The final stretch of the journey was a climb. The "Forge" wasn't tucked away in a jungle or hidden behind marble walls; it was carved into the jagged peak of a distant, volcanic mountain, accessible only by a steep, wind-whipped trail. As Grace ascended, the air grew thin and sharp, carrying the scent of sulfur, hot slag, and the metallic tang of unsheathed steel.

  When she finally reached the summit, she didn't find a building. She found an arena.

  The Forge was a massive, open-air bowl carved directly into the crater of the peak. At its center, the ground glowed with a dull, subterranean red—magma diverted into reinforced channels to provide a constant source of heat and energy. It was a place of noise. The ring of blades, the roar of Luma-bursts, and the guttural shouts of hundreds of candidates echoed off the stone walls.

  Grace stood at the rim of the bowl, her eyes sparkling with a light that had been missing since the Heights. This wasn't the sterile safety of the Sanctum or the heavy patience of the Bastions. This was movement. This was fire.

  "First time at the edge?"

  Grace turned to see a senior student leaning against a jagged rock. He was covered in soot, a training saber slung over his shoulder, and he looked at her with a grin that was more of a challenge than a greeting.

  "It’s louder than I expected," Grace said, her own lopsided grin finally reaching her eyes.

  "That’s the sound of the world being shaped," the senior replied. "I’m Valin. You’re the one who dismantled Julian in the culling, right? from the Heights?"

  Grace shrugged, though she couldn't hide the flicker of pride. As they spoke, a sudden, explosive crack echoed from the center of the pit. Two seniors had dropped their training equipment and squared off, their hands glowing with the red hue of Attacker-tier Luma. The air around them warped with heat.

  "I’m tired of your lectures, Rane!" one of them roared, his fist igniting. "If you think my form is sloppy, prove it!"

  He lunged, a jagged bolt of kinetic energy tearing through the air. Grace flinched, expecting the nearby instructors to intervene, but Valin didn't even move. He just watched with a bored expression as the bolt whistled past, scorching the stone mere inches from Grace’s boots.

  "Careful," Valin said, his voice casual as he didn't even bother to finish the warning before another blast shook the ground. "Here, duels aren't just for practice. They’re how we settle the lunch bill. It’s better to keep your eyes—"

  BOOM.

  The second senior countered with a shockwave that sent a shower of sparks over the rim. Grace didn't pull back. Instead, she stepped closer to the edge, her hair whipping in the heated gale.

  "Where’s the Head?" Grace asked, turning back to Valin.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Valin pointed toward the center of the pit, where a man with hair the color of cooling ash was spar-blocking three seniors at once. He moved like smoke—fluid, impossible to pin down, yet every time he struck, the sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. This was Commander Silas, the Headmaster of the Forge.

  Grace didn't wait for an introduction. She scrambled down the rocky slope and marched straight into the training circle, ignoring the "Careful!" shouts from the onlookers.

  "Commander Silas!" she called out as he sent the third senior sprawling with a flick of his wrist.

  Silas wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes—sharp and dark—settling on Grace. He sighed, a heavy sound of a man who had already dealt with a hundred eager recruits today. "You’re early. Exploration window doesn't close for another twenty-four hours."

  "I don't need twenty-four hours," Grace said, her hands on her hips. "I’m ready for the test. Now!"

  Silas let out a dry, rasping laugh. "Listen, kid. I’ve been on this mountain for eighteen hours. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I have a dozen reports for the Council to finish. I’ll take your test next week. Find a bunk and stay out of the way."

  "Next week?" Grace’s jaw dropped. "I could be halfway through the first tier of training by next week! I’m right here. You’re right here. It’ll take ten minutes."

  "Next. Week." Silas repeated, turning his back on her.

  "I can do it faster!" Grace pestered, following him as he walked toward the command tent. "I can run the gauntlet with one hand. I can spar Valin, she pointed at the guy she just met. I can even help you with the reports—well, maybe not the reports, Caleb was the one with the handwriting—but I can do the rest!"

  Silas ducked into his tent, closing the flap in her face.

  Five minutes later, Silas was attempting to sneak out the back of the tent toward the private baths, hoping for a moment of peace. He stepped behind a massive cooling vent, only to find a pair of dark eyes staring at him from the shadows.

  "You again” Silas groaned.

  "I’ve been thinking," Grace said, popping out from behind the vent as if she’d been there for hours. "If you’re too busy for the standard test, I have some ideas. We could do a 'sudden death' spar. Or you could just throw me into the magma pit and see if I climb out. Or," she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you could just let me in without the test. I mean, you saw the Julian fight. It’s basically a formality at this point, right?"

  Silas stared at her. He had dealt with arrogant nobles, stoic soldiers, and reckless rebels, but he had never dealt with a thirteen-year-old girl who treated him like a stubborn shopkeeper.

  "You want a test that badly?" Silas asked, his eyes narrowing.

  "I want to start," Grace corrected him, her expression suddenly serious. "My friends are already in their sectors. I’m the only one left standing on the road. I don't have time to wait for next week."

  Silas looked at her for a long moment. He saw the desperation behind the wit, the raw need to be moving that defined every true Attacker. He let out a long, resigned breath.

  "Fine," Silas muttered. "You want a quick idea? Here’s one. Tomorrow at dawn, you’re going to stand in the center of the Forge. I’m going to let the seniors use you for target practice. If you’re still standing after ten minutes without throwing a single punch back, I’ll sign your papers."

  Grace’s grin widened, sharp and lethal. "Ten minutes? Make it twenty. I want to make sure you're impressed."

  "Get out of here before I change my mind," Silas growled, but as Grace turned to sprint back toward the bunks, a small, begrudging smile touched his lips. "Heights kids," he whispered to the empty air. "Always trying to burn the mountain down."