands, he realized, when he caught sight of her dark curtain of hair so near.

It was suddenly hard for him to speak.

“Valine selnire frigais caldier verdime,” Irem incanted, and cold shot through his bones. “You should feel a chill on your bruises—on the muscles you worked most on this course,” she explained, likely mistaking Callam’s frown for confusion; in reality, his mind had already translated the words. “While you train, try to use the natural mana your body absorbs to melt my spell. Consider this a key step in developing your chapters around defensive magics…”

Callam’s lips turned blue as she spoke. Poet’s hand, he swore to himself, and leaned over to scrape the ice off his ankles and thighs. Unwelcome anxiety coiled within his stomach—this task was certain to prove difficult for him. Yesterday's foray with the Prairiebeast had promised that.

“Lenora, you’re up first.”

Rocks kicked up underfoot as Callam raced up the thin stone beam five minutes later. A stitch burned in his side, but he ignored it, his full concentration on the obstacle below. Left leg in front of the right, then jump. Simple enough a maneuver any child could have done it, yet his feet were so numb a single false step would make him trip.

And that would leave him with the worst performance among his group.

Already, the rest of the four-star wielders had shown improvement, with Feliv and Mediva able to stop the ice on their skin from spreading entirely. Worse, their expressions had slowly shifted from respect to pity and scorn.

He didn’t need to hear their hushed comments to know he was losing face.

Callam gritted his teeth. Orphans grew skin thicker than a tanner’s hide, so he was surprised to find how much their judgements bothered him. Pressing off the beam, he leapt once more for the massive stalactite that made up the second obstacle. Where before he’d cleared it easily, this time ice spread along his arms when he squeezed the stone.

Please work, he prayed. His last attempt had ended here.

Following Irem’s instructions he tried to draw mana in through his skin, targeting the frozen areas. It should have been easy—his body constantly absorbed mana to fuel its magic, after all—and pleasant. By Lenora’s account, the sensation felt like that first lick of warmth from a freshly lit fire.

All he achieved was a shiver—the only warmth came from his panting breath.

His hands started to slip. Desperate not to fall, he wedged the point of the stalactite between his feet. At least his shoes did him a favor here, providing grip on the rough surface.

Again.

He tried imagining his mana as a salve for the body. A balm spread along his bruises like the one Siela had used to close his wounds when they were kids. Where was that tingling he associated with healing? He needed that warmth that fought off infection to melt away the ice.

“Five seconds remain!” Irem announced.

Callam’s efforts proved fruitless. Bitter cold continued to creep up his feet and down his arms. Unless something changed, everyone would see him falter. It was one thing to be looked down upon for elements outside his control. Dirty clothes. Unwashed hair. Criticisms around those stung—hurt the part of him that craved to be enough—but survival had forced him to see them for what they were: circumstances treated as fault. It was another thing entirely to give the watching Seekers a reason to judge him. To let them think him lazy and unwilling to put in the required effort.

I’ll have to try something differ—

His muscles gave out. After sliding down the stalactite’s length, he plopped to the floor, unable to move. Whatever natural strength his years on the streets had bestowed meant nothing when he lacked mana control.

He missed his sister. The last time he’d failed a task so simple as this, she’d still been alive to cheer him up.

“Callam!” Iren said a few moments later, jogging up to where he was sitting on the ground. She offered him an arm. “Up you go. Best you follow me so we can talk in private.”

~~~

Deep in the Volin tunnels, Niles picked at the laystone in front of him. His hands were covered in crimson smears from torn calluses and he smelled of dirt. It tinged his face, got into his eyes and nose, and made it hard to breathe. Never had his throat felt so dry. The part of him that could still think in the heat knew how worrisome it was that less and less water slicked his brow with each passing hour.

Shrugging, he returned to his duty. There were several wagons to fill before the end of the shift, and the Scriptors could not mine this type of rock on their own—the ichor in the ores was magic resistant.

The workers at his sides showed no such dedication. They were not like him; they were weak men, with weak spirits. He could see it in their drooping heads. In the longer-than-needed breaks they took between their strikes. In the sluggish way they stood around when the taskmaster was not watching.

What fools they are, Niles thought as he worked his pick into a crevice. The Poet accepts no heretic into her arms.

What were these men but fateless Ruddites unwilling to recognize the consequences of their sins? Had the gods found them worthy, they would have born them to better blood. All they could do now was serve well.

“Miners lineup!” shouted foreman Griggs a little over an hour later as he inspected each workers’ load in turn. Stopping by Niles, he nodded at the laystone in his cart. “Well done.” No one else received accolades. “Dinner is to be served at six o’clock sharp. You are to carry your tools and equipment back to the barracks for maintenance. Latecomers will not be fed. You there,” he spat at an older, soot-covered boy. “Grab Niles’ pick. For his dedication, today he will carry the torch—here, son, lead the way.”

Niles obliged, ignoring the Ruddite’s angry stare. Shouldering his pack, he grabbed the light, and made for home.

The mine’s labyrinthine tunnels were blessedly cold.

They pressed through in a hurry, carts in tow. Haggard and exhausted shoulders bent the tall men low on their march. To Niles, the Broken had looked more honorable than the rabble he now led.

Even the laziest sheep yields wool, he reminded himself.

Smells soon filled the massive cave that served as their quarters—not the warm, happy scents of bread and wine from back home, but the sour stench of latrines, unwashed bedding, and food served hastily with no care for heat or taste.

A bell marked the start of dinner time.

“Out of my way!” commanded a loud man as they made for the que. “Guards eat first.” Turning, Niles saw a tall, burly sentry approach–he had a nose too big for his face and carried a tome at his hip duller than the brown plate held in his hand.

Niles stepped aside, throwing up an arm to stop his grumbling entourage. Men like this patrolled his Father’s estate—they were the type to find pleasure in putting down those considered lesser.

He respected that need to rule.

Phiry, on the other hand, would have fought back. He could feel her fire in him even now. “The rules allow miners to eat first,” she’d have said, and would’ve leveraged the family’s power and titles for preferred treatment.

She too is a fool. Fate had brought him here for a reason, and he would curse the Prophet before he doubted the gods’ guidance.

“Move it, Ruddite!” the guard repeated, this time directing his ire at a small miner in the front of the line. The youth was short, wore a torn smock, and paid the man no attention, instead filling his bowl with the bone-marrow broth that passed for stew in these parts. It wasn't until the sentry put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, that he finally faced him.

“Only the tide cuts my line,” the Ruddite said quickly, pulling himself up to his full height. “And that’s Hans to you, bookblessed.”